Moleman

This is the story of Moleman as it was related to me around a campfire on a school camping trip in the Okanagan. He is said to live in holes and caves in the forests around Lake Okanagan, though there have been incidents as far away as the Sushwap. He is often seen picking sage and it is said that he does not take souls while doing so. If you see Moleman while he not picking sage you usually do not return home to tell the tale.

Enjoy,

  
He sat in the pines waiting for the leaves to change. 
There was a park bench there, made from an old tree stump. He sat and touched his fingers together, aimlessly whittling away at his soul. A nearly empty pouch sat beside him on the far side of the old tree. A grey strap of wool held the pouch to his arm. He was hoping to come across a trader or an adventurer at these crossroads, but he found nothing.
  
He was miles from anyone, he felt sure of that. He made a sign of a cross on his chest aimlessly attempting a prayer for food. He was tired, as he had walked twenty miles that day. His water had run out and his last bit of meat was at the tips of his fingers. He pulled his fingers to hip lips and bit the jerk beef. He smiled as he swallowed and his eyes drifted towards the forest. A dragonfly flew past him creating a trail through the air. He watched in fascination.
  
The man sat alone on the bench watching the leaves begin to fall for the north’s hibernation one more time. He tapped the wood and whistled for a few minutes. He felt content in the life he had made for himself. The man looked to the left and in his eye a black dot traced the empty woods. He tried to follow the hallucination and fell towards his knees. After pausing for a moment he stood up, uneasily.
  
He heard a crack in the woods that was quickly followed by birds chirping. He took two steps towards it before moving towards his pouch. When the woods cracked again the man decided it was only a deer and sat once again. He took the other bite of his meat and watched the ground. He saw nothing and pressed his boot against some long grass. He followed an insect across the brown earth and swallowed.
  
The man imagined a mailbox across the meadow from him. He imagined children playing and an old English white cottage house, on a dirt road. “Beautiful woods for a family,” he said to the insect, “You must be very happy.” He reached his hand towards the earth and picked up a twig. He rapped it against the bench and began to whistle once again.
  
When he was brought back to the forest there was a man standing in front of him. The man wore a long black robe. He had a staff in his right hand that showed signs of age and wisdom. His face could not be seen but when he spoke the first man shivered. “In the Willows is my name,” he muttered. “You haven’t seen me here.”
  
The man leapt from his seat. The woods were empty again. He spun on his heels before settling looking at the bench. The rings were prominent in the stump. This was an old tree. He settled his nerves on the faded green surroundings just as a large brown leaf fell on the bench. He focused his energy on the stem. The leaf turn brown rather quickly and the traveller blinked so he could look at it again. His eyes squeezed shut and his nose and eyebrows came together under the pressure of the spasm. He tried to calm his nerves, fighting to force his eyes open. When he could he searched inside his pouch for the cure.
  
He proceeded to pull a leaf of mint from his bag and placed the plant on his lips. His feet were sore, but he decided it best to continue to walk. He headed east on the flat road. He passed the meadow quickly and hoped to fetch some water. He knew there was a stream a half a mile down the road. If he could make it there he could rest for the night.
  
He followed a black dot in his eye towards the road. He imagined little workers pulling his legs forward. He began to recite a poem he liked, quoting from various parts and trying to remember their order. “Any little game to pass the time,” he sung to himself. The black dot became smaller and he imagined a bird flying past, it was too large to be native to this area but the cry was that of an eagle. He imagined it breathed fire and it instantly became a tapestry wrapped around him. He was comfortable and began to drift into a dream state. The large eagle wrapped its silken ties around him and he followed the steps towards the signpost.
  
He reached the signpost that marked his way towards the stream. The man began to speak loudly and clearly, “It is not a time for panic, sir. You are on a marked path. The road in near the water, we will be fine.” He followed the path downhill towards the water. He began to whistle again, rounding the final curve to fresh water. He raised his head to see two small girls wearing white dresses.
  
The woods danced and the black dot engulfed the two girls before charging towards the man and knocking him towards the bushes behind him. The man jerked to his left and fell into the dirt. He rolled to his back and sat watching the two girls run towards him in painfully slow motion. He was scared. The girl’s pigtails stood on end and their heads began to morph into a red two-headed demon.
  
The creature became feral, growing each head a mane and lengthing its neck. The body had four red legs capped with black hooves. It growled, eyes twinkling and showed a crooked smile of razor sharp teeth. It was as large as a black bear but wearing ancient Japanese Samurai armor. Its faces smiled and winked their pairs of eyes. The creature and the man sat on the ground in a strangely peaceful moment and the creatures heads rested on the dirt. Suddenly, a line of fire  wrapped around the beast and burnt the man’s leg.
  
The man jumped to his feet and made the sign of the cross with his fingers. He backed away from the creature reciting prayers. He moved backwards up to the road and stopped. The woods were empty once again. The man wiped his brow and shuffled his feet in the dust. He searched the road and forest for the wizard he must have encountered. He found nothing.
  
The man decided to continue walking and find the nearest town, so he could find a bed to sleep in. “A safe room would be lovely tonight,” he said to himself. “If only you could make it to the road,” a voice replied. The man walked faster through the woods. A dark cloud began to form around him and he was tripped by a piece of string tied across the path. He felt the string with his finger in disbelief.
  
He sat on the ground and the man in the black robe stepped in front of him. He placed his staff on the mans chest and spoke, “In the Willows is my name. You haven’t seen me here.” The man shivered and began to cry, “What do you want?” In the Willows kept his staff against the man before stating coldly, “None shall pass.”
  
The man was alone once again. He stood and ran to the east, trying to reach the town as fast as he could. He turned his head to see behind him and In the Willows was standing in the path. His staff was throbbing with light. The earth began to shake and a vine was sent spiraling out towards the screaming man. The vine wrapped around his ankles and he fell to the ground. He was being pulled towards the black robed man. He was screaming and flailing his arms.
  
The man reached the end of In the Willows’ staff and was struck in the ankle as the vine vanished in front of his eyes. The man was struck in the temple and curled into the fetal position. The black robed man spoke. His face was finally visible, grey haired with a long stringy beard. His eyes were grey and he smiled, “None shall pass.”
In the Willows proceeding to reach behind himself, placing his hands on a large potato sack. Starting at his paralyzed ankles In the Willows slowly pulled the traveler into his bag. The man was screaming and crying. He swung his arms before In the Willows put his finger on his forehead, paralyzing him. The man screamed as the wizard closed and tied his bag. Seconds later, the woods were empty once again.
     

