THE SLEEPING GIANT, And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took wives of all which they chose.
There were giants in the earth in those days; when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.

Genesis 6:1, 2, 4

He stared into the bright canopy.

He had not been strong enough to return to his place.
He was in the glen before the woods and before the mountain.
He roused himself and pulled what barbs and arrows from his flesh that he could. He tasted one, it was poisoned. He regarded the blood-soaked grass and did not want to consider why the fragile creatures would have made him flee, why they detested him.
He pulled himself to his knees and he regarded his wounds. He willed them away.
He looked to the mountain and willed himself away. His shining black wings unfurled and he was released of the bonds of gravity.
He strode to the water and drank. He gathered leaves and grass to make a bed upon which he could rest. He layed himself down to forget, to sleep, to rest.

He was of them and from them, and yes, they despised him.
He closed his eyes to be away from them.

They had not yet done with him: they had come for him. They had thought themselves crafty in stealing upon him in his sleep.
They broke his heart.
He took them up into his hands and tossed them away from him. He was imperfect, and awaking him was a mistake that he regretted them having made. They were surrounding him, and he ended them.
Tired and dreadful, he sent them away, over the mountain.

He gathered his sword, dragged it behind him. He soared towards the Star and, then, hurtled towards the valley. To bury them.
He gathered the earth with his aching fingers and placed them, one by one, into it. He cursed them, wept over them, but this was pointless. He was alone in his sadness. He covered them such that the wolves would not eat them, the flesh of his mortal flesh.

He had to continue: there were so many more, and they had not yet tired of him.

The sword was so very, very heavy, so heavy, but there were others like him, like his father, a Bright One who had loved a mortal woman, but did not understand his half-mortal son.
So many of The Beautiful Ones hated him, for being what he was. The sword was for Them.

The mortals… He wished to not be so alone. But he was.

He would stare into the canopy and let the light blaze and reflect and refract into his mind. He would return this light into the village, into their plain, into their reality, so that he could rest, sleep. He would have to burn them all so that he could rest.

He wanted this to be over and done, so the comely woman who beckoned to him from the green grass annoyed him, but she was lovely, and he found her so.

She was abandoned, too, a witch, this is what they called her. They allowed her to birth their babies, to tend to their sick, but they would not love her, allow her to have love.
She had seen him and had known his mind. She beckoned to him to love him and give him love and to stop him from the terrible thing which he was going to do.

He circled high in the heavens and contemplated her. He descended to her and touched his feet upon the grass. She smiled at him, and knelt before the bright, fearsome angel, and asked him to do the same.

Bemused, he knelt. He made himself small, such that he could touch her, be with her. She was bold and fearless. She was bright.

His sinews and bones and flesh torqued and he fell to his knees and kept the pain from her, the agony from her.

She was there for him when he opened his eyes. She gave him water. She cleaned the wounds that he could not see. She gave him good things to eat, and let him not be lonely. She grasped him and rubbed her heavy breasts against him. She gave herself to him, he gave himself to her, all of the best of him, to the kind girl who would not tolerate his sadness.

The change was coming. He kissed her sweet face and wished.

He left so his growing frame would not destroy her home.

She had awakened and seen. She touched him, as his mother had touched another angel. She loved him. She was lonely, too.
She had given to him, and he would give to her. She knew that this was true.

“Take me there. Show me the sky, the mountain.”

He smiled at her.

The brightness and love and light that emanated from him was almost overwhelming: shockingly, terribly, blindingly beautiful, wondrously warm and golden.

She let it wash over her.

He lifted her to himself. His wings broadened, glossy, black, beautiful, and she fearlessly draped herself around his shoulders, and he ascended with her, to the mountain, to their home.

BAD LAND, He looked at his friend and rolled his eyes. “Man, so you just gonna sit up in here, chow down, smack ya’ thin lips, and aint even goin to try to offer me some? Are you crazy? Gimme me some of that pizza, Motherfucker.”
“Fuck you, Nigger. I aint given you shit.” He gave his friend a bite of the slice.

It was hot. But it was always hot. It was always hot in the desert-except at night.
They finished their pizza.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
His blond friend had an attitude-he leaned back against the Hummer and enjoyed another bite of a fresh slice: “Us? We? Man, I had to do it last time. It’s your turn…Slacker.”
“Me? This-from The King of All Slackers…Man, if slackin’ was oil, you’d be one of the richest motherfuckers on the planet.”
“Well, you know, Homey, I do indeed do what I can.”
“Dude, look. There’s a fucking ton of them. Let’s just do it. Let’s… just… get it over with. If you’re sittin here on your happy ass eatin pizza, we’ll be here all fuckin day. Do you want that? In this heat?”

They discussed their task. Better off using the M-16s from a distance, as opposed to their sidearms. They were both experts. They were only 400 yards away from the objects: it was easy.

Ensuring the change from object to product was crucial.
Neither of them wanted to go home in a bag.
Head shots. Clean. It was tiresome.
But they had been trained for this.
They had to concentrate.
Three of the objects exploded, had been rigged. It had been wise to blow them away from a distance.

“Are you sure we got em all?”
“Yeah.”
“Roger Dodger. Let’s finish this.”

They walked into the still-flaming, smoldering hell that the fast-movers and the Apaches they called in had created.

They had to check for intelligence on all of the product. One by one. This sucked.
That’s why they had to make sure that all of the product was actually product. That’s why they had had to shoot them all. They couldn’t go back to the Colonel empty-handed. He would have been mad at them, both of them. He would be angry with them. They knew that He had to answer to The General, who was even worse-that’s why they always made sure to produce tangible evidence of their various expeditions.


They actually liked the Big Six, but He knew how to put the hammer down. And neither of the bright young men was in any way, shape, or form mistaken about their take on reality as they perceived it regarding their particular chain of command.

Results were required.

Dana and Chad had been friends since Basic, Defense Language Institute, Military Intelligence land, jump-school at Benning , Bragg-everything. They were brothers.

“Dog, you get anything?”
“Airborne. You?”
“Airborne.”
“Cool.”


The two boys looked at their sand and soot-covered bloody hands.
They situated themselves and their gear into the Hummer.
“Dude, do you still have some of that fly stuff your Ma sent you? These flies are fuckin killin me.”
“All kinds of it. No problem, Homey. Hey, do you still have some of that peanut butter your Mom sent you?”
“Tons. But I don’t know about the crackers.”
“I’ve got some, I think, or Murph has some.”
“Cool. Airborne.”

“Alright. Let’s get the fuck outta here and talk about chicks.”
“Airborne.”

COMPASSION,The delicate creature found it difficult to evade the pain and crushing pressure of the loss of all of her kin, all of her folk. Everyone. Her mother, her father, her sister, her darling, tiny little baby brothers.
Everyone, each and every one of them, everyone, everything that she had ever loved, everything for which she had ever cared for was gone. Irretrievably gone. Forever.


This new place was so different, though similar enough. Her father had managed to save her from the Enslavers: she was one of the few lucky ones.
Freya tried, day in and day out, but could not, would never forget the sonic scream, the wail of anguish emanating from her mother, the scream that would have destroyed the ability of these creatures to hear anything, the scream of pain that would have shattered their minds.
It was the day she left the world for the Other Place.


These folk, the folk to whom she had been sent, were totally bound by the gravity of their world. They lived and kissed and loved high in the rarefied atmosphere of the highest plateaus of their world. Her parents had explained to her the importance of pretending to be like them.
This walking, in and of itself, was terribly difficult. None of them traveled in a normal fashion. She had seen the beautiful mountains, the deep valleys, the wonders of their world that they themselves had not seen-in their own place, in their own world.
They did not live, incredibly, in the normal world. For some reason, whatever reason, long ago, they had chosen to abandon what they called the Sea, the Sea which surrounded them, from which they had come.

She would never understand this. But here, on this world, she was free.


