Tuesday, January 17, 2012
STOP SOPA
Yeah... That is pretty much my position in the subject line. Why? Because it is too broad and grants the power in the hand of the accuser. Law should first be specific. And, Second law should place power in the hand of the accused. SOPA DOES NIETHER.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Friday, September 10, 2010
Chapter 3; Chicken Fried Sam
Chapter 3 Chicken Fried Sam
1.
Sam fumbled through the kitchen drawers. His hand finally falling upon a soft towel. He ripped the thing into uneven strips and set them on the counter. Even though he’d been in the dark room now for the better part of an hour he was still unable to see anything well. No moon that night and the windows he’d bordered up that were broken earlier that day to keep the wild things out. Something had not worked or he supposed that cat had crept in while he was out at the grave sight. Either way he needed to find some kind of oil to protect his arms from the bandages that would no doubt dry out once the wounds began to clot.
Problem was that no one had had any oil or anything like it for a long time and even though he hadn’t been back to the farm house in five years he was pretty sure his family hadn’t been any better off than the rest of the world that way. The cupboards were bare. Occasionally he knocked over a plate or cup or an empty salt shaker. And then snap! A mouse trap closed down on his ring and middle fingers.
He didn’t have much time. He would have to bandage soon with out anything and hope for the best or find something, anything. He fumbled through the kitchen and then felt the oven.
It was an old thing. Black, made of boiler plate and cast iron. A real wood stove. Grandpa used to fire it with coal when the mine was still open. He opened the door. He felt around. His hand sunk into a cold thick goo. “Grandma’s Grease!” He had no idea how old it was, or from what animal it had been collected. But at his increasing fuzzy feeling in his head from the blood loss he simply was thankful.
He lathered it on to his forearms and then shuffled over to the towel strips. He laid them loosely around the arm, keeping them so as not to be constrictive when the inevitable swelling and infection sat in. He’d get a better look in the morning. But where to sleep?
He couldn’t risk staying on the couch. Not with fresh food on the floor of the living room. There’s no way he could make it to the guest house. The windows were still broken anyway. The barn was wide open. The truck. If he could make it to the truck.
2.
“Morning Sam.”
Sam felt electric shock. Eyes open. Ears searching. His arms numb with pain. His legs were still asleep. He had them scrunched up like two hills with his feet by the steering wheel of the Chevy pick up. His head was upon his bible for something of a pillow. And his gaze was upside down into the smile of a stranger. Stranger still it was a woman and the sun was well high and shinning.
“How do you know my name?” He asked through the desert that was his mouth. “Who are you?”
“Your name is Sam and its on your jacket. Unless you’re a thief and have plied your trade for his coat?”
He remembered his blue collared coat with its white name patch with red embroidery. It had served him well all these years since his days at the gas station. “Man, a gas station,” he thought. They were roadside oddities now. Like museums to a lost civilization. But he still didn’t get an answer to his question.
“Oh. Who are you?”
“Sam. But I guess if we’re going to keep things straight, I won’t make you go by Samantha.” She laughed. She was brighter than the rays of sun shooting through the windshield.
It was no small feet to get upright. His arms were almost useless and the cramps in his legs didn’t subside for minutes. But with the mysterious guest’s help he righted himself in the passenger side of the bench seat.
“You’re pretty messed up. What happened?” She asked once they got the door unlocked and his feet outside the truck.
“I think I killed a lion last night. It didn’t go to well. But at least I’m still living to tell you about it. Where did you come from? Don’t want to be rude, but I haven’t been back to my grandparent’s house in five years or more. Did you know them?”
“Yeah. I am your cousin of sorts. Twice removed or something like that. I am Gretchen’s sister Clair’s daughter’s daughter,” Samantha said.
“You know who I am?” Sam asked, still working out the relations and the family tree. There must be a branch or a limb that he didn’t quite get. But whatever, it was a weird world and anything like family was a precious commodity these days.
“Yeah. You are Gretchen’s son, Douglas’s son. His only son if my know-it-all mom had the tale told right.”
“Yes, Doug is my dad. He’s still doing all right. Really, better than ‘all right’ considering all the plight I’ve seen since I made my way back here from our place in the Northern Woods. We’re not quite up in the Boundary Waters but we were some many days from the western most Great Lake. Our place had its problems, cold winters, wild things, the occasional rogue band of Hill Men and their pillaging ways. But dad always has a way of dealing with them that makes for a working relationship.”
