Deer
We saw a spotted fawn today, skipping across the road on its merry little way. He did not see Emily and me, quietly fishing and reading in the shady splendor created by two spring-leafed cottonwood trees. Neither moved nor sighed; doing so would scare her away, upsetting this peaceful gift of nature. Memories of how the Pingree boys from my childhood, who lived in Beggar's Hollow, used to call fawns 'lambs' caused suppressed laughter. My boyhood is long gone, it's true, but I suppose that left alone those deer and Pingrees are still happily breeding like jackrabbits in those bushes.
Black Wind
From the Black Sea came the cold hellish wind that took my brother. It screamed and cried for two days and nights without ceasing. Wakening on the second morning, we found him bloodied and dying in the corner.
Father had fastened the oak shutters over the French windows when the tell-tale moaning of breeze in the eaves started. Now he nailed large timbers taken from the floor in the master bedroom across the windows and entrance door. There was a somber darkness in the Great Hall where I cowered in a corner, casting fearful glances everywhere. The sixteen-candle chandelier could not dissipate shadows.
I huddled in the comfort of Mother's bosom and tried to block out the hungry wind and Father's ominous foresight. "Remember my prediction. Before the dawning, this one will be gone too."
I fell into a restless nightmare scarred sleep but was woken from a harsh jerk and even harsher words. Father stood over me grasping a wicked looking knife. Flames’ reflections gleamed and danced upon the blade and his feverish eyes. "Let me send the boy to the Black Wind so that the rest may see the morning."
Dead Man’s Bouquet
In the early part of the last century, in the town of South Paris, in the western part of Maine lived a poor young man who was deeply in love with a girl who lived on the edge of Lake Christopher.
One Sunday evening the guy started on the five mile walk across town to visit the young lady who he was sure he would love for all eternity. He had no gift nor fresh flowers to present to her as was the custom in those far gone days, so he walked along somber and dejected.
Walking past a cemetery beside the dirt road, the young man spied a bouquet of daisies left near an unattended and newly filled grave. After careful deliberation he sneaked into the graveyard and took the arrangement. Thinking that the dearly departed soul would not begrudge the petty larceny, he proceeded on in the moonlight.
Suddenly he heard a ghostly voice proclaim, "Bring those back, they belong to the dead."
Though he tried to ignore the voice, the bone chilling shrieks continued and echoed behind him. "Bring those back, they belong to the dead. Bring those back, they belong to the dead!"
He hurried the last hundred yards at a rapid pace, only to find the young lady's front door bordered in black, and her swooning in tears of grief at the sight of the flowers. Her father had died and was buried just that morning.
The young man dropped the bouquet and ran into eternal darkness, followed by a mournful voice calling, "They belong to the dead!"
It is a sin to court a young lady with flowers that belong to the dead.
Dream Catcher
I lay my newborn son down in his bassinet and hung the new dream catcher I had carefully crafted above him.
I had woven a black widow spider into the rawhide pattern, to ensnare evil dreams that sought to escape into the night. Call me a non-traditionalist; I believe in adding an extra measure to the Great Spirit's power.
Being a writer by vocation, if not by nature, I headed back to my office to pound my keyboard into submission, or at least, to add another 500 words to my ongoing saga of Maine fishermen and their trials in the North Atlantic. Minutes and hours slipped away, until it was time to take a break and ease strained and cramped muscles. On the way to heed the call of nature, I tiptoed down the hall and peered into little Michael's room.
My first son, a gift from God, was covered in a tightly spun cocoon of gossamer thread, like the sleeping bag that entombs a caterpillar awaiting rebirth.
I fell to my knees, begging to The Holy Father and the Spirit Father to let my baby come forth the strong warrior he deserved to be, not something bastardized by the bite of the spider who can only bring forth evil.
I fear what pupa may emerge from this chrysalis.
Having My Cake
I am by nature a pretty generous man. In fact, I would share my last dime with a beggar on the street. I would give the shirt off my back to a man in need. If you want a handout, come to me. That is the kind of guy I have always been.
However, I do have one downfall in life. I do not like to share cake. I have been called gluttonous, greedy, and even a miser when it comes to sharing a chocolate dessert. No one else gets even a bite on my birthday, and I do not smile and offer children a slice of ice-topped wonder.
God knows, I would do almost anything for more. He also knows I hate cockroaches. There they were, boiling out around the knife blade as I cut the cake. How the hell did they get in there? Why would they invade the one sinful delight I have left?
I had expected a slice of fudge frosted heaven. Up the handle, across my fingers march the nasty vermin. To my arm, across my shoulders and toward my face scurried 10,000 or more. Their legs scrabbled for purchase and tickled the hairs, making my entire body tickle and itch.
My skin crawled as I opened my mouth to scream. They began to rush into the opening.
I was about to have my cake and eat it too.
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