Freya ran her beiged, lacquered fingernails over the surfaces. Her modest heels clicked and clacked on the marble floors of her home.
She looked, she saw, she discerned.
There was not a dab of dust. Her footsteps echoed in the brilliantly appointed home. She loved her Helpers: they were so sweet, kind, so focused in this task of maintaining her home in the fashion that was so important to her Preston. Her Darling had never said this to her, but it was clear in his mind that this mattered greatly to him, so it mattered to her.

These creatures, so similar, yet so different, with whom she had melded, did not speak into each other’s minds. They almost always used their voices to speak. She felt sorry for them. They could speak, in a fashion, but they did not hear, they did not see each other.

Despite this affliction, her father had been incredibly wise in sending her to this place. Even the Enslavers, the Evil Ones, even they would never search for her here, would never follow her to this place: the creatures of this place were capable of a casual cruelty and compassionlessness that was truly incomprehensible. This was well known. These fierce creatures were feared.

Her father had hidden his beloved daughter in the den of lions.

Freya glossed over the minds of her family: all was good. She smiled and went to finish the task of preparing the foods that her Darling loved. She loved Mama Beth for having showed her how to do this.

“Like this, Ma Bey?”
“Yes, baby, it’s going to be beautiful.”
Elizabeth regarded the golden-locked child and could not help but love her. The five-year old was so good with her little fingers. She and her older sister took to embroidery like fish to water.
She was so glad that the curse that she had laid upon her son had gone unanswered. Her two granddaughters-even her two grandsons-were the most sweetly dispositioned children she had ever known. Preston had been a mess.
“I hope you have children like you one day.”
The curse, thank God, had not worked. Somehow, she knew, she knew that she had her sweet little Freya to thank for this.
The two little ones knitted away, their bright shining smiles and laughter windows into their sweet souls. Elizabeth beamed.

Elizabeth was of a sweet soul.
Part of this kindness lived in the heart of her Preston.
As Freya wandered through her home, as she assured herself that all was good, she also minded her precious ones. Her little girls-yes, they were fine-they were enjoying their time with their grandmother. Her little ones were enjoying the love that gently washed over them: Mama Beth was teaching them something. Freya smiled.
The boys-were they behaving? She searched and found their minds-they were behaving. They were on a green field with their father’s father. They were playing this game called golf. They enjoyed his presence, and he loved teaching them, being with them.
Freya desperately missed her own two brothers. She had never understood boys: they all seemed to be so full of mischief, so crazy, silly. But they grew to be tall, beautiful and strong. They became protectors, protectors of those who had guarded their hearths and given them good things to eat when they had been small and weak.

Preston’s father looked on as his elder grandson swung his club. The boy had potential, but his already broad shoulders and strong frame suggested to him that he should stick to the swimming. He and his brother were both phenomenal swimmers. However, the genteel gentleman wanted to spend his precious time with his progeny doing what he enjoyed-golfing.
These boys were good, totally unlike their father at his age. They were not the little demons that he had feared his son would produce.
This retiree, a man of significant wealth knew, had a sense of people that many others did not have: his grandsons were indulging him. They wanted to be at the beach, in the ocean, but they loved him, and they pretended to enjoy this thing which could have not bored them more.
These boys were kind and caring, not cold and brooding in the manner which he had expected. He was glad to see his pretty wife’s face, and his own, in theirs.
The Senior had been seriously concerned about the skinny, bosomy blonde that his daughter had brought into his home: she was comely and his son was the charmer. Why-of all people-had his little activist brought this creature into their life?
He had not slaved and struggled to give it all back to Them.
This child, however, was truly kind and sweet. He recognized, over time, that she could not be blamed for what she was. This would have been unfair, and truly unkind.
His son began to show up at work on time. His mind had become focused upon a future-yes, a future including Freya, but a future nonetheless.

Freya’s Preston was soon to come home, he was only two hours away. That was what was in his mind. It was always easy to find him: he thought of her constantly.
She had time to step into the pool in the wooded glen behind their home. This simple pleasure was a delight she would never be able to explain to these folk, to anyone here. Not even her own children. Not yet, not for the time being. She was so lonely, but her Preston was coming.
Her little ones, her poor babies. She had not been able to let them out of her sight, anyone of them, for the first two years of each of their lives.
They could not be bathed by another, washed by another, taken to a body of water outside of her presence. The result would have been catastrophic.
One day, one beautiful day, she would shine into their bright minds the vast, never-ending seas of her world, their world. She would explain to her babies what they were, who they were.

This star, the star they called the Sun was so warm. It warmed the water, this pool. Freya eased her frame into it.
She breathed in peace, relieved, if only for a few moments, of so many bonds. Her little ones understood, finally, though not completely, that they were different. Her cycle was complete, her four were born, and they were safe here. They had some, some understanding.
She relaxed her mind as she floated to the middle of the pool.
She opened her golden eyes and dreamt of the world which she would never see again.

The thread-like tendrils, the threads that brought to her that which was necessary to breathe began to emerge from her mouth and nose. These oxygen-giving threads began to mesh with the long blonde locks adorning her shoulders.
Freya floated and stared and dreamt. She smiled as the warm water caressed her nude frame. Her mind did wander. Her new sister, her dear sister of this world was coming to her home to visit with her and her Preston. Kayla was moving rapidly over the high plateau in what was called a vehicle, a car.

She had met her Darling through her new sister. It had been on a campus in Los Angeles. Kayla had fallen and scraped her knee. The fried potatoes from her red box were scattered all about her. It was unbelievable: people stepped over and around the beautiful brown girl.
Freya put out her hand and smiled at the pretty brown girl in the bright purple dress. The mind of this creature was filled with-what? Freya offered her the fried potatoes from her red and yellow box.
“Here, yours are spilled. Please, take some of mine.”
Kayla regarded the apparently kind girl, and within a billionth of a moment felt the kindness. She smiled and took her hand.
“You’re not from around here, are you? What, Sweden?”
The two spent the afternoon wandering through the beautiful green fields of the campus. They became fast friends.

Over time, Kayla explained to her friend the terrors endured by her ancestors: the horror of enslavement; the requisite cruelty and evil that necessitated it; the requisite cruelty that it created in so many of its victims. Freya wept. This was so similar to the world that she loved but had escaped: they were so different here, but the same.

Kayla thought-despite her inclinations-that this kind creature might save her brother: Smoothy would not casually step into these panties.
He might recognize her beauty, he might change for her. He might, through her, become the man that he could become.

Freya turned, floating gently. Her Preston was on the plateau, the plateau they called America, at the LAX. It was a question that she had considered over and over again and then some: why did they choose to live in this rarefied atmosphere and then turn around and bend their minds to create machines that would move them from plateau to plateau? It was so sad that they had not chosen to live and love in the paradise that surrounded them beneath these plateaus.

Those that cannot speak, for the most part, do not hear-at least not very well. They tend not to understand the importance of speech, what it is. Her Preston’s thoughts of her were poignant and sweet: in this she was glad her Darling could not hide his thoughts from her. He loved everything about her: the wonderful things she did for him…that she loved him.
“I’d die for you.”
He would smile at her and this thought would leap from his mind. At first, Freya would blanch: she was appalled at the casual linkage between love and death in his mind. These creatures were obsessed with death and dying and killing.

Over time, Freya realized, understood, that on this cruel world there was no greater love.
And he had never even told her, feeling her to delicate, told her that he would lay down his life for her. But she loved him for the knowing, she was glad she could look into his mind and see what he was.
This carpenter, this ghost that haunted her Preston’s thoughts had said that love was not to be proclaimed like these Pharisees do (who were they? She had never seen a Pharisee), but to be kept inside. This was why her Darling so rarely spoke of the shining love for her that he could barely contain within himself. He was afraid that this delicate, fragile, beautiful thing would be somehow damaged if he spoke of it too often. Poor Thing: it was so much more strong than he understood.
But, this carpenter had had a powerful effect on her Darling, and Freya was glad that Pres had met him.

Freya stared into the bright blue canopy and breathed deeply in the atmosphere in which she floated. She was going away from this place, if only for a few short moments, to be with her mother, father, her sister, her little brothers. She sighed a sigh of relief and relaxed totally. She then rested upon the bottom of the pool, her golden eyes fixed on the bright blue canopy of the southern California sky.