“News is hard to come by down this way. Its good land but the wild things have moved in as you’ve come to see. There was a pretty terrible plague last year. Took most of us who had moved back after we finally came back from the caves.” Samantha did a weird full body shiver when she said, ‘Caves.’
“Yeah, I heard you all were up in them for years. The coal and salt mines right?”
“Yes.” Samantha reached back into a place from her childhood. “We went there after the various groups came out of the cities just after the Flash. The farms weren’t defensible and folks weren’t trust worthy. They were pretty gaunt and ugly from weeks of waiting things out hoping for someone from the government to bring in food and water. It never came. Can’t imagine.” She shuddered again.
“So we packed up what we could, followed the mountain roads up to some of the more remote mines and made things as best we could. Like I said, it was not great to live in a coal mine. Lots of people didn’t do well. Claustrophobia, a collapse every now and then from a earth tremor, and then some long stand offs with some of the various groups that had come into the farms out of the cities. Turns out they mostly died off due to a lack of knowledge on how to farm. They got stuff into the ground all right. But when to put it in and when to take it in and how to fix what equipment that still worked with some of the animals; it was probably as bad or worse than what went on in the city. Worse cause’ they could probably imagine from stories or TV shows what farming was, but come right down to it, it was like having a kitchen full of food and no one knowing how to cook.”
“Yeah, we saw a bit of that up our way. Lot less because of the population being immigrants from places with less modern convenience. All the long line families had relations in the country. They got out early after the Flash. But like you said, there was only so much food and so much clean water. The City is under the control of the Greenies and is their Western most point of control. The Plains Men from the south have kept it that way for 10 years or more.” Sam was starting fade again. His arms were throbbing.
“Let’s get you cleaned up and taken care of Sam. If you can put up with the incessant gossip of a woman who in some ways has never accepted reality, then we would love to see you get well at our place.”
Sam thought he heard her say something else. But it was all nausea and sparkling stars and then black.
1.
Sam fumbled through the kitchen drawers. His hand finally falling upon a soft towel. He ripped the thing into uneven strips and set them on the counter. Even though he’d been in the dark room now for the better part of an hour he was still unable to see anything well. No moon that night and the windows he’d bordered up that were broken earlier that day to keep the wild things out. Something had not worked or he supposed that cat had crept in while he was out at the grave sight. Either way he needed to find some kind of oil to protect his arms from the bandages that would no doubt dry out once the wounds began to clot.
Problem was that no one had had any oil or anything like it for a long time and even though he hadn’t been back to the farm house in five years he was pretty sure his family hadn’t been any better off than the rest of the world that way. The cupboards were bare. Occasionally he knocked over a plate or cup or an empty salt shaker. And then snap! A mouse trap closed down on his ring and middle fingers.
He didn’t have much time. He would have to bandage soon with out anything and hope for the best or find something, anything. He fumbled through the kitchen and then felt the oven.
It was an old thing. Black, made of boiler plate and cast iron. A real wood stove. Grandpa used to fire it with coal when the mine was still open. He opened the door. He felt around. His hand sunk into a cold thick goo. “Grandma’s Grease!” He had no idea how old it was, or from what animal it had been collected. But at his increasing fuzzy feeling in his head from the blood loss he simply was thankful.
He lathered it on to his forearms and then shuffled over to the towel strips. He laid them loosely around the arm, keeping them so as not to be constrictive when the inevitable swelling and infection sat in. He’d get a better look in the morning. But where to sleep?
He couldn’t risk staying on the couch. Not with fresh food on the floor of the living room. There’s no way he could make it to the guest house. The windows were still broken anyway. The barn was wide open. The truck. If he could make it to the truck.
2.
“Morning Sam.”
Sam felt electric shock. Eyes open. Ears searching. His arms numb with pain. His legs were still asleep. He had them scrunched up like two hills with his feet by the steering wheel of the Chevy pick up. His head was upon his bible for something of a pillow. And his gaze was upside down into the smile of a stranger. Stranger still it was a woman and the sun was well high and shinning.
“How do you know my name?” He asked through the desert that was his mouth. “Who are you?”
