Garden Party

The well diggers arrived just in time for egg salad and sweetened lemonade. We set up lunch under the great oak tree near Norma's memorial stone. The day was fresh with jasmine dancing upon the whispering winds. The roads to town had recently opened, allowing the mail and other deliveries to arrive as normal.  Everyone was having a remarkable time. Even old Merl, who can be so humdrum about these sorts of things. Mrs. Gallager brought her famous fig pudding for all to enjoy, and enjoy we did. Friedrick was doing his famous impressions for the workmen when all of a sudden a flash of lightning and the roar of mighty thunder startled us all. The sky opened up to a hellfire red and I can vividly recall the gnawing terror as those dark grey rains came crashing down upon the scene. Oh how I will never forget the expression on the face of sweet cousin Alphonse as he ran for shelter. I still see the tears in his eyes as he slipped and fuddled about in the muck. He lay shivering as I ran to his aid. Fate came crashing around us as I cradled the young boy, praying to the heavens to cease this relentless barrage. It must have rained for the better part of the afternoon for the next thing I remember was waking up alone with my clothes in tatters and my mind a complete mess. Thus putting an end to our one time glorious and very much unexpected garden party. 

Cutting Loose on the Road to Freedom

Dear Jimothy watched in wonder as the lazy sky opened up to a fresh crispy blue. Fragrant sea air floated like soft mist from the nearby coast. He felt the sun's warmth on his skin for the first time in many months. He felt the rush of his thick northern blood pulse through his temples as he thought of Melinda and the cult she had once tried to get him to join. He remembered her brittle little words and how she was always chasing down a new 'head change'. It always seemed that she just couldn't get things right, or maybe she just didn't want to. It wasn't impossible, it just wasn't in her nature. It was her desire to live an "abnormal life" - and that very desire drew her away from most folks. Especially the ones who loved her. Up until now he had never really thought too much about it. Maybe the sea air had helped clear his mind; helped put things into perspective. Back east there were just so many unanswered questions, so many things left to wonder. He lost count of the number of times that the voices in his head told him to go off and do wild things. The same contradictory voices that told him everything was going to be alright. They mocked his calculated movements and would often times suggest that at any given moment, he was most certainly going to go totally ape-shit.

Oh These Princely Robes

Oh dear god grant me wisdom. All of these princely robes make it challenging for me to select the perfect one for the royal feast. I pray that my fine garments will please the court, as I really need to shine this time around. Oh yes, I will do my best dance and prance about in my princely robes. The guests will raise their glasses and marvel in delight as a move and gyrate about the throne room. So let’s just say that when it comes to royal banquets and styles that some guys just ‘get it’, and I am one of those guys.

Sweet Papa

The to-do list that Papa had put together was totally useless. Form the beginning it seemed like our little family vacation was totally doomed. The first day found our alabaster flesh burned like crisp bacon by the blazing Mexican sun. We were all miserable after that. Papa caught the worst though. He lay on the bed in his white briefs, wrapped in a poly-cotton sheet, soaked thru with his own sweat and filth. He wouldn’t stop mumbling and groaning. It was agony for us all. The garbage can next to his bed reeked and badly needed emptying. It all began earlier that morning at the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet where Papa had insisted on trying the ‘Mexicali Smoked Salmon’. We had all strongly advised him against it. The salmon had a rainbow glisten as it sat perspiring away in the high Mexican heat. But Papa “Just had to have it”. Now he was paying the high-price, as Montezuma ravaged away at his bowels and tormented his mind-tank. What hurt the most wasn’t the sunburn or the repulsive stench of Papa’s bile – it was the deep sting of seeing our father reduced to such a crumpled and lowly being. He had always been our central figure of strength, but now it was almost impossible to not to pity him and feel a deep sense of shame that he had brought upon our house.

Comit to the Mystique

Our sacred circle is awoken a dawn. We rise and greet the morning sun with inspired breath. Each of us stands shrouded in our princely robes, drawn in by nature’s dazzling show of brilliant color, generous bloom and bird song. We are gathered in a sphere around the great pyre, staring into the flames with mouths agape and hands to the sky. I can hear Brother Maynard to my left as he pops opens a fresh can of Pringles. The powdery odor of sour cream and onion dust float through the air and fill my nostrils with sweet fragrance. Although my empty belly moans and my mouth waters for the savory taste, I shake off the distraction. I am set on my task - for soon will be the time for ultimate sacrifice, soon we will honor the gods with our lives. I can see the sky open as I prepare to be reborn. The signal is given and I dance wildly into the flames, sharp pain and then cosmic relief as my soul floats upward. From this new vantage point I look down upon the entire scene and I can see Brother Maynard, with his childlike grin, munching deep into those crisp potato snacks.

The Episode on the Western Slope

They had to spend the afternoon on the western slope about one hundred yards below the great ridge. Many of them were exhausted from dehydration and days of walking without proper rest. Most of them didn’t think they would make it out of there alive. It was Jenkins who first started to show signs of complete cognitive meltdown. He was the first one to really crack. Around noon he began to recite the worst poetry any of them had ever heard. The poetry, if it could be called that, was so offensive that some of the men vomited up whatever was left in their nearly empty stomachs. It didn’t help any that Jenkins had an effeminate southern drawl that was extremely annoying to begin with. They all took turns trying to silence Jenkins, but nothing worked. They could not believe that Jenkins would have the gall to project such filth into the atmosphere at a time like this. The only one who wasn’t surprised was Till, who knew deep down that Jenkins was completely maladjusted. He had cheated his way into the service - clearly fooling all of the staff psychologists. Somehow he had convinced everyone that he was fit for duty. Till was the only one who knew that Jenkins should never have been with them. He knew that Jenkins was a liability, that he could put the whole outfit in jeopardy. He regretted not turning him into the senior staff before they left HQ. Many of the men would live on to tell stories from their experiences. The majority of those men still wake up some nights in fits of unholy terror with Jenkins’s god-awful poetry echoing in their ears as if heard for the first time.

All Over Your Hands, and Sweet Face

Chester stoked around with the poker trying to rouse new life from the tiny embers. The orange glow across his freshly shaven face made him look half demonic. the shadows danced and played in his dark eyes and wrinkled brow. 'She means to take everything Brian, everything-damned-thing.' His eyes passed through Brian and focused on the ancient Grecian statue that stood on the opposite bookshelf. He thought to himself that the Greek goddess was mocking him in this agony. She was probably right in doing so. 'Well I do feel for you, but I think we all know you had this coming. You've clowned around for far too long and now the chickens have come home to roost. You have sunk to new lows my four fingered friend.' Chester stood in disbelief and pondered his friends cold words. Some god damned friend Brian had turned out to be. Just when Chester needed him most, Brian was there to kick him in the neck. If there was any humility left in the room it had just gone out with the flames, vanished along with the deep smoke.

Waiting in the Wingback

I climbed through the window above the garage and made myself comfortable in Gretel’s armchair. How long will she keep me waiting? I had to remind myself that I was doing the best I could, that this was just another day, and that she was going to keep me here, waiting in limbo. I eased back into the chair and put my leather boots up on the ledge of the windowsill. Sleep overtook me and I fell deep into darkness. She must have came in at some point in the night. When I woke up I had noticed that at the foot of the chair was a silver-serving tray. On it, was a plate of congealed gruel, a lock of hair wrapped in a purple ribbon and a note that read, ‘It’s your life, and you can do what you want.’