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 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.
Immortalized In Wax
What price would you pay to be immortalized forever?
I awoke screaming in agony. The beautiful dark haired lady I have 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 pain of the flesh of my fingers melting.
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 that if my countenance 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 next going to be trapped eternally.
What price would you pay to be immortalized forever?
Saltwater Surprise
"Mmmmm saltwater taffy. I can't wait." I quickly looked around, then picked up the mostly full
New England Taffy 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 white box and grabbed a pink and brown piece, quickly unwrapping the paper and
slipping the candy into my mouth. A red and blue, green then black piece rapidly followed.
The sugar and confection ran down the back of my throat like pure heaven. Heaven, quickly
turned into hell; fire and a painful constriction in my larynx.
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.
Sometimes the biggest surprises are the worst.
Skin Art
I was sure the inks and tattoo needle could not be dirty or dangerous. The shop looked sterile and clean, maybe a bit too clean, but I was eighteen, and lots of friends my age already had tattoos.
Now I am in my mid-thirties, and every time I take off my shirt, the skeleton etched 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 and gory, missing something. A deep, vile 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 and years as time marches on, until some errant boy or local hunter stumbles upon it, often peppering its steel hull with shot, to simulate death and destruction.
I discovered it long before I knew what a Chevrolet was and before I could contemplate an era known as the 1950's. My daddy and I had walked the trail 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 left over from an era where tall timber regularly fell to the woodman's ax and chainsaw, as they built 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 sunlight and daddy's presence. You never know when ghosts and haunts are going to be around. The hairs on my neck stood up, begging me not to take a step closer, 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 or you will cut yourself."
"Damn! Ouch..."
"What did you just say?"
I cradled my left hand with my right. I was already dripping fresh blood on my t-shirt. I had pierced my palm on the jagged rust flecked remnant 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 begun to entangle my feet. I closed my eyes, and remember little else from the day, except waking, lying on 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 abandoned. It is forgotten for months, except when some errant boy or local hunter stumbles upon it with extra bullets or shells to waste, and time to simulate death and destruction. Pray they do not get too curious or too close.
Under The Rug
The wind howled, across the waters of Pleasant Bay in the late evening's gloom. I ducked into our weather beaten family home, after a long day spent fishing in the cold waters off Cape Split.
I looked at the wet snow and muddy footprints my rubber boots tracked onto the worn kitchen floorboards. “I will sweep that up as soon as I warm my fingers a bit."
"Don't worry,” my sister said, rolling back the threadbarren rug. “Sometimes I sweep the 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 that rug," she gasped.
The house was built on an old Miꞌkmaq 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."
“Oh mom,” I said, rolling my eyes at her silly old superstitions.
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 of a sacrifice.
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.
Sideburns
We called him "Sideburns." Somehow in some long forgotten childhood reasoning that seemed a good moniker for the guy who prowled alleys and back porches rummaging through trash cans and piles of cast away items.
His old rusted shopping cart would squeak and rattle along uneven pavement in early morning and late evenings. An occasional glimpse from afar would induce taunts and dares. "I dare you to throw something at "Old Sideburns. I dare you to push his shopping cart over...I dare..." In Ryedale, Maine in the 1980's, he was our Boo Radley.
Parents would warn us to stay away, and to leave the old man with his dirty unkempt hair alone. You know kids though. We would taunt and terrorize daily, becoming more bold and brazen, as our teen years advanced.
Maybe it was summer break boredom, but our minds were leading us to mischief. "Let's find out where Sideburns lives and..." So went the planning to rob a destitute man of his worldly treasures. It was decided that very evening that we would meet and trail the creaky cart to wherever the vagrant spent most hours shut away from we who were superior in this world.
"I usually see him on Puller Street by Bill's Quick Stop, let's meet there." At ten pm, we gathered at the rendezvous to await Sideburns making his rounds.
"He should be somewhere around here, maybe by the dumpster out back, or by Mary's Pizza… Hey, do you smell smoke?" We looked around, and saw an orange glow lighting the sky from a few blocks over.
"Maybe the school is on fire," said Dave. "Let's go see where it is!" Suddenly a fire truck and police car screamed by the store. "Come on, let’s see what is going on!"
We ran through the warm dusk air, and down the next street, where flames were roaring through the walls and front windows of a two-story house. The fast moving firemen were unrolling hoses and connecting to a hydrant on the corner. A cluster of people milled about, talking. Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland, the home owners were visibly distraught, and arguing with Police Chief Sanderson and another officer, who were trying to keep them from running back inside the inferno. "My Maggie is in there." "The firemen will get her out." "What if they can't. I don't want to lose my baby!"
Suddenly the front door opened, letting out a ball of fire and a disheveled figure. Through the smoke and flames stumbled a charred ball of rags. "My baby!" The dirty, disheveled man held a crying baby in his protective arms. Mrs. Sutherland snatched the offered bundle, just as the man fell onto the sidewalk.
The now sizable crowd gasped in awe and then drew back as EMT's ran to the baby and stranger who had collapsed. With screaming sirens and flashing lights, the ambulance transported the victims to the hospital. Slowly the fire was beaten down and finally extinguished, and we scattered to our homes.
When I awoke the next morning, just past 10:00, my mind slowly recounted the previous evening's events. I thought I would wander by the Sutherland's house to see what the burnt structure looked like in the daylight, after a little breakfast. I walked into the kitchen for a bite to eat. My parents had long since left for work. The morning newspaper was still on the breakfast table next to my dad's dirty coffee cup.
The headline caught my eye; "Vagrant Dies Hero! Nicholas “Sideburns” Bennett
Saves Baby."
"Bennett, a decorated Vietnam Veteran, and sometimes patient at the Augusta V.A. Hospital seemingly came out of nowhere carrying the sixteen-month-old baby in his arms through the flames..."
We still refer to the homeless man as "Sideburns." But somehow, on one hot summer evening, our childhood contempt turned to awe and wonderment.
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