“Your name is Sam and its on your jacket. Unless you’re a thief and have plied your trade for his coat?”
He remembered his blue collared coat with its white name patch with red embroidery. It had served him well all these years since his days at the gas station. “Man, a gas station,” he thought. They were roadside oddities now. Like museums to a lost civilization. But he still didn’t get an answer to his question.
“Oh. Who are you?”
“Sam. But I guess if we’re going to keep things straight, I won’t make you go by Samantha.” She laughed. She was brighter than the rays of sun shooting through the windshield.
It was no small feet to get upright. His arms were almost useless and the cramps in his legs didn’t subside for minutes. But with the mysterious guest’s help he righted himself in the passenger side of the bench seat.
“You’re pretty messed up. What happened?” She asked once they got the door unlocked and his feet outside the truck.
“I think I killed a lion last night. It didn’t go to well. But at least I’m still living to tell you about it. Where did you come from? Don’t want to be rude, but I haven’t been back to my grandparent’s house in five years or more. Did you know them?”
“Yeah. I am your cousin of sorts. Twice removed or something like that. I am Gretchen’s sister Clair’s daughter’s daughter,” Samantha said.
“You know who I am?” Sam asked, still working out the relations and the family tree. There must be a branch or a limb that he didn’t quite get. But whatever, it was a weird world and anything like family was a precious commodity these days.
“Yeah. You are Gretchen’s son, Douglas’s son. His only son if my know-it-all mom had the tale told right.”
“Yes, Doug is my dad. He’s still doing all right. Really, better than ‘all right’ considering all the plight I’ve seen since I made my way back here from our place in the Northern Woods. We’re not quite up in the Boundary Waters but we were some many days from the western most Great Lake. Our place had its problems, cold winters, wild things, the occasional rogue band of Hill Men and their pillaging ways. But dad always has a way of dealing with them that makes for a working relationship.”
“News is hard to come by down this way. Its good land but the wild things have moved in as you’ve come to see. There was a pretty terrible plague last year. Took most of us who had moved back after we finally came back from the caves.” Samantha did a weird full body shiver when she said, ‘Caves.’
“Yeah, I heard you all were up in them for years. The coal and salt mines right?”
“Yes.” Samantha reached back into a place from her childhood. “We went there after the various groups came out of the cities just after the Flash. The farms weren’t defensible and folks weren’t trust worthy. They were pretty gaunt and ugly from weeks of waiting things out hoping for someone from the government to bring in food and water. It never came. Can’t imagine.” She shuddered again.
“So we packed up what we could, followed the mountain roads up to some of the more remote mines and made things as best we could. Like I said, it was not great to live in a coal mine. Lots of people didn’t do well. Claustrophobia, a collapse every now and then from a earth tremor, and then some long stand offs with some of the various groups that had come into the farms out of the cities. Turns out they mostly died off due to a lack of knowledge on how to farm. They got stuff into the ground all right. But when to put it in and when to take it in and how to fix what equipment that still worked with some of the animals; it was probably as bad or worse than what went on in the city. Worse cause’ they could probably imagine from stories or TV shows what farming was, but come right down to it, it was like having a kitchen full of food and no one knowing how to cook.”
“Yeah, we saw a bit of that up our way. Lot less because of the population being immigrants from places with less modern convenience. All the long line families had relations in the country. They got out early after the Flash. But like you said, there was only so much food and so much clean water. The City is under the control of the Greenies and is their Western most point of control. The Plains Men from the south have kept it that way for 10 years or more.” Sam was starting fade again. His arms were throbbing.
“Let’s get you cleaned up and taken care of Sam. If you can put up with the incessant gossip of a woman who in some ways has never accepted reality, then we would love to see you get well at our place.”
Sam thought he heard her say something else. But it was all nausea and sparkling stars and then black.
Friday, August 27, 2010
The Word of Walcot
Darkness Trembles 2.1-3 The Word of Walcot
1.
“Shane! Shane!” the little boy called against the Kansas wind.
Shane, glanced back from his saddle, beneath his brim, towards the salt-box farm house peppered with swallow’s mud nests. The eaves were as ubiquitous with them as the seven year old boy who stood in front of the house had freckles.