Jugular
By Jon Pelletier

A man pulled his car up to the valet. He opened the door and walked towards the restaurant. Throwing his keys at the young man in a red vest, the richer of the two told him, “Take care of her, she’s all I have.” The valet gave him a small piece of paper to hold until his dinner was over. The young man stepped into the car and moved it towards the street before turning into the large parking lot in front of the building. He pulled the car into a stall and shut it off. He stood and closed the door with a thud.

The night was cold. There was a small dusting of snow on the ground, covering the ice that had accumulated over the thaw and then freezing of the air. The young man stood looking above the car for a minute, looking over the bleak cityscape. Buildings drove out from the ground and towered forty floors above him. He pulled his warm shirt up around his neck, touching the cut he had from shaving that morning. The valet cringed and moved quickly back towards the door.

“Henry,” the valet’s boss said. He stepped towards the young valet before he had reached the edge of the grey sidewalk. “Yes, sir?” Henry replied. “You are done,” the boss said, “We have too many of you tonight.” Henry looked towards the ground and raised his hand towards his throat. “What time is it?” he asked. The boss pulled his shirtsleeve up and checked a silver and round watch, “Nearly seven.” The boss asked for any information that may help the rest of them, Henry knew none. He walked inside the building and took off his vest. He placed his vest in a locker and used a key to lock the door.

Henry did not have a car for himself. There was a time when he did, but since he had moved to the city it seemed the more convenient way to travel was the system of trains. He began to walk towards the train station, which was five blocks north of him. He had a heavy, dark red jacket wrapped around his body. His head was covered with an old wool cap his sister had bought him in Peru. It was white and grey. It had ear covers that fell down to his neck and a strand falling off either one that could be tied together in case of an emergency. Other people's generic witty comments seemed to follow. People would tell him he looked silly, he would simply reply that he was warm.

The sky was dark, but the streets were lit on either side. He reached the end of the parking lot and followed the road to a crossing. He reached the corner and waited for the light to change. There was too much traffic for an evening so cold. The light seemed to take twenty minutes, though he knew it was only a matter of seconds. When the chime began he rubbed his ear, moving slowly across the intersection. Trudging meaninglessly through the thin snow, Henry entered the deep canyon that was the downtown of his city. He moved slowly into an empty city block passing two closed shops with their lights turned dim and cages masking the windows and doors. The shops were old relics of a part of the city that had seen better days. One sold fur coats and was marked as going out of business. The other was an organic food market with funny sheep painted on the window. He stepped faster in the cold to keep himself warm.

Henry passed doorways and landings. One held a man covered in newspaper that was trying to sleep. Another had the door propped open with a brick and a cloud of steam was escaping into the street. Henry stopped for a moment and stood watching the fog rise from the heated building. He found it enchanting. It was a moment when he found beauty in this cold city he now called his home. He enjoyed seeing things like this. He always tried to find nice images in depressing settings. He was in no hurry so he stood until two men came barreling down the stairs.

The men were laughing and holding each other by the shoulders. They seemed drunk. One tripped on the final stair and was caught by the other man. They both laughed loudly and moved the brick out from the landing, closing the door before they noticed Henry watching them. The man who fell looked at Henry coldly. He asked him quickly, “What are you looking at?” Henry told them he was just enjoying the sight of the steam rising from the open doorway. The second man stepped towards him and asked, “You know what’s up these stairs, kid?” Henry replied that he did not. The first man said, “You should find out yourself. They shut us down.” The other man told Henry, “They kicked us out, is all. We ran out of money.”

Henry asked the man to tell him what was up there. The man pulled a knife out of his pocket. He laughed and choked on his spit. When he began to breathe again he told Henry he should go see for himself. “You’ll be welcome there,” the man said, still out of breath. Henry replied he would not just go crash a party uninvited. “They didn’t invite us, did they? Chuck? Did you get invited to this?” The other man smiled, “I just paid them. But kid, maybe you don’t want to start getting in this way.”

Henry stammered. He knew he had to keep walking. The two men laughed, calling him names. The man with the knife pushed him as he walked away. Henry stumbled but continued to move quickly away from them. Moving up the street Henry checked over his shoulder twice to make sure they did not follow.

Henry was in no hurry to get home. He usually didn’t make it back until well after ten and checking his watch he found it was still only quarter after seven. He reached the next corner and stopped to wait for the light. He checked behind him and the two men were pounding on the door they had closed and buzzing the upstairs room they had left. They were screaming into the box that they needed to come back in. Henry looked towards the ground and continued to the corner.

The light changed and Henry began to step onto the street. A car flew through the red light and Henry jumped back to the sidewalk. It skidded to a halt about halfway down the block and began to race backwards towards him. The car stopped in front of Henry as he stood in disbelief, watching. The driver rolled down his window. “Hey, Buddy,” the driver slurred, “I just barely missed you!” Henry said it was no problem, as he was on the other side of the street. “Well then I held you up, didn’t I. Hop in, where you going?”

Henry told him he was just going another few blocks to the train and could walk himself. The driver refused his answer and said he would take him where he needed to go. Henry refused and the driver laughed and pulled a handgun out of his glove box. Pointing the end towards Henry, the driver muttered something under his breath and motioned the gun up and down. He spoke louder, "I don't want to do this, but you've made them slit their wrists." Henry was afraid. The man tapped the car door and repeated himself, “Hop in, we’ll take you to where you are going, kid.” Henry began to run back towards the two men still trying to get into the building.

He made it passed three doorways and two gunshots rang out. One nearly hit him. He noticed a spark on the lamppost to his left. The other seemed to vanish in thin air. A wave of panic took over his mind. He fell to the ground and landed face first in the snow. The snow began to be painted red, streaming around his head from his neck. He tried to stand and found he could not move. The car pulled up beside him and the man got out and stood over him.

He felt as if he were being cut to pieces. He was paralyzed, but could feel his body separating. Quickly the feeling changed one that he was in the process of being sewn back together by what seemed to be a waiting ghost. The backs of his knees were set back into place and he opened his eyes and moved them from the ground. He tried to stand but his arms could not hold his weight. He felt the painless surgery all through his body. He was being cut and sewn back together, but felt content. He was lifted by two men and was in the front seat of the car that shot at him when he could move his legs again.

He looked at the driver. The man had a pale face, with a hood around his head. He wore white and had both hands on the steering wheel of the car. The gun was on the dashboard and the driver’s knuckles held the wheel tightly. Henry was too terrified to speak. The driver looked at him and said cheerfully, “I’ll take you to that train.” Henry began to shake. The car pulled down the street and turned right at the first corner. He headed out to an overpass towards a freeway. Henry tried to tell the pale man he was headed the wrong way but the words would not come. He could do little but hold his neck. The blood was still rushing from the wound. A man popped his head from the back seat.