The traffic in SoCal is so unpredictable: Pres would be home much sooner than he had thought. It was so good to be going home, going to his Sweetheart.
Sometimes, he wondered if she understood how much he loved her, what she meant to him. He hated having been away from her for so long. It had been six days in China, but this account was going to secure not only their futures, but the futures of their great-grandchildren.

“Thanks, Jim.”
“I’ll take those, sir.”
“No, that’s alright. Only exercise I get these days. But thank you, though.” He smiled and gave the driver of the well-appointed limousine a handsome tip.
His heavy black bags hung from his broad shoulders. He opened the door and cried for his Freya.
She was not at the door as she usually was. The foyer was filled with the fragrances of simmering fried corn, greens, black-eyed peas. He followed his nose to the kitchen. There was a bowl of prepared cornmeal and flour, salt, all the other ingredients ready for the hot-water cornbread. But Freya was not there.

He had no idea what he had done to deserve her. She was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him, for him. She was so sweet and kind. She always knew, always, what he needed, desired. It was as if she could read his mind.
He had achieved so much-for her, to be with her.
He had his pride, but he was no fool: he had changed so he could be with her, forever.
He met her eighteen years ago.

“No. You must love me first.” She then laughed and tweaked his nose.
Kayla had been right about him: he was more than the obvious horror contained in his lovely frame. There was goodness and kindness as well.

Where was she? Her cars were parked in the drive way, he had checked every room of the house. The kids were with Mom and Dad, but there was a feast simmering on the stove. Where was she?
On the third landing of their home, in his dawning panic, he glanced out the window.
He saw her.
His Darling was at the bottom of the pool.
She was floating, her eyes wide open, near the very bottom of the pool. The pool that she had gently insisted that he have created for her. He stared for a moment. He then turned and rushed down the stairs.
The six-foot antique mirror on the second landing exploded when the shoulder of the former running-back slammed into it. There was no time to worry about the damage and the pain and the blood. He flowed down the stairs and unthinkingly melted through the latticed glass doors, unaware of the damage to the face and hands.

She was there, standing there on the green lawn. She was staring at him as he rushed towards her. Staring at him. What had he seen? Had The Catastrophe occurred? Had it?
She moved her nude, fawn-like frame towards him, towards her Mate and Love as he approached her. Her smile and nudity should have beguiled him, but it did not.
The Catastrophe had occurred.

She saw the ugliness of the fear and revulsion: he had seen what she was.
In her Darling’s mind were horrible images: What have I been sleeping with? What have I loved? What is this …this thing. The mother of my children. My God. My children. What have I done?

All she had wanted was to dream of home.

This change of total love for her to horror in her Darling’s mind was too much, simply too much. After so much loss. Now this loss. It was too much.

She crumpled to the ground and the necessary fluid, the water, began to bleed from her eyes. She cried away the water, the fluid that she needed to live.

Pres, still in a state of shock, regarded the beautiful creature. She was going to die. He sensed this.

Freya forcefully, powerfully, using her last strength, spoke into her Darling’s mind: “Please, Pres, please love them. They are your babies, too. Please do not blame them for what they are. “
He heard this. Sensed this. He realized that she really was going to die. She was different. There was no time to consider any of this. He loved her.
He gently fetched her up and carried her back to the water. He carefully stepped into the pool and immersed her, submerged her. And he prayed.
He watched as threads began to come from his Darling’s mouth, nose. He watched as her bosom began to move. She was breathing.
He began to breathe.
Her golden eyes opened.

The tendrils eased into her. She released herself from her darling’s arms. She stood. He knew. But he still loved her.
She draped her arms around him, sensing nothing but love.
“Darling, you’re hurt, you’re bleeding” She was frightened by the glass and blood all over him. She began to pull the shards out of him. She was so worried about him while he cared about nothing but her.
He smiled. He lifted her and carried her into their home. She knew why he was doing this: there was glass everywhere, and he didn’t want her to be hurt. She knew his mind. She could see into his mind. She knew that he knew this. He loved her, nonetheless. She loved him all the more.
She had come to a good place.

BRIGHTNESS IN DARKNESS, He was exasperated, and the heat didn’t help. He needed the required information from the object chained to the chair in his tidy little office/bedroom.
There was a reluctance to cooperate. He had promised the Big Six.
He stood and stepped outside of the room. He told the eager young man that he needed it to speak, ASAP-15 minutes, tops. But leave the eyes, throat, tongue, etc. intact: he had to talk to it. It was important.
The young man’s gaze was withering, bone-chillingly cold. He was unaware of this.
He put his hand on the young infantryman’s shoulder, “Clear?”
“Yessir. Clear.”
“Good.”
He went to another room and cleared his mind and composed his report-nothing written: he was a student of history and knew the potentially disastrous results of written documentation.
He had to have a tight, cogent report: the Colonel was an outstandingly bright man, much like Dad. The Colonel and Dad shared many similarities: the same age; while the one was receiving a diploma at West Point, the other was receiving his diploma at Princeton; the same focus, the same blinding stare, the same drive, the same mentality: he had learned as a small child that you had to-absolutely had to-perform to the expected and required standards of The Best and The Brightest.

The Colonel and Dad were remarkably similar. It was an interesting phenomenon, but something for another day.

You did not approach either man to waste his time, or you would be crushed.

He radioed the Big Six.
“What do you have, 2?”
“Confirmation of the launch sites, Sir. I’ll need fast-movers and gunships to block the passes.”
They changed frequencies. He continued.
“I don’t want any self-removal of product from the valley, Sir. I will need engineers for product disposal. I recommend…”
He was cut off, “Do it. You also have three batts of infantry to block those passes coming your way. When?”
“I need ten more minutes, Sir, for the rest.”
“Outstanding. Call it in when it’s time.”
“Will I have the Big Eye?”
“None here. You’ll have to coordinate on the ground.”
“Yessir.”
“Out, Airborne.”

The report had gone well. The Colonel had obviously been pleased.
He stood and opened the door to his office. He glanced at the object-still seeing and breathing, voice box intact. He dismissed his guard.
“Thank you.”
“Yessir.”
The young man sat down in his chair and produced false photos of two children and a woman, blindfolded. He began to speak in the other language.
“Just tell me what I need to know, and they will continue to receive the best food, shelter, read the precious book. If you can’t help me… well… I can’t really guarantee anything.”
The hatred from the object in the chair was palpable. But, whatever.
The young man took out a pen and asked it for the names, the names of the other leaders in the region.
He finished writing, called to his orderly, “Please take this to my other desk for confirmation”
He smiled. “So, in 48 hours I know if I can continue to protect them, or not…
A scream. “Wait!!! Wait!!! I will tell you!!!.”
The young man returned to his pen and paper and wrote down the information.

He took a well-worn book from a makeshift shelf and asked if he might read to the object, or if it would prefer to do it itself: Whichever passage, verse preferred.
He had been taught to be decent.
The chanting was done. The young man returned the tome to its proper place on the shelf.
He removed his sidearm.

After re-holstering the weapon, he asked his two guards to straighten out the mess in his room.
He called in the gunships first, to block off the passes out of the valley, and also, to burn all of the surrounding hillside such that no product might escape.
The fast-movers were next.
He didn’t want an ant walking out of that valley.
He knew that the engineers and infantry batts were on their way.

He retired to his quarters. He was pleased: perfectly sanitized and fresh-smelling.
Tomorrow was going to be a busy day: razing the town; preserving what infrastructure that could be preserved; and of course, the report to the Colonel. Oh! And had to call Mummy-it was her birthday. Daddy would kill him, otherwise, and she would be hurt, besides. And Amy. He took her picture from its plastic wrapping to gaze upon her beautiful image for a moment.
The imperious young New Englander called out as he went to sleep, “Three hours. No more, no less.”
“Yessir”
He watched the orange and white light flicker in time with explosions on his walls. He fell to sleep, breathing easy. It had been a good day.