It was surreal, Shane thought. A western, immemorial in the annals of great movies of the previous century, and here he was starting off where it had finished. Life imitates art.
He reigned his mare around and trotted back.
“Don’t go Shane. Please don’t go.” Tears worked their way down the boy’s cheeks.
“Kid, take care of your momma. She’s real sick. I’ll be back, if the Lord wills, middle of the Fall.”
“But Shane! I can’t do it Shane! Take me with you.”
“Look, where I am going, well, its no place for anyone decent. And kid, you got one shot at ‘decent’ and its here. Your Pop got you and your momma this far and he did it before you were old enough to know what was going on. He meant for you and her to have a chance and that’s what you got. He would have seen you make a man before he gave up this earth for the next, but that wasn’t the Lord’s will. So here, you got to take what your given and learn to do what is right.”
“Shane, I can’t do it.” The boy’s protests weren’t unfounded, Shane thought.
“What is right is tough and its not always clean and pretty. And what is right is that you honor your Pop and your Ma and see that this place makes food. God will take care of you, and He’ll be here with you when she’s gone. And that’s what I am.”
He wheeled his stout Quarter-Morgan mix around and gave her a tap to her flank. She obeyed with out question.
“Shane,” the boy yelled, “I will. I will do what you said, Shane. I’ll have food in the Fall, Shane. I promise!”
Shane smiled, raised his free hand to the sky with a single finger pointed up and then called her to a gallop.
“I know you will boy. Lord, I know he will.”
2.
Someone once said that in order to understand the world you had to see it from the back of a horse. Shane always contended that it was the stuff of late nights around campfires and whiskey that let such drawl spill philosophical epitomes. But truth be told, nothing was quite like traversing reality in concert with a well trained horse. And, he thought, so long as he was long for this world he didn’t desire to move through it in any other way.
The early summer had been good to the ground. Just enough rain for once. It had been a long few years since they got good rain. The fields were coming in just above his stirrups. He halted at the crest of a rise. Open range. He panned back and forth. Looking near and far. His mare stamped her foot. He looked down and to the left across an old wheat field to another rise some miles away. And he saw the thing.
It was just a ‘T’ from his vantage point. He leaned over to his girl’s ear and said, “Thank you. You always know where we’re going girl.” He said, “Lets get.” She took up the command and they loped in the direction of the ‘T’.
3.
Shane drew her up short of the destination and scanned the surroundings one more time. Still a couple miles off from the cross. He sensed the crawl of eyes upon his neck. The mare did too. With out even a flinch from Shane she exploded towards the towering cross.
A pack of wolves was closing in on them from both flanks. Shane pulled his battered bugle that was strapped to his neck with one free hand and blew the short blasts for “Incoming” and “Pursued”.
Two large wolves had set themselves at the head of the circle and were coming direct. They challenged horse and rider attempting to get them to hesitate left or right just so that the flanking pack could spring and drag them to the ground. Shane and his horse knew this tactic. She had a scarred hind quarters and he a tore up forearm to prove it. He reminded her with another kick and she raised front hooves to striking posture in full gallop. The first mongrel fell, hoof to head, head to earth. The second breezed to the right and Shane caught its face with the butt of his rifle.
A return bugle: “Come” and “Will Defend” rang out.
The massive wooden fort gate raised like a portcullis. Shane ducked, they slid underneath and the gate dropped behind them.
“Thump, thump, thump.” their lead pursuers did not perceive the quick action of the falling wall of wood. Three dogs smashed into its thick timber like some Newtonian experiment of mass and force. Archers from the ports above the entrance quickly killed the dogs who failed to escape into the wild wheat that surrounded the fort.
Shane patted his mare upon the neck. Sweat marked her body like battle paint upon an ancient warrior.
“You did good, girl,” Shane whispered into her ear.
A bright-eyed man greeted him first. His wrinkled face creased with wisdom and a weathered joy that had seen suffering and yet held out infinite hope.
“Mr. Walcot,” the old man shouted, “you never cease to amaze me!”
Shane tipped the brim of his hat, still shaking from his rushing escape.
“Why is that Colonel?”
“You always keep ye’r word, Mr. Walcot. You always keep ye’r word.” The Colonel moved up to his flank.
“Sir, I keep it, because He keeps it.” He pointed above them both to the towering cross and slid off his horse.