“Hello,” the man said. You’ve been scheduled to take a wee bit of a detour, Henry.” He handed Henry a cloth. He was wearing a pinstriped black and grey suit. He told Henry everything was fine, “We’re here to calm your nerves.” He held a clipboard and a pen and began to write frantically on a once empty piece of paper. Henry held the cloth to his neck. It quickly became red, but quickly stopped the bleeding. Henry was in no pain, but still was unable to talk. Henry held the cloth tight to his neck and looked out the windows.

The car swerved and pulled into the freeway and sped down the road. Henry was looking through the windows, wishing he could tell these men they were headed in the wrong direction. The man in the backseat began to tell the driver something in a strange language, it sounded like something from Eastern Europe. The driver laughed and sped forward. The man in the backseat told Henry, “We’ll take care of you. Don’t worry, please just rest your head. We are nearly at our final destination.” The car pulled off the freeway at an exit Henry did not recognize. The driver slowed the car and headed down the street towards a residential area. This part of the city was not familiar to Henry. The driver took the main road and eventually turned left onto an access road into a heavily secured lot filled with warehouses.

The men pulled the vehicle through a gate that opened for them. The chain link fence pulled to the side as they waited. They began to speak in the strange language again. The driver seemed concerned with what was being said. He replied sharply to the man in the back. The man wrote something on his clipboard and said something calmly. The driver replied using one word, perhaps he said “Yes.” The gate finished shaking open with a creak and the car moved inside the compound. They pulled towards a warehouse with a large number two painted on the side in black. The warehouse was beige and had few windows. There was an open overhead garage door directly in front of them. The car moved inside the building and the white overhead door was shut. They stopped in front of an office.

The driver got out of the car. He walked around to the other side and let Henry out. The man in the back seat followed Henry through the front door. The two men led Henry inside and were welcomed by a large woman sitting behind a desk. The office was filled with stacks of paper and cardboard boxes. The woman asked Henry his name, date of birth and last memory. Henry explained that he was unsure why he was here. He noted to the woman that those were the first words he could speak since the street. He claimed he was very confused at the recent turn of events. The woman smiled at him and said, “Sir, you’ll be comfortable forever.”

She asked him to fill out a form. It was quick and painless, asking simply his name, birthday and a short description of what had led him to the warehouse. He handed it back to her. She directed him into the next room. He found his way to the door and looked inside. Enclosed in the warehouse was an entire city. He entered a street much like those in the pictures he had seen of Edinburgh, Scotland. The buildings were massive stone skyscrapers, molding to the hills of the road. Their peaks were all at nearly the same level. The sun was shining and the streets were filled with happy people. The streets were built on hills with gargoyles marking the great stone buildings. Green leaved trees lined the blocks and vines climbed some of the facades. The streets were paved but there were few vehicles on them. He moved with the two men from the car towards the first intersection. The driver of the car asked him, “How about a cup of coffee, I know a great shop.” Henry looked at the man. “Sure,” he said.

They strolled passed people who were pacing around the city listening to the variety of acoustic bands of the street. The people passed by the various trees and statues in no particular rush to be anywhere. The sky was sunny except for one cloud that marked the direct center of the sky about the three men. Henry then noticed his neck was no longer bleeding. He could not find the cloth and decided to thank the man from the back seat for his help. They walked on the a sidewalk before reaching a narrow alley of descending stairs. Moss and vines climbed the walls, which were lined with cut out windows. Many of the windows had small flower gardens hanging off the side. It was a beautiful place on a wonderfully sunny day. Henry could not help but smile. They turned a corner and entered a square with a traffic roundabout and a large fountain. There was an old man playing the fiddle near the fountain. He had a long white beard and was wearing a dull brown robe. There were three buildings surrounding the large white fountain. The signs stated the buildings held various services and were frequented by stars. The three men continued to an area where the roads were much flatter. There was one large hill that led up to a castle at the end of the street. This was the direction they walked, until they found the building that was their destination.

They walked through a landing and reached an open door to a well-kept lobby. A sign on a wall pointed at a door with a curved top, which was placed near the back of the room. The wall was grey, with large bricks. It was straight and had no windows. The door looked like one found on a ship. It was dark brown and had a circular window with a cross in the middle. Henry opened the door with a push. There were stairs headed down to the shop. He took them and found himself in a deep maroon room. The shape was not traditionally rectangular, with different booths and round tables jutting out in various directions. The driver, the man in the back seat and Henry sat at a booth in the corner. The coffee shop was unusually empty.

They sat drinking coffee dispensed from two brass taps near a counter at the front. The counter had a small bald man behind it, sitting on a chair. Henry made it his honest intent to pay, but he found he had no money. The man told him to take his coffee. Henry questioned this before getting shooed away. The driver, the man in the suit and Henry sat speaking idle conversation for about an hour. When Henry decided to leave the shop they walked through a different door, which lead directly to the street. Henry realized he might never have to park cars for twelve dollars an hour again. He mentioned this to the driver, who replied, “Not unless you want to.” The sky was blue and sun shone down on Henry’s tired body. The car they had arrived in was now parked just uphill from the door they had just exited. The driver and the man in the suit pulled a fine bottle of red wine out of a paper bag. The man in the suit held the neck and twisted a corkscrew into the top. He pulled away and it opened with a pop.

They passed the wine between them. The driver only took one pull, explaining he had much more work yet to do. Henry thanked the man in the suit for his wine, sipping and feeling he had a much clearer head than he had in a long time. The driver sat at a bench as Henry and the other man drank the wine. They laughed and told each other jokes, stories and other anecdotes. This passed the time until Henry noticed the sun was beginning to fall behind a building at the top of the hill. The shade comforted them, as the sun had before. When they had drank nearly half the wine, the driver stood and asked Henry if he wanted to see his new home. It would be everything he had ever wanted it to be. The two of them walked to the waiting automobile. The man in the suit wished to stay in the city.