EMILY JANE AND I IN THE LAND OF LIGHT The Bright Light shined. It cascaded over us, through us. Em rested in my arms. She opened her golden eyes and smiled at me.
“I love thee, my Chatsworth.” My middle name. It reminds her of her original home.
“I love you, Em.” I don’t know how I could have loved her more.
Her right brow arched. “The Little One, he awaketh soon.”
I pushed my mouth to hers and she grasped me. I did to her the things that she loves me to do. She pulled me to herself and we melded, I melted inside of her. She kissed me ferociously. She made me moan. She cried out loud as the life that coursed through my frame was put into her. She sank her fangs into my shoulder as her body pulsated, as all that is good in us merged inside of her, as we were together. I kissed her smooth neck and smelled her delicious hair.
She was concerned about The Little One, I was exhausted. We tried to disentangle ourselves. She pulled me to herself and kissed me again.
I stared at the heavy oak beams that Vale and I had created to create this home. Emily Jane and I tried to breathe. I thought of pancakes and syrup and bacon and butter and eggs and milk as Em began to doze.
The Little One, her beautiful gift to me, my beautiful gift to her, laboriously pushed open the heavy oak doors with his little strength. He then went about amusing himself by walking up the wall and crawling across the ceiling-despite his mother’s known feelings on the subject.
I motioned to him, for him to come down before his mother saw him and took an attitude, but this was all to no avail. Em crossed her arms across her ample bosom as he dropped down to us and kissed her. He rubbed his tiny fangs against his mother’s heavy fangs. Their eyes glowed yellow. He then turned towards me and tried to wrap his little brown arms around my broad brown chest.
She coolly regarded him. “Get thee gone, Child, before I take a switch to thee. Fetch me milk that I may churn it, or willst thou have no butter for pancakes and syrup?” He almost evaporated with the speed with which he left us.
She draped herself over me. “He needeth a companion.” She disencumbered her lovely eyes of the long brown hair with a flick of her delicate fingers and thanked me. She smiled and kissed me. “Always have I wanted a daughter.”
The tiny bonnets, the tiny white bonnets and the little golden dresses that she and Priscilla had been knitting. She had been planning and plotting.
“Willst thou love me when my belly is round and full?”
I laughed and held her.
She stood and I found her beautiful.
“Nay,” she smiled sweetly, “I know thy mind.” She artfully pulled away. “The Little One must eat.”
Thus vanquished, I pulled on my trousers as she arranged herself.
We left the room, our hands intertwined.
West wanted to help his mother, to be with her. I stepped out onto the field before our home. In The Shining Light I regarded that which we had created. Vale, my brother-in-law and I would have to soon add another room for the little girl whom I knew Em was wanting to name Sarah Jane.
I laid myself down in the fragrant green grass and contemplated. I considered time and space and dimensions.
West ran out and hopped up and down upon me. ”Daddy! Daddy! Mommy hath prepared the breakfast!” I clutched him to me to make sure that he didn’t spiral away to God knows where.
I carried him in. The table was set. We put our hands together and thanked Him for the bounty before us on the table. As befits a little boy, our son ate voraciously; Emily Jane ate daintily; and I ate thoughtfully.
“Was it good, West?” I asked him.
He wiped his little mouth and grinned happily.
“Yes!”
“Maybe you might thank Mommy.”
“Thank you, Mommy!”
Em beamed.
We helped her clear the table.
I walked to the shed to fetch buckets for the fish. My little shadow exclaimed ”The river! We go to the river!” Em was in the garden that she had made, collecting corn, greens, peas, beans and squash.
I kissed her goodbye. I strode towards the river, The Little One skipping and laughing behind me.
“What!? There is no kiss for thy mother?”
West ran towards her and embraced her. He then turned and rushed back to me. Emily Jane watched us, smiled, and then continued her work in her garden.
The Little One and I walked down the gentle green slope, our feet bare in the fragrant green grass. Every blade shined, every blade had a song to sing. I lifted him to my shoulders as we approached the silver and golden forest in which there are no shadows.
I stepped into the topal, placid river, one bucket in hand, The Little One on my shoulders.
“May I, Daddy? May I?”
I kissed my little man. His mother knew everything anyway.
“Just don’t go out of my sight.”
He spiraled down the river. He let his tiny feet barely touch the water. He flew straight into the air. He descended to me and rested upon a bed of molecules and waves of light that I do not see. He smiled at me. He was earnest in his question as he floated next to me: “Daddy, are we getting lots of fish?”
We. “Yes.” I smiled. West soared away, and I gathered fish.

We returned home. There were kettles and pots near and on the well-tended hearth. Emily Jane clapped her hands and smiled, “Oh, such lovely fish!”
I put the buckets on the board. She winked at me and asked The Little One if he was going to accompany me to his Aunt Priscilla’s and Uncle Vale’s, or stay with her.

My little shadow and I walked along the beautiful, broad green ridge. He saw flowers that he found especially wonderful. He rushed ahead of me to gather some of them. I told him to take his time. He gathered wondrous blue and yellow and white and purple and orange and red flowers.
“For Pris, Daddy.”
I showed him how to tie them.
“This, my little charmer, is called a bouquet.” This made me consider. I asked him if he might help me gather more. West joyfully aided me in my inspired enterprise.
We approached them. Priscilla’s arms were outstretched, her face adorned with a blinding smile as The Little One raced towards her so swiftly that his little feet finally left the ground. She grasped him and they spun as she peppered him with kisses, as he peppered her lovely, freckled, button-nosed face with kisses.
“For me?” She laughed and they spun.
“I have a gift for thee as well, my little angel.”
His eyes widened. She took his hand and they left for the side of the house.
“I trust, my good sir, that those flowers are not meant to win my affections.” Vale said. He always makes me laugh. I sat down in the rocking chair next to his. He handed me a tankard of ale. My friend had made it ready for me, putting it out on the bright yellow porch that he and I had constructed some time ago.
“Yes, and no,” I laughed.
“Of course, of course.”
I laid down the flowers next to my chair. “You wouldn’t happen to have any tobacco, would you, Vale?”
“My friend, it just so happens that you are in the right place at the right time.” He proceeded to roll a smoke for me, and then one for himself.
We enjoyed our smoke and drank our ale. He was glad to see me: he had been cross-referencing his Locke and Voltaire with the W.E.B. Du Bois that I had given to him such that we might have a thoughtful conversation.
Deep in a most productive discourse, we were interrupted by a squeal of delight from small lungs. The Little One had received his gift. Our discussion was further interrupted when The Little One came around to us, cradling the puppy, the little black Labrador in his arms.
I was touched, proud of the reverence for the little life in his arms that my little man evinced.
West gently laid him down upon the grass, and then knelt and considered him.
Priscilla knelt beside him and gently stroked the errant locks from her nephew’s eyes.
She could no longer contain herself: “What willst thou his name?”
West continued to carefully gaze into the large brown eyes of his new friend, and then, he decided.
The young Name-Giver, through me, through my father, and through his, and his, and his, unto Adam, naturally took very seriously this honor bestowed upon him, this honor granted by The Perfect One.
“Buttons. I shall name thee Buttons.”
Priscilla glowed and clapped her hands. ”How clever thou art, my little angel, my little man!!”
“Daddy, I have named him. He is Buttons.”
West smiled as he kissed the tiny forehead of Buttons.
Priscilla, West, and Buttons left me and Vale to our conversation so they could engage in the far more important of gamboling and cavorting over and through the fields before us.
The ale was good, as was the tobacco. My friend and I took in The Brilliance. Vale had something to say, but he hadn’t said it. I knew that my friend would tell me in his own good time.

Vale had helped annex a great deal of Mexico to the United States some one hundred and twenty odd years before I was born. The Mexican-American War. He had been a captain at first, and then, rapidly, a colonel. He was a gifted man of strategy.
He never forgot the stench and the screams and the horrors and the pain and the blood and the death for victory that his brilliance had made possible near that grand, huge river.
That which he had made possible never left Vale for the many mortal years allotted to him.
Vale did ask for forgiveness, for mercy.