1.
“Shane! Shane!” the little boy called against the Kansas wind.
Shane, glanced back from his saddle, beneath his brim, towards the salt-box farm house peppered with swallow’s mud nests. The eaves were as ubiquitous with them as the seven year old boy who stood in front of the house had freckles.
It was surreal, Shane thought. A western, immemorial in the annals of great movies of the previous century, and here he was starting off where it had finished. Life imitates art.
He reigned his mare around and trotted back.
“Don’t go Shane. Please don’t go.” Tears worked their way down the boy’s cheeks.
“Kid, take care of your momma. She’s real sick. I’ll be back, if the Lord wills, middle of the Fall.”
“But Shane! I can’t do it Shane! Take me with you.”
“Look, where I am going, well, its no place for anyone decent. And kid, you got one shot at ‘decent’ and its here. Your Pop got you and your momma this far and he did it before you were old enough to know what was going on. He meant for you and her to have a chance and that’s what you got. He would have seen you make a man before he gave up this earth for the next, but that wasn’t the Lord’s will. So here, you got to take what your given and learn to do what is right.”
“Shane, I can’t do it.” The boy’s protests weren’t unfounded, Shane thought.
“What is right is tough and its not always clean and pretty. And what is right is that you honor your Pop and your Ma and see that this place makes food. God will take care of you, and He’ll be here with you when she’s gone. And that’s what I am.”
He wheeled his stout Quarter-Morgan mix around and gave her a tap to her flank. She obeyed with out question.
“Shane,” the boy yelled, “I will. I will do what you said, Shane. I’ll have food in the Fall, Shane. I promise!”
Shane smiled, raised his free hand to the sky with a single finger pointed up and then called her to a gallop.
“I know you will boy. Lord, I know he will.”
2.
Someone once said that in order to understand the world you had to see it from the back of a horse. Shane always contended that it was the stuff of late nights around campfires and whiskey that let such drawl spill philosophical epitomes. But truth be told, nothing was quite like traversing reality in concert with a well trained horse. And, he thought, so long as he was long for this world he didn’t desire to move through it in any other way.
The early summer had been good to the ground. Just enough rain for once. It had been a long few years since they got good rain. The fields were coming in just above his stirrups. He halted at the crest of a rise. Open range. He panned back and forth. Looking near and far. His mare stamped her foot. He looked down and to the left across an old wheat field to another rise some miles away. And he saw the thing.
It was just a ‘T’ from his vantage point. He leaned over to his girl’s ear and said, “Thank you. You always know where we’re going girl.” He said, “Lets get.” She took up the command and they loped in the direction of the ‘T’.
3.
Shane drew her up short of the destination and scanned the surroundings one more time. Still a couple miles off from the cross. He sensed the crawl of eyes upon his neck. The mare did too. With out even a flinch from Shane she exploded towards the towering cross.
A pack of wolves was closing in on them from both flanks. Shane pulled his battered bugle that was strapped to his neck with one free hand and blew the short blasts for “Incoming” and “Pursued”.
Two large wolves had set themselves at the head of the circle and were coming direct. They challenged horse and rider attempting to get them to hesitate left or right just so that the flanking pack could spring and drag them to the ground. Shane and his horse knew this tactic. She had a scarred hind quarters and he a tore up forearm to prove it. He reminded her with another kick and she raised front hooves to striking posture in full gallop. The first mongrel fell, hoof to head, head to earth. The second breezed to the right and Shane caught its face with the butt of his rifle.
A return bugle: “Come” and “Will Defend” rang out.
The massive wooden fort gate raised like a portcullis. Shane ducked, they slid underneath and the gate dropped behind them.
“Thump, thump, thump.” their lead pursuers did not perceive the quick action of the falling wall of wood. Three dogs smashed into its thick timber like some Newtonian experiment of mass and force. Archers from the ports above the entrance quickly killed the dogs who failed to escape into the wild wheat that surrounded the fort.
Shane patted his mare upon the neck. Sweat marked her body like battle paint upon an ancient warrior.
“You did good, girl,” Shane whispered into her ear.
A bright-eyed man greeted him first. His wrinkled face creased with wisdom and a weathered joy that had seen suffering and yet held out infinite hope.