I was one of the millions that enjoyed Micheal Jackson's music. My life was influenced by him. He was the reason I owned a leather jacket as a child. As an artist I was like many who were influenced by him. Not only did we find influence in the tones and lyrics of his songs, while he was young some were influenced to become more fluent on their instrument as to not be outshone by a child. This is a common societal influence of a prodigy and speaks to human nature. A child like that in the media is of amazing influence.
The first album I ever enjoyed was "Bad," released in 1987. His music continued to influence my life in grand ways. When I first began to listen to heavier distorted music it was a polar shift in my mind, an anti-Micheal Jackson. In the end I thank him for introducing me to Nirvana. While a child I enjoyed the pop hooks and bass lines that were on the hits like Billy Jean or Smooth Criminal. It was not until I had matured enough to enjoy pop music that I began to enjoy the same things in these songs.
The world has lost an eccentric icon. He was a strange man who never left the public eye. It is my belief that Micheal Jackson was simply lost in a world created by his misplaced childhood. He was a superstar five year old so his mind did not develop like most of ours. His public image in his youth was perhaps created by someone who was not himself. This could have lead to a psychological disorder in which the afflicted turns to scarring their face and changing themselves physically to change their perception of who they are. This could be some self-mutilation syndrome but of course, I am not a doctor.
We have many jokes about Micheal Jackson, but the fact remains that he was a prodigy songwriter and entertainer. He was a popular musician for the simple fact that people enjoyed to listen to him. His recordings will be held in high regard for following generations to appreciate and dance to. I suppose this is the great thing about the computer, we have all listened to our favorite Micheal Jackson songs even though he is no longer with us. We will be able to appreciate an eccentric genius long after the artist has passed. These works will live on, but not only in interpretations by artists that follow. We will hear Micheal's work any time we wish and time will surely be kind to our friend.

The Little Girl’s Symphony

In the essence of sanity, security and hope I feel I should record things that are simply people working for the higher power. I am a religious person with some obscure views and my vantage point does not necessarily fall in to any particular religious order. When I work for the higher power and deal with many things including ghosts, crystals, gargoyles, curses and the like. I think every man and woman should in the end work for the spirit. It helps us be the still around sort of people that become more and more blessed for the actions they have taken in their past. It is common knowledge that the actions of yesterday will effect the actions of today. Whether the actions are in ill will or of the most righteous concern they will bring blessings or curses to the person who has acted them out. With this in mind, I have a quick story.

Hector Berlioz is doing this on purpose. This is a simple refrain that was used by a man to help a young child perform a symphony that she wrote using the power of her young imagination and the lack of separation between her dreams and waking life. A young child who did not realize the separation of her waking life and her dreams wrote this symphony. When she ran towards Hector Berlioz and gave him a loving hug she threw the papers of her mind towards him. These papers were not tangible but had been written on in a non-traditional composing language. It was a large stack of thoughts that were planned out for a while and she asked Hector to help her perform this symphony to the world. With a quick meditation he was able to piece together the different pages and psychically call on other friends to join in the young girls symphony.

Hector is an old sorcerer who is quite simply still around in situations. The young girl signed the psychic documents as a person that Hector knew in the past. In the way the young girl, henceforth referred to as “Spooky,” gave the psychic documents to him without noticing a separation between the two parts of ones mind, Hector was brought to a quick and tidy epiphany in his own life. The thought that one should not have any separation between his psychic world and the physical third dimension was a lesson that could only be learned from a small child. After this quick meditation and the clarity that was thrust upon Hector by the unknowing and unconfused young girl she entered the stage that was set up inside the minds of the six musicians she called to perform this piece.

Spooky is four years old. She has been brought up in a show business sort of family and has many adult friends that are still simply around and still in show business. These people have shared belief systems that include various incarnations before the current and most recent one. The script was rather shocking by nature and included instruments that were not exactly real. We began to play according to her wishes during deep meditative states. The stage was hardwood, much like the living room she stomps around in during her every day life. She asked her three year old brother to work the lights but was angered when he did not do them right. She then asked Hector to do this as well as play the notes she had assigned to him. Spooky played something like a sitar throughout the performance that was shown to anyone who wanted to join us in the dream that night. Hector Berlioz did this on purpose.

The six other musicians were old friends, but not all friends at this moment. A few of them knew her and played music together in person but two of the members of this psychic jam-band were not friends of either Spooky or her friend Hector. The music was jazzy and she let the players improvise to her songs. She was persistent in telling the adults that she was the one who was in charge. The topic of the symphony was the last requests of the people who are no longer still around in this particular situation.

The severity of their words should not be mentioned here, as this is a recording of these events and not about what still around yet tortured sorts want to do with a young child. She simply transposed the psychic letter from these men in to musical notation. The notation was not standard notation that one would read from a book in the waking life, but was ideas somehow transposed on to imaginary paper by a young girl. The adult musicians took a while to understand some of the complexities of her writing.

Again, Hector Berlioz is doing this on purpose. The music was played to anyone who wanted to come to a psychic show and it was clarified that a four-year-old girl wrote it on a number of occasions. We were allowed to jam freely a few minutes into the third song. This was fun and she began to play along with the rest of us. When she decided it was time Spooky, much like a professional, began to play the original song again. After the return to the original riff she had lyrics that she wrote about her brother. They included that he was her best friend and that sometimes her dad would be “a meany.” At this point, Hector Berlioz began to defend her father, as they had been close friends for many years. Spooky was upset, because this was not in that script and nearly stormed out of the psychic show.

The musicians played along and reverted to her lyrics and sang it in chorus. This seemed to appease young Spooky, although she began to pick her nose and such. This was repeated a number of times, by Hector’s imaginary DJ booth. “Spooky picks her nose and laughs up at our house!” The recording was turned into a fun jam and Spooky began to dance.

Hector’s instrument was rather quickly taken away and given to her friend, who she plugged into. This member of the band was now playing both the bass and the guitar. Hector took a second microphone that was raised out of the floor of the stage and began to once again explain to the audience that we have a four year old composer playing in ones brain. After getting to audience to clap along with the beat of the psychic symphony Spooky exclaimed that these people must dance. Hector was then given his psychic bass back and was asked to play a spinning trance riff. This was written as a “Pew Pew Pew” part of the work.

They spun the lights and the stage between them and played this music for about ten minutes. There were more words written by young Spooky that showed that she understood what she was doing when she asked these long time friends to join her. We played in the “Pew Pew Pew” song for quite a while. This was the first time Hector noticed an audience reaction.

“You are picking on the wrong Jewish couple,” another song began. Hector was unsure if she knew what this meant. The song was rather funky and Spooky danced away the best she could. The show continued and the lights were spinning as was requested in the written orders by this four-year-old girl. Her father was then summoned from his dream to play drums for this part of the show. The show was then on for about an hour and they played and danced through the night.