I handed Vale a bunch of flowers. I went about taking mine and creating a coronet.
“Good thinking, my good sir, very good indeed. Vale put down his smoke.
We watched Life become almost incomprehensibly beautiful as we created with our hands crowns of forever, flowers and love for our darling ones.
Vale, the former cavalryman, fetched horses and began to hitch them to his fine wagon. Before I could ask him if all of this was necessary, he pointed to the sleeping West, the sleeping Buttons, and his Priscilla, adoring them, goldening them with her shining eyes. She would not suffer this rest to be broken.
“Bye the bye, from where did this splendid idea of coronets come?” Vale asked me as he finished the harnessing.
“West made me think of it.” I watched as his mother’s sister gathered him and his new friend to her bosom and cradled them.
“You know, of course, my friend, that that little man of yours has been putting all kinds of thoughts into the minds of all kinds of folk ‘round here.
I was puzzled, but he didn’t make me wait.
“All those frilly bonnets and little yellow dresses, for one little girl?” Vale looked at his home, then me, then smiled. “My erudite friend, I do believe that those ladies have cut out some work for us.”
I laughed again.
We helped Priscilla into the wagon. She was very careful not to disturb the little ones in her arms.
We rode along the rich green ridge leisurely, accepting the pleasure of the pleasure of the fragrances surrounding us, The Light, the vision that was afforded to us. As we came nearer and nearer to his mother, The Little One stirred, he opened his eyes.
He gingerly removed himself from his aunt’s arms. He gingerly removed Buttons and gingerly held him and sweetly presented him to Emily Jane.
She regarded her son with joy and pride.
“Mommy, this is Buttons.” he said solemnly.
“Thou hast named him? Thou hast given him a name?” She gently kissed the face of her child.

Emily Jane put out a saucer of milk for Buttons. She and Priscilla embraced and laughed and began discussing babies as they walked hand in hand towards the hearth. West and Buttons ranged over the field before us and enjoyed The Light. Vale and I unhitched the horses. They roamed and grazed. Vale and I partook of our ale and our tobacco. We considered and designed the changes necessary to accommodate our new arrivals.
We were called to the table.
I placed the crown of flowers that I had made upon the brow of Emily Jane. Vale placed the crown that he had made upon the brow of his Priscilla. The women glowed.
We put our hands together and gave thanks to Him for the bounty before us, around us, for each other.
We gave thanks to Him for giving us Love that we could share with each other.
We laughed and ate and drank and lived together. We loved together. We basked in The Light that casts no shadows.

He had redeemed us, His children. He was kind to us. He loved us.

He had restored our souls, and we would be glad, forever

THE GREEN DEAD GIRL, Why eateth your Master with Publicans and sinners? But when Jesus heard that, he said unto them, They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick. But go ye and learn what that meaneth, I will have mercy, and not sacrifice: for I am not come to call the righteous, but the sinners to repentance.

Matthew 9: 11, 12, 13

She comes to me all the time.
When I’m sad and lonely she comes to me. When I am horribly cold, she puts herself around me
She comes to me, she won’t tolerate my sadness. She tells me that she loves me.
I can’t help but love her, even though she is what she is.
When I first met her, she would tell me that she was kind, sweet. I wondered why she bothered to pretend to be this way. She was cruel and beautiful and a liar.
She lied to me all the time. This became tiresome, was tiresome, but she laughed so prettily, smiled so wondrously that I had to forgive her.
I won’t leave her there alone, in that place, in that terrible place to which she has been, The Lake of Fire.
I know what she wants. I know that she is lonely.
I saw her. I knew that she was dead. I wondered why she was green. At first, the green dead girl frightened me a great deal. When I first saw her wandering about the wooded backyard of my house one night, I made sure to lock all the doors and windows. She managed to come in.
Night after night. The light tread on the steps, the soft knock on the door, the turning of the knob, her laughter. The door would swing open and no one would be there. I would just here her whispering and laughing. Whispering lies and telling me things that I knew were not true. She did this so often that I double-bolted everything. I didn’t want to hear her, to listen to her. I wanted to rest.
She became horribly angry, and I told her to go away; she was going to do terrible things, and I asked her how; she smashed open the windows, and I realized, it became real, tangible to me, how much she wanted not to be lonely. I began to wonder if she was just cold. Though she tormented me, I began to feel mean for turning her away, for locking her out.
On the night that I did what I did I hadn’t been able to sleep, to rest. I went down the stairs and through the house and towards the back. I stopped at the latticed glass doors letting out onto the veranda.
She was sitting next to the modest, still, lighted pool, wistfully gazing into it. I stared at her, her striking profile made sharp by the cool light of the shining white moon. She stood gracefully and turned towards me. She seemed to glide. She stopped at the glass doors.
Mere inches, a sheet of glass, a bit of air separated us. A vast chasm of time and space and understanding and miscomprehension separated us. Though my heart raced, I coolly regarded the dead girl standing before me, watching me. Her golden eyes shined.
She slowly and gently pressed her hand against the glass. She lowered her head for a moment, her long, sooty eyelashes brushing the high, delicate green cheekbones, and then, reluctantly, almost fearfully, she raised her head and ventured a smile, a true smile. She wanted to be true. She smiled at me, her teeth and fangs glinting bright white, accentuated by the singular pallid green of her smooth, flawless skin.
I raised my hand and pressed it against the glass. I remember wondering if she was as sad and lonely as I was. I did know that she was replete with anger and fear, confusion and tenderness.
I unlatched the doors.
Her smile widened, as did her eyes. She slowly traced the outline of my palm through the glass and then turned away, returning to her gazing into the pool.
My eyes continued to rest upon her. I continued to consider her and wonder about her. I then returned to my room and my bed and other pressing thoughts. It had been forty-six days times twenty-four hours times sixty minutes times sixty seconds, approximately, that The Terror, His sore judgment, hadn’t been laid upon me.
Perfectly, of course, The Lord My God punishes me, perfectly, forever. Even when I breathe and live outside of the agony, the ever-present fear of The Pain has become almost as bad as The Pain itself. I reap that which I have sown, and I have now no rest.
When I opened my eyes some hours later she was there, sitting placidly next to my bed. Honoring an unspoken and unshared silent pledge, she had let me have the peace that I might have. I hadn’t even known that she was there. I reached out to her, I gently touched her face. She grasped my hand and pressed it against her cool skin. She sighed, her substantial bosom rose and fell, and she smiled again, and I was glad that she wasn’t alone.
He should love her. I don’t understand why He loves me and won’t love her.
She is so alone. She longs for Him and wishes for Him to love her.

It was four nights later when The Terror came. Abruptly.
It was as if I were in a beautiful plain filled with tall yellow flowers covered by fragrant green grass bound by fragrances so wonderful under the brilliant light of a brilliant sun under a vaulting blue sky that I saw It searching for me.
It saw me, and there was nowhere for me to go, nowhere to hide in that beautiful and lustrous field-I had searched and tried so many times before and had found nowhere to go, nothing or no one to help me. Like many other times, I told Him that I was sorry, I begged Him to spare me. I loved Him. I didn’t understand why He would let this happen.
I watched It sweep implacably towards me as I silently plead to Him for the mercy that I knew that He would not grant me. My Lord, my God, my dear Lord.
The matter behind my eyes ignited and instantly became an inferno. It had come. I cried out with my living breath to The Perfect One, but He found this meet.
Perversely, I welcomed The Pain because I had become so tired of dreading Its arrival.
Each and every breath, each and every beat of my heart, each and every blink of my eyes, all light, all darkness, all sound, all silence, all sensation, all thought created a mind-shattering cascade of brilliantly inescapable suffering and burning in every fiber of my being that made me choke and cry. Eventually, I wished that the heart-stopping pain would do just that-but it never did, and I found Him cruel, and I hated Him, and I hated myself for hating Him.
She found me there, writhing on the floor, and she was kind to me. I was exhausted and rent. She arranged my head and shoulders onto her lap and comforted me. It had been some hours and my eyes were heavy. She gingerly stroked my face with her cool hand.
The Terror had had enough of me and had moved on, leaving me to the tender mercies of the pretty, dead Pilgrim. She smiled the most kind, loving, beautiful smile that I have ever had the pleasure of seeing.
I smiled at her. I released her from her pledge.
She spoke to me thoughtfully in her crisp, ancient English accent.
She no longer wanted to deceive me. She showed to me and told to me all kinds of things that I knew to be true. She changed into the Sweet Girl. She told me what she saw, what she had seen when she came here in 1657. She says that she is sorry. She says that she is sorry for the things that her father did, the things that her brothers did. She loved them. She loved them dearly. So she accepted the place to live and the wonderful land and the good things to eat taken from their bloody hands.

