Black Wind
From the Black Sea came the wind that took my brother. It blew 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 shutters over French windows when the tell-tale moaning of breeze in the eves had started. Now he nailed large timbers taken from the floor in the master bedroom. 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 asleep but was awoke from a harsh jerk and even harsher words. Father stood over me with a wicked looking knife. Flames gleamed and danced upon the blade and in his feverish gaze. "Let me send the boy to the Black Wind that the rest may see the morning."
Dead Man’s Bouquet
In the town of Paris, in the western part of Maine lived an impoverished young bachelor who was deeply smitten by a maiden who lived on the edge of Lake Christopher.
One Sunday evening the poor young man started on the five mile walk across town to call upon the 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 dear 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 above him.
Woven into the rawhide pattern was a black widow, 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 will another chapter out of my ongoing saga of Maine fishermen. Minutes and hours slipped away, until it was time to take a break and ease strained and cramped muscles. Heeding a call to 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 bitten by the spider who brings evil to so many.
I fear what pupa may emerge from this chrysalis.
Having My Cake
God knows I love cake. I am by nature a pretty generous man. 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 always have been.
My one downfall, the thing I do not like to share is cake. I have been called stingy, and a miser when it comes to sharing cake. No one gets cake at 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 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 chocolate 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.
Immortalized In Wax
What price would you pay to be immortalized forever?
I awoke screaming in agony. The beautiful dark haired lady I had been sharing my art studio, loft apartment, and intimate moments with said, "look, I made a beautiful wax sculpture of your talented hands. Now I will have a piece of you forever." I slipped into unconsciousness from the searing burning of melting flesh.
A horrible feeling wrenched me awake yet again. The terrible pain in my wrists started just as it had in my hands. The agony moved up my arms, encasing them in a napalm-like grip of sulfurous hell.
"I think I shall work on capturing the intricacies of your face as it captures the greatness of a masterpiece after I finish detailing your strong muscled shoulders."
I really wish if my mug was going to be highlighted forever it did not have such a grimace on it. I groaned, tears coming to my eyes, wondering what part of me was going to be trapped forever next.
What price would you pay to be immortalized forever?
Saltwater Surprise
"Mmmmm saltwater taffy. I can't wait." I picked up the white box from the counter of the break room and headed back to my desk. "I wonder who left these here...Ah well, their loss."
I opened the box and grabbed a pink and brown piece, quickly unwrapping and slipping the candy into my mouth. A red and blue, then green and black piece rapidly followed.
The sugar and confection ran down the back of my throat like pure heaven. Heaven, if you consider heaven fire and a painful constriction.
Pure, liquid wax seemed to burn my mouth and esophagus, choking me. A sticky vomitous mass exploded from my mouth onto my desk calendar in the middle of the stack of candy wrappers as I collapsed onto the floor.
Skin Art
It wasn't like the ink or tattoo needle could be dirty. The shop looked sterile and clean, if a little too clean, when I was eighteen. Now I am in my mid-thirties, and every time I take off my shirt, the skeleton on my breast looks a little bigger and definitely more angry.
This morning, I woke up sore, and looked at my chest. It was scarred, missing something. A deep, bloody coffin shaped gash is ripped open, like looters tore a temple asunder searching for treasure. From my rib cage to my right breast was a gore covered trench.
Now, seconds later, a swinging harvester's blade cleaves the air above my face. Grave dirt peppers down, sticking to my tears of anguish and fear. First the man craved the ink, now the ink craves the man.
That Old Car
The old car sits at the top of Hall Hill in Robin's Field alone and abandoned. It is forgotten for months at a time by man, except when some errant boy or local hunter stumbles upon it with extra bullets or shells and time to simulate death and destruction.
I first discovered it before I knew what a Chevrolet was, before I could contemplate an era known as the 50's. My daddy and I had walked over Tumbledown Mountain one Saturday in my eleventh summer. After four miles of rocks, bushes, and brambles, we came upon a twisted, mostly grown over logging road from an era where tall timber regularly fell to the woodman's ax and chainsaw, on the way to building Maine's paper mill dynasty.
"Daddy, what is that over there behind the bushes and tall grass? Can I go see?"
"That is Crazy John's Fleetline."
"What is a fleetline?"
"It is a big old car, from back when they built them to last."
"Can I go look at it?" I asked, already edging closer, through the bushes and weeds.
"Well, I guess, but he killed himself in it, back in the late 50's."
"Eeewww..." I looked around quickly and fearfully, thankful for the light and daddy's presence. You never know when ghosts and haunts are going to be around. The hairs on my neck stood up, but my curiosity won the battle.
I pushed aside blackberry bushes, and skirted a few poplar trees, to behold the hulking old car. Sun glinted and played along dented chrome and a myriad of broken glass in open window spaces and windshield.
"Don't get too close...could be haunted..."
I laughed a bit, and tried to lean further into the broken front driver's side window, imagining I saw rust colored blood stains on the side of the cracked and torn wide front seat.
"Be careful before you cut yourself."
"Damn! Ouch..."
"What did you just say?"
I cradled my left hand with right. I was already dripping fresh blood on my t-shirt. I had pierced my palm on the jagged rust flecked remnant's of a side mirror mount.
The drops had landed on the dull door paint, causing the oxidation to creep away, and be replaced with a shining black obsidian surface, deep and magnificent.
The wide door creaked open, moaning and protesting, a tomb sealed for hundreds of years, now hungry for the tasty new soul presented to it. Suddenly the interior of the car was all fresh vinyl and soothing big band sounds a soft voice said, "would you like a ride?" Suddenly my hand no longer ached from the cut. I knew that everything about this car was a mystery that begged exploration.
"What the hell are you doing?" My dad's voice was loud, high, and streaked as he grabbed my arm, yanking me away from the car and clear of the creepers and vines that had began to entangle my feet. I closed my eyes, and remember little else from the day, except waking up against cool white sheets.
My left hand, mantled in gauze and bandage burned from the cut, and I could see my daddy, sitting in a bedside chair, reading from the Bible, slowly moving his lips as he sounded out the words.
The old car sits at the top of Hall Hill in Robin's Field alone and abandon. It is forgotten for months at a time by man, except when some errant boy or local hunter stumbles upon it with extra bullets or shells and time to simulate death and destruction. Pray they do not get too curious or too close.
Under The Rug
The wind howled, fresh off Pleasant Bay, in the late evening's gloom. I ducked into my mother’s house, home from a long day spent fishing in the cold North Atlantic.
I looked at the wet snow and mud my rubber boots tracked onto the worn kitchen floorboards. I will sweep that up as soon as I warm my fingers a bit mom."
"Don't worry, my sister said, rolling back the knit rug. Sometimes I sweep dirt under here if I can't find the dustpan." I rolled my eyes. Mom looked at my youngest sibling with wide-eyed terror, fingered her rosary beads and crossed herself.
"I told you to never, never lift the rug," she gasped.
The house was built on an old Micmac burial ground, according to local legend. "Every time new dirt is allowed to sprinkle through these floorboards, another spirit is released from its earthbound prison."
Mom pulled out her worn deck of tarot cards, hoping to make the right arrangement that would save one of us from certain death. The rough hewn walls and floor creaked and moaned around us, seeming to call out for our souls.
The Hanged Man showed, and the spirits licked their lips in anticipation.
A Small Fishing Tale
While fishing this morning, I saw a spotted fawn, some muskrat, a beaver, a mallard duck, and three ducklings among stands of river weeds. In a sheltered hollow where cell phone coverage doesn't reach, I saw the beauty that noise often drives away. I caught no fish, and still I left with a thankful smile.
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