Nearing the end of the show, Spooky introduced the players as people they were no longer. This nearly brought a tear to the eyes of the musicians. The young girl once again had written, “Hector Berlioz is doing this on purpose.” She then gave the players more written music to play that came with the reaction, “Wow, that was unplanned.” The show continued and they once again played in the trance sort of “Pew Pew Pew” way that was requested by the young girl. The players played the rest of her symphony and the show came to an abrupt ending. She asked Hector to play some of his songs to continue to put on this show. They continued to perform these songs for about another half hour before we explained to young Spooky that we must begin to wean ourselves away from the show. The old friend from England explained to young Spooky that our time was up and we must let other people play. The four-year-old girl did not like this. We put down our imaginary instruments and asked dear Spooky to take her bow. Hector pulled the microphone towards him and told those listening that “Miss La La is picking her nose and laughing at farts over at our house.” She then grabbed the microphone and stated bluntly, “And we did this on purpose!” This gave the others on stage a good laugh.

Spooky did not want to come off the psychic stage. The other musicians called the young girl to the psychic backstage and began to wean her away from the show. They told her to take one more bow and to leave on that high note. Later she pulled the players back on to her psychic stage to perform once again. To the adult musicians in meditation this became a “Three Day Miss Spooky Young Enough To Be Picking Her Nose On Stage Festival.” The elders laughed and commented on how they should move her from psychic show business into actual show business.

Spooky responded with the note, “This is actual show business."

It is strange that sometimes one needs the clarity of a young child to break through internal conflict that is confusing to an adult. The simply revelation that one “just does it” is something that we all need in our life. A confusion that is found in overactive adult insecurities can often be cut simply by the thoughts of a young child. It was like this to Hector Berlioz. He was torn between the psychic life and the physical world, between his dreams and his reality. Hector was taught something very simply by this young girl. There is no separation between the psychic parts of ones mind and the world that is placed in front of us. Our hands our attached to us in our dreams and in our waking life. In a way, they are the only parts of our body we can see. Hector Berlioz was doing this on purpose, though. It was a thought out, purposeful action the whole time.

Even if one comes screaming out of the sky to be the actual freemason in question, it is an on purpose action. This was what the young girl who wrote a symphony taught him.

Epilogue

In a more recent visit to Spooky's residence, I was playing music with her father and a flutist when Spooky was given a maraca to jam along with us. She proceeded to dance around until she began to hit the fireplace with the shaker to make noise. When the instrument was taken from our four-year-old friend she began to scream and ran to her room. Later, while I interviewed the crying young girl I explained that she needed to be a little bit older to play music. She responded with the fact that she was a big kid now. I told her that when her hands were a little bigger she would know how, I was sure. She screamed that she already knew how to play music, that she did not have to learn it and explained the noise that she wanted to make by smashing the maraca into the fireplace. I explained that that was more like a noise that a stringed instrument would make. She then asked to play my violin.

A Simple Ghost Story

I told the man in the hotel room, “Save your children from what we want to do with them. The only separation we see is that between you and yours.” He shrugged and asked me to reiterate. While I drank the bitter dark coffee and re-established my thought and tried to represent my phrase in a manner he would understand. I asked him, “Have you ever fought your eventual fate?” He took a minute and told me it seemed he was doing that every day. I sipped my coffee.

We sat in silence for a moment. The man asked me to follow him outside. He requested a single cigarette. I found I should comply. He told me he was an old trucker that was a ghost trapped in a highway side hotel room he would frequent on speed binges through the small town I was caught in. My trapping was a simple overnight stop, my car had broken down and some others had sent me to this room. His trapping seemed to go quite a ways into the past.

The first conversation between us was about how we were going to get super high that night. “It would be awesome,” he said, “and we can even find prostitutes.” This was on the condition that I had the money. He usually just watched, but could tell me of a place just around the corner near the railway tracks. I mentioned that I was not in the hotel room to do drugs and party for the night. He seemed a little taken aback. He tried to influence me to do much harm to my mind and body. I decided his influence could do me no harm. I had just happened to find my way to his home. I then told the ghost, “I might be just who you asked for.” The invisible man seemed frightened and cried out to be saved, though he was very afraid.

We talked for a while. He was lying about everything with an assumption that I was simply curious. When he told me, “I been here fifty years because of my mother,” I replied that it was not just a single body that had led the man to this fate. He had drunk to stop his thoughts for far too long and eventually he became harmful to others. His consciousness had caused so much harm throughout his existence that it was now in a cycle of destruction. He claimed he was trying to press needles into arms that he couldn’t find. I don't think he meant to mention this to me but this is a common trait of ghosts based around the self-destructive world of substance abuse.

His incarnations had simply never learned that he would one day be harmed for hurting himself and others. He had been told many times that drinking to forget was only creating an eventual spinning and trapped ghost that may be found in a hotel room on the side of a highway. He asked me for drugs. I told him we have to find his last requests. He took the paper and told me he was not literate and that writing was for “sissies.” I told him I would fill out the applicable paperwork.

He began to read things he would like me to do for him. I told his that I would not play his requests as he wished. I picked up my fiddle and played for about 20 minutes for him. He claimed the fiddle hurt his mind and grabbed the bow from my hand twice. I put the fiddle in the case. I asked him what he would like to eat. He simply asked for a burger from the place across the street. This request was complied with, as I was hungry. He asked for alcohol to drink with it. Later, he also requested potato chips. This request was denied, simply on moral grounds against this strange spirit.

When we found ourselves back in the hotel room the ghost asked for the alcohol again. His request was again denied. He asked me to find him drugs. He wanted me to join in the partaking of crystal methamphetamine. I refused. I pulled a pipe out and took some hash from a bag. He asked me, “Is that drugs?” I told him I suppose many in the world consider hash a drug. He asked me for some. I complied.

Our conversation continued until he pulled a knife out of his pocket and pressed it against my neck to scare me. I told him in turn that he couldn’t hurt me. He told me that he didn’t know me so he would have no trouble hurting me. I asked him to try and he quickly pulled away. He swung the knife at me quickly and stabbed me directly in the eye. The knife was pulled away and he stabbed my twice more in the head. I allowed him to see the damage of his actions and he tried to smoke more hash. I moved to the table and allowed him to. I then showed him that he was unable to harm me.

This scared the ghost. He asked who I was. I told him, “You’re a ghost, pal.” He laughed and told me to get out of his friends room. His buddy would be back soon and would not be happy with some loser in his room. I told him I had paid sixty-five dollars for the room. He told me I had to sleep on the floor. I told him “There is no way I am sleeping of the floor, man, I’ve slept on the floor for the last three nights.” He cursed at me and I began to become intrigued.