I see and I hear. I didn’t know. I didn’t know better. As a child I eventually found it unwise to tell people about the people around them, what they wanted, what they sought. In a way, this made me tremendously lonely: people made me so wrong, and they hurt me; they hurt me with the terrible electricity, the bright long needles, the terrible drugs and the terrible loneliness and the cold. I stopped telling them. I stopped being honest with them. It was important to them to see what they chose to see. I don’t tell what I see and hear.
I decided to be lonely so that they could love me, so they could feel good about themselves, so they could stop hurting me.

One night she was standing next to my bed, shivering in the coldness. Her hazel eyes glinted in the night light, as did her lustrous long brown hair shimmer, shine, errant locks adorning the lime green oval face before flowing over her lime green shoulders. I couldn’t leave the green dead girl there, so I placed her in my bed, which was warm. She held me tightly and thanked me over and over again, and then she put her head to my shoulder and wept tears of blood. She told me the things that built a bridge between us. She told me her name.
Emily Jane Pritchard.
She came here across the Sea and did what she felt was Our Lord’s Will, what she thought were the good works of Our Lord. She had seen the savage crushing of the brown savages whose lands her people took; she had seen the suffering of the black savages her people had taken from a faraway land to be enslaved here and found it all to be meet and good, that which they had done to my ancestors, brown and black. She found out afterward that she had been tragically mistaken.
I understand her.
Our Lord has punished me for the horrors that I inflicted in His name. In the Army we ranged over the deserts and through the bountiful woods and across the seas and through the skies and slaughtered and destroyed so many and so much for Him. I had been told that this was His will and I believed it. I was tragically mistaken.
I thus have an exquisite understanding of pain and Our Lord’s disfavor.
She and I both were born into worlds which neither of us created, worlds which seemed to demand mercilessness and cruelty of its children, and in our own fashions, both of us had been merciless and cruel.
She asked me to know me, and I was afraid of her knowing me. She took her hand and touched my face. The dead girl swiftly recoiled, pulling away her hand, her eyes wide with horror.
She looked into her interlaced hands resting in her lap as I thought, as my heart began to break: Even you. She knew my mind and gazed upon me.
She gently lifted my chin and shined her golden eyes upon me and smiled brightly at me and kissed me.
She forgave me.

She told me of a place. She told me how wonderful it was there. I go there with her. There is a forest through which we walk together, hands intertwined. There is beauty and beautiful fragrance and goodness and freedom from fear there.
There is a table by the river there, ladened with good things to eat. We walk through the fields, our feet bare, touching the soft green grass under a shining bright light. She kisses me, and we go to the house, our house, the house that is high upon the hill, the mansion that is brilliantly lighted, high upon the hill, high, in the shining city upon the hill.
And she is no longer alone, and I am no longer alone.
We are. We exist. Together.

THE LETTER
Dad, Kayla,

I want you to understand.

This has nothing to do with anything that you have ever said or done: you’ve done nothing but give me love and kindness. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. You have both been there for me when I had nothing, bereft of everything.
I owe you the explanation.
Dad, I didn’t tell you how bad the drugs that they gave me made me feel. I’m sorry. I feel like I snowed you. But I so wanted to be better, not to disappoint you anymore. I wanted them to work. I did try, I tried so hard. I’m sorry. You and Mummy gave me so many wonderful gifts, but I have squandered them. I apologize.
I hated the drugs. I was crawling in my own skin. I was so amped all the time-and you know that I’m the last person in the world who needs to be amped. The sleep-meds helped me to sleep, but I’m so tightly wound that they had to keep increasing the dosage. I was on a roller coaster-up and down. I didn’t feel better. I just felt strange, weird. I couldn’t tell my psych because she would have had me locked up. I was totally trapped.

I am, I am totally trapped.

I tried, I swear, I tried so hard, please believe me, I just couldn’t keep taking them.
I tried hooch, booze, for a little bit, but that didn’t work either: I felt worse.

The dreams are becoming so much more frequent. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about the dreams. I never liked them. Kay, you know, from when we were little that I hated them, that I knew that everyone hated them.

Me.

For having them. I wished they would stop. I hate them, too. I’ve always hated them. They won’t stop. I’m sorry.
I wake up and I ask God why, why did He do this to me? Why do I have to See the terrible things people have done to each other, See the horrible things that they are going to do to each other?
What did I do? I must have done something, I must have. But I don’t know what.

He wouldn’t have done this to me if I had done nothing wrong. I wish I knew what I have done. Then I could ask Him for forgiveness. But I don’t know.

I go to sleep in total dread of what I will See when I want to See nothing.
I hate Seeing.
I’m tired. I’m tired of asking why. The redundancy of people’s cruel actions is in my face, day, and night. Dad, Kay, please understand.

I can never rest, that’s what I’m trying to say. I just want to rest, have peace.

I told you about Her.

I know that you don’t like hearing about these things, but She tells me that She needs me, that She loves me. She knows about the pain that this may cause to those whom I love, but She says it will pass: She loves me, too.
She says that we can be together, that She can give to me what our wealth has not: peace.
She’s so beautiful, so kind, so warm. Please be happy for me. She gives me warmth, peace. She’s exceptionally intelligent: we have extraordinary conversations regarding anything and everything. I can talk to Her about anything, and She still loves me. I love Her.
I have my concerns, but She asks me if I want to stay here, in this place, like this, or be with Her. Forever. In peace. She says that we can rest together, in peace, forever.
To rest in peace forever with Her, as opposed to no rest, no peace. I'm so tired.

But She has shown me a way, a way to be with Her, the most glowingly bright, beautiful creature that I have ever encountered. Anywhere.

She says that it will only hurt for a few moments, then, we can be together.
And we can be happy. I can be happy.

I can finally know Happiness.
She says that She can give me Happiness.
She has become impatient.

All of my papers, account numbers, bank names, locations, Will, et cetera, documents of any significance are in the upper-right hand drawer of the bureau next to the desk in my office at my place. It will be unlocked. I believe everything is fairly self-explanatory, and I’ve already made you both joint beneficiaries on everything that I have here. I believe things will go smoothly- just have your I.D. and the certificate from the state when you go to close things out.

I love you.