“Mr. Walcot,” the old man shouted, “you never cease to amaze me!”
Shane tipped the brim of his hat, still shaking from his rushing escape.
“Why is that Colonel?”
“You always keep ye’r word, Mr. Walcot. You always keep ye’r word.” The Colonel moved up to his flank.
“Sir, I keep it, because He keeps it.” He pointed above them both to the towering cross and slid off his horse.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Chapter 1 Seven Crosses
1.
Above the hills there was a golden rainbow.
Sam grabbed his leather bag out of the old pick up parked in front of his grandparents still older farm house. He rifled through the durable compartments and pulled out two familiar friends: a worn bible and an equally worn pipe. The screen door tapped time with the universe as Sam ascended the porch to the swing.
Green grass was now fading away to yellow hues. The painted flowers that bordered the stoic building dropped petals, wilted, and weary of the summer sun. And across the open acre of knee high grass type towards the fat oak seven crosses stood at the head of fresh mounds of dark dirt.
That golden ark of color that had emerged through the storm and had held the earth in its dominion faded against the darkening horizon. She held out, with all her utmost to the highest end of the sky. But as with all expressions she dimmed and faltered. Sam held her in his heart, reaching out from deep within, encouraging her to stand against the draw of the earth. She ebbed to but a shade, something of a impression now, and the clouds from which she was born also lost semblance in the growing indigo.
A flash, a green flash, slipped out of the last movement of sun and the land immersed itself in quiet brooding. Sam sat there, drifting above the planks of the porch upon the swing. His pipe lay to his left and his bible to the right, and both were useless in the new night.
2.
The screen door struck the hour. Howl and call of the wild opened up the new government. Wolves in the hills, lions in their lairs, and their cruel comrades carried out severe justice upon whomever and whatever came into the purview of their courts. The once prevalent coyotes and even the cougars were now subjugated to their powerful cousins in this brave new world. Sam carefully slipped into the house, barred the door, and felt his way to the couch.
Grandma would have had his hide if she had seen his boots crossing that carpet. The thought stabbed him, and he finally sobbed out a cry. Her frail body lay in the grave now, not in the bed upstairs where he had found her next to grandpa. Both laying in repose for only him to pay respect. Mutilated by some wild thing, his mind equally so, he did his duty adding them to the impromptu family burial plot he had dug all that day.
The others, were as terribly drawn and quartered by scavengers. One in the barn, two in the spare bedroom, and the remaining in the guest house out back. Windows were broken, paw prints plodded upon her once spotless floors. It was, as he simply thought, horrifying. But through the whole day, he had not worried, he had not welled up with wet eyes; he prayed for mercy and married himself to his work.
Now, he lay there: dirty, tired, the smell of corpse on his hands and clothes, an unclean thing God said in the first books of the bible. Justly so, he thought, having now lived what he had once read, he couldn’t disagree with the Almighty’s proposition.
It had been a full day and as absurd as it was, he could do nothing more than grieve but a moment, for sleep, the resting place for all souls travailing, took him.
3.
There was something there! In the room. Across the living room. Something big. Its breath almost a drone. His consciousness alerted by the Lord in his spirit. He knew the prodding. Not a single movement did he make and yet he knew the beast became instantly aware of his wakefulness. It shuffled its arms upon the carpet and clawed it. Its claws popped against the hard wood floors and ripped at the expensive wool vestige. Then like a 57’ ford its V8 rumble barreled in the great cat’s chest. It purred to life.
“Lord, help me," he pleaded from his heart.
It rose. He heard it stretch its back out, the cracks of vertebrae marked the moments. The surface cried under each foot fall. Closer now. It sensed its prey’s preparations. The lion paused, savoring the game it had created. Then, it felt just a hint of doubt, almost a thorn in its paw. Rage against the personal slight it leapt.
Sam pulled the but end of the rot iron fire poker into a wood groove at the base of the couch spear out and held both arms to its shaft. The wood cracked, his arms flamed into pain, and the Terror received its dying breath through a trachea curdled by wraith like screams promulgated by its collapsing lung.
He shoved it deeper and the cat cursed and ripped away from his hold the spike. It dragged itself to the left and fell into the naked wall. It pulled itself up and then fell. It died.