I had noticed that he was influencing drug use and mayhem in the room he lived. He was dancing like a gangster (for lack of a better expression) and telling me how great this night would be with all our crack-cocaine, crystal methamphetamine and grass. He also claimed to have other drugs for me to use. He was not happy when I explained I was sent, basically to save or capture his soul. He asked me for credentials, beginning with “So, are you famous?” I replied, “I suppose, but I’m cooler than a fame will ever bring me.” He asked to smoke hash. I reminded him that he had tried to kill me to steal my stuff and that he should be honest with me. I also reminded him that there are limited numbers of last requests, so he should choose them wisely. He once again asked for drugs. I called Azrael to deliver whatever drugs the ghost needed to get him through. I asked him if he would like another cigarette. He said he had not had one in fifty years. By this point I was not sure if he had been trapped that long.

Once the drugs arrived he became agitated and violent. I asked him for the God's truth, claiming I already knew it. When I reached for a book he claimed that he did not want to read the contract, and that was it. "I kind of knew this was coming," he claimed. He had been trapped for a long time in his world, causing all sorts of harm and making friends who would join him in the hotel room and do drugs all night with him. I asked what these friends looked like. He told me they were his friends from the distant past. I explained they were probably not his friends. They were simply stopping for the night, in the dirty hotel room and doing drugs. They may have possibly never known the ghost was present. This angered him, then I noticed he was crying.

I them gave him arms and a simple half cut body. He saw his body and realized he had been a ghost. I told him that I was here to help him. He asked once again if I were famous. I told him, “I suppose I am.” I asked again for an honest answer and then said, “I already know the answers about you, sir. I have looked into them, pretend.” He laughed rather arrogantly and put his knife to my throat. “You know, I can kill you. I can kill you right here, right now and hide your body, nobody will find you.” With this remark I reminded him that he had tried that. He tried once again swinging his fist at me before slashing with the knife.

I took the knife from him and sat down. I pushed a contract towards him and he smiled. “I knew we were getting to this,” he said. He signed the contract quickly. I again told him I was simply playing last requests. He smiled and asked for another cigarette. I told the ghost that these were nearing the end of his requests. I asked him what kind of transportation he would enjoy to pass into the next world. He requested his friend’s semi-truck.

I told him that my employees were picked to wait for ghosts simply because they did not like to wait. I was very clear about this.

I found a crystal in my bag and pulled a few gargoyles out of it to find the demons trapping this mans body. They pulled the soul into the crystal and danced around making jokes. The man sat wrapped in my overcoat, thanking me for capturing demons inside him. It was then that I explained I had simply taken his ghost. The demons inside him were himself, and of his making. I told him what would come next. He would have to follow me to the highway to meet my friends, coachmen who do not like to wait. The air became cold and I asked him to leave my jacket. I pulled him, using the crystal and took away what he thought was his body.

We moved down stairs and outside the hotel room. He asked for his last cigarette and I refused. I am running out, I said. I then lit a cigarette in front of the ghost and told him once again, “Do not make these men wait. The interview was two questions, ‘Do you like to wait?’ and ‘Would you like tea?’” He replied that he assumed they must have gotten the job because they don’t like to wait. I told him to get into my black carriage. I showed him the two stallions pulling it. They were also black.

We traveled a road he claimed he had never seen. We passed through the town and country until we reached a simple crossroads. I marked the spot on the dirt road with my mind. I told him to get out of my carriage. “The other carriage is waiting, sir. And these are the men do not like to wait.” He sat in horror and implied that he knew what was going on. I implied back, “You shouldn’t have destroyed your own creator.”

The men had to wait. They waited quite a while and changed the vehicle from semi-truck to carriage to Cadillac all on through to the school bus. They then came as the express bus service and then back finally as the semi truck the semi truck. The semi was no longer his friend’s semi. He noted to me that the drivers were all the same two people. I told him, “And, sir, they do not like waiting.” He gingerly laughed and decided, “I think you maybe knew all about me, huh?” I told him that I had mentioned that a few times. I told him that the semi was going to leave. “My coachmen do not like waiting.”

A course of music rang out. There were 8 fiddles and a full band dancing around us. I played his final request, which was simply any fiddle tune. Other players of stringed instruments danced around us. We stood at the abandoned crossroads. I now wore a black and white suit and smoked a cigarette in front of him. He smiled and stated that he finally was getting his wish. I told him he misunderstood and that he should not be one of the forsaken in the end. His final wish was to forsake the true and good. I told him again it was not the way he claimed things were to him. He again told me he would forsake all that was good. I whistled to the air.

The ghost was not willing to enter the waiting coaches on his own free will. The black semi-truck that was reminiscent of his friend's came and went without the spirit. Next was a Cadillac which also left without the man entering. The coachmen came a third time with a bright yellow school bus and I explained that they were again here to take him to his eternity. He told me that he understood, he was just trying to make my life difficult. The bus left and a pale gray motorcycle with a sidecar came next. It also left without a passenger.

The final vehicle that appeared at the crossroads we stood at was a black carriage. It was much like the one I had driven him to the crossroads in. He waved and moved across the road. I waved and he stepped up the stair and into the back seat. The man in the front turned to him. The ghost let out a terrified scream and tried to escape. He was unable to move. The carriage took off down the road and I was left in the hotel room on the side of the highway.
My car had simply broken down.

Its a teaming vacation for us, I think. We have worked hard to create a greater good for all to see. A memo has been passed and it is not a joke. Love behind what is meant for me. Either sentence could be true, yet only one is. Perhaps you can pick the truth:
I was alienated by a funeral involving mutual friends. I once spent three weeks wondering if I had received a note from a woman or if I had dreamed it.
The trouble with the eager, these days, is how they seem to simple folk. Folk since have written of many a tale involving those two rumors. The terror of the unknown coupled with the luxury and comfort of today's western world have been turned into a strange apathy. It is a denial of all magical with the claim that it does not exist.
I think more people must only remember this existence. This state of consciousness is one that we are kept in for a long time. This does not mean there is no past lives. It just means you are yet to die. Those who do not stay in the world are sent elsewhere. I'm sure this is sorted on a piece by piece basis. Each death causing a new life somewhere, with that consciousness sent to that other reality. Like finding oddities near highways, these are the days of their lives.

Short Broad Hallway

Ernie tried to remember who had given him the key. It was the only thing he held in his hand. He was now trapped inside a strange room and was hoping to find a way out, through one of the six doors. The room was wholly whitewashed including the six doors. The handles were curved and should pull down with the key. He stood in the middle with three doors on either side of the room he was trapped in. It was rectangular with a painting hanging on either narrow side.