Your Son, your Brother

DREAM BOY I found a place, a good place. It was filled with very tall trees and covered with cool green grass. There were sharp stones, though, before I could get there. They hurt my feet. The night was warm and quiet. I sat next to the small pond and regarded the ocean of stars arranged before my eyes. I ran my fingers through the fragrant grass.
I mourned The Kind One.
I had seen the sun come over the mountains, and I watched it descend into the ocean. Another day had come and gone. I died another death. The same death that I had died yesterday. The same death that I would die tomorrow. I listened to the soft whispering of the beautiful trees.
The Kind One left me and my sister one year and six months and three weeks and two days ago.
She left us here. She had always been frail, and she had become tired. Everything is so different now. My sister and I do see her from time to time, and she tells us not to be sad.
I wish that she hadn’t left us. But she did. She left us.
I stared into the pond lighted by the bright moon and I saw her beautiful face and my father’s in mine. I miss her so.
I walked twenty blocks and saw a place with people inside. They were laughing and joking together.
There were five: three Mexicans, a brown man like me, and an Armenian girl.
I asked for a beer and smokes. The pretty girl tending the bar gave me the beer, but the manager told me that they were out of smokes.
“?Hermano, no hay smokes por aqui? Verdad?”
He smiled and took some smokes from his pocket and gave me a few. I tried to give him some money, but he wouldn’t take it.
I sat at the bar and had a smoke and a beer. The pretty girl put on a song that she liked a great deal. She came from behind the bar and danced wonderfully. She wore a bright white shirt and a pleated blue skirt that flared as she spun.
I asked her if I could dance with her. She took my hand and we danced. She was so full of life and happiness. She spun and I spun. She had blue-gray-green eyes that are difficult for me to describe. She kissed me as we spun.
She later gave me another beer and asked me why I hadn’t asked her her name, or if I could see her again.
“Cathleen. That’s what your parents named you. It’s a lovely name. And, yes, Cathleen, it would be wonderful to see you again.”
She blushed and asked me how I had known her name. I told her that it was a lucky guess. She found a scrap of paper and put her phone number on it and gave it to me. She asked me to call her, and I was amenable.
I sat down next to the brown gentleman. He drank his whiskey and I drank my beer. I asked him if his two little brothers and his little sister had eyes like his. He said yes. His father had been in the Air Force and had met a beautiful girl in Okinawa. Instead of going back to Mississippi, he brought her to California where they raised their children and lived happily.
My new friend, Deven, had been in the Navy. He had seen a great deal of the world. I have seen a great deal, and we traded stories.
I was happy that I had met them. They told me where I could get more smokes, ten or twelve blocks away. Cathleen escorted me out and draped her arms around me. She asked me if I had a problem with shoes. I laughed and said no.
She kissed me and told me to be careful. She asked if I would call her and I told her the truth. “Yes.”
I went to the AM.PM and they were closed. I knocked on the door and asked the man in Farsi, his language, the language of his home, if I could buy some beer and smokes. He smiled and said that I could have no beer, but I could have smokes. I gave him money, but he gave it back.
I continued my journey. The concrete was still warm. I finally had my own smoke and I smoked it with pleasure.
The police were coming soon, so I enjoyed the last little bit of my smoke.
They were undone with fear and confusion and frustration. James and Scott. They care about people, but they don’t understand them, or themselves. I felt sorry for them before I even met them. I know what it’s like to feel sad.
I asked the sergeant why he had left Fayetteville, he had liked it there. I told him that he could tell his wife not to worry so much about him. I asked him to keep an eye out for the young one, Scott, that he wouldn’t let him do something that he was going to carry with him forever.
“Scott, you have a good friend here. Mind him. Oh! By the way, Amy’s fine, and the little one you’re waiting for is fine as well.” I regarded him and smiled. ”He’s going to make you proud, Scott. You’re going to be a good father, don’t worry.”
James asked me about my feet, why I had no shoes. I told him the truth: I had worn boots and OD green for such a long time in so many strange lands. I was glad to feel the soil and even the concrete of my country. I was glad to walk in my country.
James and Scott thanked me for my service.
I asked them if they might have a smoke and a beer with me. Their shift had just begun, so they couldn’t.
I left my new friends and went to my quiet room. I looked at my pathetic stash of beer. There weren’t enough.
There weren’t enough to ensure dreamlessness. There weren’t enough such that I would not see good things or terrible things.

The Kind One is gone.
She dreamed, too.
Now, I have no one to tell, no one to help me.
I took Her for granted, as She was. Granted in my life-to my life. I am now awash in the sea of pain that exists in the absence of Her laughter and touch and smile.

Happiness and laughter, or slaughter and madness. I was so tired. It was going to happen tonight. I knew this. I had been awake for so long. Four, maybe five days. I try to stay awake, but I can’t stay awake forever.
I fought sleep, the closing of my eyes.

Perhaps one thousand years ago, maybe tomorrow, sometimes yesterday, people live and they love and they hate and they do wonderful and incomprehensibly horrible things to each other. I never know when any of these things are going to happen, where they’re going to happen, or if they’ve already happened.
Or why.
I can only see, and hear, and feel. There is the joy, and the laughter, and the fear, and the pain, and the suffering. And there is nothing that I can do.

The struggle is done. I am exhausted.

My eyes close, and I dream.

THE HATED PAIN We flew through the dark forest.
For a small bit of time I knew Happiness.
She clutched herself around me. We rushed towards the fjord, towards the ship, but I suddenly knew that what we had wished for would not come to pass.
The people, the knights of her father, would not let this happen.
There were so many of them: bronzed and golden in their armor, without fear, their weapons aimed and determined for one purpose.
I would not let any harm come to The Darling, so I lifted myself from my steed, told him to go. I kissed Her, faced them.

I spoke in a language that I did not know.

I watched as The Darling One was carried away to Safety, to the ship, to my father’s kingdom.

I did not fit in my very own skin. My voice was sonorous in my own mind and it rang through the forest as it commanded the others to make ready.
I was huge, strong. The sword and the axe that I wielded were so much more heavy than a six year old child could have manipulated.
I was almost in shock: my body, my strength, the horses, the strange words which I somehow knew, the thoughts.
I did not know, could not comprehend the feelings of love that I knew were soon to end my life: I loved Her in a way that I could not understand. I was going to die for Her. I did not understand that which I was doing, going to do, what I had to do.
But I led a charge to form a line. And I remember a fury and ferocity and focus coursing through me that I, yet again, could not comprehend. It was terrible: the screams and the slaughter. Dear friends I had never known; enemies that I hated with a passion but had never seen; the flashing of light upon metal as we crashed into each other and swung at each other with deadly purpose. The arrows that crashed into my body, the pain, the panic of drowning in my own blood. My powerful limbs warding off death blows; falling, tumbling down the steep slope into a small glade.
There was a cool brook there. I had to stand, to fight. But my great strength was leaving me. My heavily armored shoulders and arms began to become so much more difficult to move. I forced them. I was not going to give up: I was the son of a king. There was too much to live for. I was so thirsty. I forced the blood from my lungs so I could breathe. Gouts of blood. I forced it out, vomited the blood out in gouts. But they kept filling, and I began to drown. I tried to stand, but was drowning, could not breathe.
I collapsed next to the cool water, and I saw her beautiful, shining eyes and bright smile. I needed to live, I had to live, if only to love Her. And to serve my King. I was so young. It was too soon. I tried to raise myself from the gentle brook in which I was dying, from which I tried to drink. My strength ebbed away from me though I desperately fought to live.

I died there, in the quiet glade, close to the gentle brook.

The brook became smooth and white.

My limbs became weak, soft, though somehow still possessed of their strength. Over me knelt a woman, bathed in a bright light, surely a Valkyrie.
Was I already dead? She had come for me. I spoke to her as she spoke to me unintelligibly in dulcet tones in a language that I did not know. I asked the angel of the fate of my Love, my friends.
My friends continued to struggle and die, they were scattered all about us, around me and the Valkyrie who gently cradled me in her arms as she strode through space as it continued to change and shift around us. I was large and small, brimming with life and yet dead. Rooms were where the forest should have been; small, pajama-clad arms instead of glaved, heavy sinews reached to touch her face. She kissed me and layed me down upon a couch, where I continued to speak to her though she did not understand me.
I eagerly took into my little hands the warm cup of sweet-smelling cocoa that she gave to me. I crossed my little legs and drank. I became calm. She knelt beside me and spoke again. I smiled at her, but understood nothing but the deliciousness of my hot chocolate. Between draughts of the wonderful drink, I thanked her for being so kind to me. I tried to explain to her what was all around us, that she, my friend’s mother, Jenna, was an angel, but the words I spoke did not make me clear to her.
I was still wary, but the danger seemed to be going away.
And then, The Kind One was there. I recognized Her immediately. I rushed into Her arms. Though She spoke to me in the same incomprehensible language, I understood the name that she called to me. My terror was gone.