Sam shook violently and vomited. The splash hit the floor. Still he could not see. His arms were wet with blood. He was living, but deeply wounded. That, he thought, would make a great metaphor for his life. Sam rolled off the couch to his feet. He thanked God that He wasn’t a metaphor.
Above the hills there was a golden rainbow.
Sam grabbed his leather bag out of the old pick up parked in front of his grandparents still older farm house. He rifled through the durable compartments and pulled out two familiar friends: a worn bible and an equally worn pipe. The screen door tapped time with the universe as Sam ascended the porch to the swing.
Green grass was now fading away to yellow hues. The painted flowers that bordered the stoic building dropped petals, wilted, and weary of the summer sun. And across the open acre of knee high grass type towards the fat oak seven crosses stood at the head of fresh mounds of dark dirt.
That golden ark of color that had emerged through the storm and had held the earth in its dominion faded against the darkening horizon. She held out, with all her utmost to the highest end of the sky. But as with all expressions she dimmed and faltered. Sam held her in his heart, reaching out from deep within, encouraging her to stand against the draw of the earth. She ebbed to but a shade, something of a impression now, and the clouds from which she was born also lost semblance in the growing indigo.
A flash, a green flash, slipped out of the last movement of sun and the land immersed itself in quiet brooding. Sam sat there, drifting above the planks of the porch upon the swing. His pipe lay to his left and his bible to the right, and both were useless in the new night.
2.
The screen door struck the hour. Howl and call of the wild opened up the new government. Wolves in the hills, lions in their lairs, and their cruel comrades carried out severe justice upon whomever and whatever came into the purview of their courts. The once prevalent coyotes and even the cougars were now subjugated to their powerful cousins in this brave new world. Sam carefully slipped into the house, barred the door, and felt his way to the couch.
Grandma would have had his hide if she had seen his boots crossing that carpet. The thought stabbed him, and he finally sobbed out a cry. Her frail body lay in the grave now, not in the bed upstairs where he had found her next to grandpa. Both laying in repose for only him to pay respect. Mutilated by some wild thing, his mind equally so, he did his duty adding them to the impromptu family burial plot he had dug all that day.
The others, were as terribly drawn and quartered by scavengers. One in the barn, two in the spare bedroom, and the remaining in the guest house out back. Windows were broken, paw prints plodded upon her once spotless floors. It was, as he simply thought, horrifying. But through the whole day, he had not worried, he had not welled up with wet eyes; he prayed for mercy and married himself to his work.
Now, he lay there: dirty, tired, the smell of corpse on his hands and clothes, an unclean thing God said in the first books of the bible. Justly so, he thought, having now lived what he had once read, he couldn’t disagree with the Almighty’s proposition.
It had been a full day and as absurd as it was, he could do nothing more than grieve but a moment, for sleep, the resting place for all souls travailing, took him.
3.
There was something there! In the room. Across the living room. Something big. Its breath almost a drone. His consciousness alerted by the Lord in his spirit. He knew the prodding. Not a single movement did he make and yet he knew the beast became instantly aware of his wakefulness. It shuffled its arms upon the carpet and clawed it. Its claws popped against the hard wood floors and ripped at the expensive wool vestige. Then like a 57’ ford its V8 rumble barreled in the great cat’s chest. It purred to life.
“Lord, help me," he pleaded from his heart.
It rose. He heard it stretch its back out, the cracks of vertebrae marked the moments. The surface cried under each foot fall. Closer now. It sensed its prey’s preparations. The lion paused, savoring the game it had created. Then, it felt just a hint of doubt, almost a thorn in its paw. Rage against the personal slight it leapt.
Sam pulled the but end of the rot iron fire poker into a wood groove at the base of the couch spear out and held both arms to its shaft. The wood cracked, his arms flamed into pain, and the Terror received its dying breath through a trachea curdled by wraith like screams promulgated by its collapsing lung.
He shoved it deeper and the cat cursed and ripped away from his hold the spike. It dragged itself to the left and fell into the naked wall. It pulled itself up and then fell. It died.
Sam shook violently and vomited. The splash hit the floor. Still he could not see. His arms were wet with blood. He was living, but deeply wounded. That, he thought, would make a great metaphor for his life. Sam rolled off the couch to his feet. He thanked God that He wasn’t a metaphor.
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