The paintings were both the same. They were small-framed watercolors of the ocean with a sailboat making its way towards shore. The doors were lined on the other walls and numbered one through six. He stood in a daze trying to remember the events that led him to his trapping in this strange room. He walked towards door five and put his ear against it.

He heard a motor running on the other side. He shook the handle and found it was locked. He was afraid to try the key but had very little excuse not to. He pulled the key out of his pocket and pressed it into the keyhole. It fit perfectly and he turned the knob. The door swung open and he looked inside.

There was a small room with a large fan pushing air towards him. The air was cold and his hair began to flail around his ears. He looked through the dark room, using the light from the main hall. He searched for an exit but found nothing. The door stayed open and he fought through the wind into the room. The bricks surrounding the fan were old and the mortar was beginning to chip off the walls.

There was very little else in the room. He found two wires, a red one and a green one and picked them up. They were rather short, maybe five inches. He put them in his pocket. He searched the room for anything else and found nothing but the fan and motor. He tried to switch the fan off but could not find a way to do this. The motor was loud and the wind from the fan was unnerving. He decided to try his luck with another door.

He shut the door with some force, leaning against it from the main hallway. The door finally shut and he tried to open it again. The handle was stuck. It had locked itself once again automatically. He could still hear the roar of the fan but found it was not so bothersome with the door shut.

He stood confused for a moment. He tried to retrace his actions before waking up in this strange hallway. He remembered waking up that morning late for work. He had no time to eat his usual breakfast. He wished he had eaten the cereal and grapefruit at this point. He was hungry and now trapped in a strange puzzle. He rubbed his stomach and decided the best thing to do would be to not think about his hunger.

That morning he rushed down the street and missed his bus. He decided to call a taxi to make it to work. He worked in a cubicle, typing numbers into a computer eight hours a day for a five-figure salary. He remembered the cab ride was a heart-pounding race through the cities rush hour traffic. He arrived about four blocks from his office and decided to walk the rest of the way. His thoughts became cluttered quickly after this.

He stood in the hallway looking at the other five doors. The key that someone had given him was in his hand. He held the key, which was tied to a six-inch piece of white string. He let the key fall and caught it with the string. He swung the string around his hand and let it fall toward the ground. He held the key with his right hand and walked towards the door numbered three.

The third door was the only door with a painted number on it, the rest had metal numbers screwed on them with three screws. It was painted rather colorfully on a small piece of wood attached to the door with a simple nail. He pushed the key inside the door and opened it. The room was quite a bit bigger than the room behind the door numbered five. He found a small doorstop on the ground and pressed it beneath the door in the hallway.

There was a white light switch in this room and he clicked it on. The walls were unfinished with apparent framing around the sides of the room. Behind the wall frames were the same sort of red bricks he found in the room with the large fan. Hanging off the framing in the room were a variety of red and green puppets. They were various kinds of soft plush animals that could be manipulated to act rather funnily.

This moment terrified Ernie for a moment. He waited before he looked at the puppets further. There were eight on either side of the room. They hung from the framing with their hands or by fishing line. In the center of the room at the back he saw a regular human looking ventriloquist dummy. It sat motionless on a chest. The chest was wooden with metal trimmings that seemed to be bronze. There was a screwdriver on the chest as well.

Not regularly being a man of much adventure, Ernie was quite worried about his new place in the world. He walked into the strange, puppet filled room and moved the ventriloquist dummy to the side of the chest and placed it on the ground. He tried to open the chest and it seemed locked. He pulled the key out of his pocket and tried to open the chest with his only key. It opened and he lifted the lid.

Inside the chest he found two cassette tapes. They were numbered one and two, but otherwise the chest was empty. He looked about the room and noticed the fourth puppet on his left was holding a small tape deck. The fourth puppet on his right was holding a pair of batteries. Ernie felt very scared and took the batteries from the puppet on his right and placed them in the tape deck from his left. He took the screwdriver and tapes and pulled himself into the hallway and shut door number three.

He looked about the hallway and noticed he now had a small wooden bench beneath one of the paintings at the end of the hallway. He looked towards it and began to walk slowly over to the painting. He set up the tape deck and pressed the first tape into it. The tape played a quick punk anthem and then switched to a recent pop-music hit song by a woman dancer. He kept listening and found the entire tape was simply music. He enjoyed the variety and selection of the tape. It was short so rather quickly it needed turned. The other side held a variety of music as well.

Ernie now possessed a screwdriver and two wires as well as his key. The music was an entertaining background noise but offered no help in how to leave the hallway. He looked at the painting at the end above the recently placed bench and it seemed the old sailboat was further out into the ocean. The sailboat was the same size, but some islands had moved further into the distance.

He lifted the painting and found nothing behind it. He dropped it with a thud and noticed the waves had become rather larger. The boat was now fighting to stay afloat. He watched in strange fascination as the boat struggled with these waves he seemed to have created. The boat quickly righted and continued sailing. The ocean quelled and the scene became peaceful once again. The tape with music quickly ran out.

He looked at the tape deck and reached towards the bench. He sat on the wooden surface and pulled the first tape out. The cassette came out with a fight and the black tape from inside it was pulled out of the casing. He attempted to fix it with his screwdriver but the tape was thrown violently out of the casing and spread along his lap and the bench.

He placed the other tape inside the cassette player and the first tape vanished. It seemed as if it melted into the floor. The casing was still sitting on the bench but the black tape was being pulled into the floor. It vanished rather quickly and Ernie placed the tape deck on the bench and decided to listen to this tape more carefully. The first, he thought, must have been a distraction. The second one may have more information.

The tape began to play and the first side had very little information Ernie could understand. It began with the definition of history, found from a dictionary; “History,” it said, “–noun, 1. The branch of knowledge dealing with past events. 2. A continuous, systematic narrative of past events as relating to a particular people, country, period, person, etc., usually written as a chronological account; chronicle: a history of France; a medical history of the patient. 3. The record of past events and times, esp. in connection with the human race. 4. A drama representing historical events: Shakespeare's comedies, histories, and tragedies.”

The tape was silent after this. About three minutes later the tape spoke again. It became a soft voice stating the simple phrase “Grandfather, diplomat, post office, time.” This phrase repeated itself a number of times getting louder. The soft voice became old and gritty. The gravelly voice became louder and stated the same thing continuously. It began to fade and fell silent rather quickly. It was followed by an old orchestra’s song from the renaissance played only on three violins.

The tape ran out and Ernie sat silently. He tried to remember how he had found himself in this situation. He looked at the floor and noticed it was no longer plainly decorated. He could not remember what it was before, but it was now green marble tiles. He looked at the far wall and the boat in the painting was reaching a port. He looked at his key and tried to remember who gave it to him.