Soon, I was resting in Her arms, my small, brown, pajama-clad body limp with relief. I spoke to Her, and She listened. I had been so scared, realities kept merging in and out, back and forth, all superimposed, one upon the other.
She was patient. After a time, I began to speak the strange talk, in the language of Jenna, in the language of The Kind One. Little by little, I remembered it.
I nuzzled myself against Her warmth as She cradled me, soothing me, whispering love and kindness to me. I was becoming so tired. I was so glad that She was there, that I knew where I was, that I was not dead.
I gently touched Her soft, beautiful face, gazed upon Her. “Mummy, it’s terrible.”
A slew of new images lashed through me and my body convulsed. She held me tightly until I was again thoughtlessly limp in Her arms.
“I don’t like this, Mummy, it hurts.” My eyes began to close, my little arms clutching Her to me, “Mummy, I hate it” I whispered to Her.
She soothed me and wept, “I know, Baby, I know.”
She sobbed quietly and rocked me gently. “My baby, my poor, sweet, baby boy.
I looked at Her dreamily, into Her bright, fawn-like brown eyes, “When will it stop, Mummy? When?” I smiled at Her, hopefully.
Our faces were wet with Her tears.

“Baby, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry”

THE PARK After kindergarten, The Kind One would take me to the park. I loved the park: I could run and play, get on the merry-go-round, climb the monkey-bars, play with all of the others. It was wonderful. There were so many there with whom I could have fun.
I loved Mummy for taking me there every day.
I was happy.

Amy and I were playing. She wanted me to push her on the swing, to get her started. I got on the swing next to her. We laughed and sang songs and let the sunshine warm us. Amy was funny-and she always had good stories to tell.

The Kind One came from the bench. “Who’s this, Sweetheart?”
“This is Amy, Mummy.”
She smiled at her. Her smile glowed. “Hi, Amy. I’m Chad’s Mommy. Do you want an apple?
Amy was very shy: she looked down at her skirt and played with her hair.
“It’s okay, Amy, this is my Mummy.”
Amy looked up at Her and smiled. She began to cry. I didn’t know why.
“Where is your mommy, Darling?”
She held the leg of The Kind One. “She’s at home, with Daddy.”
“Can they see you, Darling?”
“No. I go home all the time, but they don’t see me, not no more.”
The Kind One put Her knees to the ground and kissed my friend. She gently put Her fingers through Amy’s long brown hair. She gently stroked Amy’s face, wiping away her tears. “Baby, look at me. Darling, look at me.”
“Baby, the next time you see the light, go into it.” She held her.
“But I’m afraid.”
”Don’t be afraid, Sweetheart. The people there love you. Do you believe me, Honey?”
Amy looked at Mummy. She touched Her face. She liked Mummy.

I was sad that my friend was going to leave me. But Mummy was right about these things-but I was sad to see my friend go away. Amy kissed Mummy, then she kissed me-I thought it was icky, but it was nice, too.

She went away. The light was very bright.

The Kind One took my hand, and She led me home.

THE DISASTER I do not know if it is selfish of me to be in so much pain because of her loss because of what she was to me.

I did love her so dearly, for so many reasons.
She gave me good things to eat when I was small. She protected me from dogs that wanted to hurt me when I was too small to protect myself. She sang songs to me when it was thundering and lightening at night.

She would have died for me, and I couldn’t die for her. I asked God every day, when she was sick, to kill me instead of her. My prayers went unanswered.

He killed her.

I can never forgive Him for taking her away from me. I’ve tried, but I don’t love Him anymore. Even though I know what happens to people who don’t love Him, where they go: I’ve seen it. And, now, He has already sent me there.

I wonder why I ever loved Him: He killed her.

She protected me from all kinds of things.

When I was six, I began to See things, feel things, the people wanted to talk to me. They would make me laugh, tell me things: sometimes, things that were important to them; sometimes things that I wanted to know. Sometimes they would make me feel how they had died-I wasn’t quite sure what that was, what that meant-but it almost always hurt, and it always scared me.
She comforted me. She told me to tell no one about them. Even if they wanted me to. She knew. She was the same. She Saw them, too. Always tell her anything the special people told me about Dad or Kayla.
She said they were special, the ones I wasn’t supposed to see or speak to. But it was hard to know who was who: sometimes they would talk to me in the daytime. It was hard to know who I could talk to or not. She told me to speak to no strangers, even if they were nice; but then, almost everyone was a stranger. It was confusing: sometimes Gran would come to talk to me-she wasn’t a stranger. I wanted to talk with Gran, she was my favorite. She told me not to be so sad that she had gone away.
She looked beautiful, so bright, so wonderful, not like she had looked in her casket.

They took me to the hospital. They needed to fix me.
They tied me to a cold table. There was a nice lady there who helped me to blow my nose: I was scared because they wouldn’t let Her come into the room.

The nice man in the long white coat asked me how many people were in the room. There were lots of them-but Mummy had shown me how to count as well as read.
“Eleven!!” I had taken an extra count to make sure that I didn’t make a mistake. I was proud of myself for having been so quick.
It was cold in that room. They put a big rubber thing in my mouth. They put this thing on my head.
And then, they burned me. It hurt so. The fire was behind my eyes. It was orange and white and black and yellow. I tried to scream, but the fire was pouring down my throat and I began to choke. The fire was everywhere-behind my eyes, in my fingers, my feet. I was suspended in it, drowning in it. Thousands of hot needles were being pulled through my body, my eyes, my mind. My heart was going to explode. The world disappeared and I was in a world of agony. Forever.
It stopped. I could breathe.
Then, the fire came back. And I was there again.
And again.

She took me from that place. I don’t remember going to the car, being buckled in. I just remember looking at the Lake as we drove home, the boats and the people floating by. I was thinking of the other lake, the one I had apparently just been in: The Lake of Fire. We were Baptists-we knew all about the Lake of Fire-even I knew about it, the place where the sinners go, the bad people, the people who God didn’t love anymore because they were bad, evil. I was almost sick with the shocking realization that I was maybe one of them. Rev-my Dad’s dad-spoke about that place almost every Sunday at church-he was the Minister: Soothsayers-people who talked to people who weren’t alive anymore-and murderers and liars and thieves and so many others were to be cast out, forever separated from Him, doomed to everlasting torment and suffering in The Lake of Fire.
I didn’t know how to stop Seeing the people that I saw; I desperately wanted to know how, how to become good, not to be wicked anymore. But I knew, I knew that since I had no idea why I was how I was there was no way to fix it. No way to be better.
I was trapped, doomed.
At first, I couldn’t speak. After a while, I began to cry. “I’m sorry, Mummy, please, please, never take me to that place again. I’ll be good. I’ll try…please…”
She cried, as well, “Don’t worry, Baby, I never will again. I promise.”
My relief was instant. “Mummy, are we bad? Why do we see people that other people don’t see? Are we bad, Mummy? Is that why?”
“No, Baby. You and I are just different. I know it’s hard, but just listen to Mommy-you have to try to keep quiet about what we see. They hurt me, too.”
She searched for words as she minded the road. “Sweetheart, sometimes people hurt other people when they’re different. It scares them,”-and before I could ask “why?”-“and “why?”, Honey, I don’t know. I really don’t. They don’t even really want to hurt them, they just don’t know any better. But, Honey-look at me-remember, different can be dangerous.”
We arrived home. She carried me in. She fixed me a delicious plate of chicken, macaroni and cheese, and a piece of blueberry pie with a big glass of milk. I was safe. I was so happy. I loved her so much: she loved me, even if God didn’t.

She wiped away my milk-mustache and smiled at me. I’ll never forget how strange I thought it was to see such a smile. I had never seen one before. A sad smile.

“Remember, Baby, don’t tell a soul about what we See. Hide it. Try, okay, Sweetheart? For me?”

“Okay, Mummy. I’ll try. I love you, Mummy.”

She kissed me. “I love you, too, Sweetheart.”

Hi! I've decided to go ahead and add some stories here. These are fairly representative of the things I concern myself with through different genres such as war, paranormal, and fantasy. Some are about loss and isolation; others about tragic mistakes and their consequences. These are stories about our perceptions of our relationships to God, ourselves, each other, and how these perceptions inform our reality.  They are about loneliness,mistakes, loss, redemption, and love.