He remembered getting out of the cab and seeing a food stand opening. He asked the man for some breakfast but the man claimed he could not feed him yet as he was not ready. Ernie strolled hungry down the block passing a very regular city day. The cars and taxis honked their horns and stalled each other’s movement. The street was crowded and the sidewalks seemed to be congested as well. He made his way to the next block and found another food stand just opening.

He asked for something and was again refused. The old fat woman wearing a flowered dress spoke loudly. She swung her purse at him and hit him in the shoulder. He stood in disbelief, he recalled. He asked once more for food and she yelled at him to keep moving. He felt he should as well. He walked down the street and tripped over a brick on the sidewalk. He regained his composure and stood on the corner waiting for his light to change. He soon snapped back into the hallway he found himself now.

Ernie decided the only thing action he could take would be to open another door. He opened the door numbered two. The number was written as it is spelled using letters. The number fell to the ground as he placed the key inside the hole. It shattered on the ground and vanished into the marble tile floor. He watched as the two tiles it touched became black and white. The rest of the tiles soon followed suit, becoming alternating black and white. This happened rather quickly as Ernie opened the door numbered two.

The door led into a small closet. The closet had many racks rising high above Ernie’s reach. On two sides of the closet the racks all had leather sandals. The sandals looked as if they were new, even unfinished. Many of the sandals were missing their latchets. He found these straps and the pieces meant to secure them on the third side of the closet. This was the wall to his left as he stood in the doorway.

He took a pair of sandals in his hand and they grew to his size of feet. He grabbed the leather straps and the fastening pieces and placed them on the leather sandals. He took his screwdriver and secured the strap onto the unfinished shoe. After tightening the first latch he noticed the rest of the sandals became latched as well. He brought his new shoes into the hallway and sat on the wooden bench. He looked across the way and saw a small round window where the painting once was.

He knew now what the game was. He just needed to perform the tasks as he was asked. He opened the door labeled five once again and attached the wires to the engine with his screwdriver. This shorted the fuse on the fan and the fan sputtered and stopped. The breaker had been blown by his actions. He walked into the hallway to see the change in the strange room. On the bench stood a small gnome.

Ernie was a bit taken aback by his small new partner. The gnome reached behind him and pulled two puppets out from behind his tiny back. The puppets were about the same size as him, one was green and one was red. The gnome began to act out a scene from the movie Citizen Kane. “It was something,” the gnome stated once he had finished, “That was meant to entertain you, sir.” Ernie looked at the small gnome in disbelief. He spoke softly, “How do I get back to the normal world?”

The gnome looked at Ernie and laughed asking, “Why in the name of life would you want to go back to that world?” Ernie smiled, “It was just so normal. Everything was the same as it always was.” The gnome cracked up, “Ernie, pal, I’m here to let you out. But we chose you because you never have seen the true world. You laugh at the TV but never at good jokes. You never see the irony in life. You never take your life by the short strings, right?” The gnome then switched the hands the puppets were on quickly.

The green puppet began to talk in a high-strung voice, “Pal, you need to find the right way out. Shutting off the wind isn’t it. The moving of the boat, finally on shore I guess we’ve made it out through the ocean.” The red puppet chimed in, “You’re so over-dramatic. You never let us speak through the heart. We’ve made it to port now Ernie, now we need off of our ship. How do we do that?”

Ernie looked at his key on a string. He spoke to the gnome, “By unlocking more doors?” The red puppet spoke up, “I asked to that, not the gnome!” Ernie laughed and took the key in his hand. “Maybe door number four?” The gnome shouted out, “Dear God, no! You are very lucky you never opened door number four. That could have taken away everything you ever held dear, sir.” The red puppet said to the green one, “Yeah that could have been a good show.”

Ernie asked the red puppet, “What’s behind number four?” The red puppet smiled and said, “That’s where the lovely maiden resides. She’s old and fat and stinks. She is not dressed and wants to kiss. She smokes three packs a day in that room and she cannot find the handle to leave the room. She decorated her only home in hair and spit. It is not a nice scene inside that room.”

Ernie looked at the puppets. He felt thankful he was in some company now. The gnome looked at the fourth door and said to Ernie, “You know, he’s telling the truth. That room is not for the weak of heart. There would have been little you could have done had you opened that door. I think you’ve been making the right decisions thus far.” Ernie nodded, “I was simply going with my instinct.” The gnome smiled, “That’s the right way to do anything, ain’t it.”

“What is my action from here?” Ernie asked. The gnome looked at the green puppet. The puppet moved his eyes and looked at door number one, “Well, number one is the way you came. Would you like to go back?” He then laughed. Ernie ran towards the first door and the red puppet chimed in, “That’s a lie Ernie.” Ernie stopped. “It’s a good way to get to the ocean, though.” Ernie turned the key in the door and noticed the room was nearly the size of the main hallway.

He looked at the ground and found another doorstop. He placed it in front of the door and stepped though the landing. He fell two steps down and noticed a vacuum. The red machine had a note attached to it. He read the small torn piece of lined white paper and it said, “Clean the sand.” He placed the piece in his pocket and sand began to fall from the ceiling. The floor was filled with sand and the vacuum began to hum. The sand was sucked through the hose and filled the machine rather quickly.

Ernie drug the sand filled vacuum into the main hallway and it sputtered and spat sand out the hose. The vacuum tipped on its side and the sand fell on the tiles. Ernie tried to vacuum the sand and found the noise reverberated through the hallway very loudly. It shook his head and he shut the machine off quickly. He looked at the sand and it spelled “the number six.” He closed the first door and looked at the red puppet. The gnome sat laughing and said, “Try number six, friend.”

Ernie shut the door. It closed with a thud. He looked at the gnome, who was putting the puppets into a large duffle back. The vacuum began to shake again; the noise was much too loud to take. It shook the room, his head, the bench and the painting. The window at the far end of the room began to crack. The marble floor began to shake. Ernie kicked the vacuum and it shut off. He took the screwdriver to the motor and immobilized the machine. The gnome looked at him, “You do have a way, don’t you, pal.”

The vacuum shook in the hallway still, but the motor was humming a high squeal instead of the room-shattering wail it sang before. He took the key and opened the room numbered one again. He threw the vacuum deep into the sand that was now rather deep and shaped like dunes. The vacuum sucked the sand and spat it out the other end but now sucked softly and sounded much nicer. Ernie shut the door and felt it was locked once again. The gnome looked at him, “This is a good idea for both of us.”

Ernie noticed the painting behind the bench was much bigger and painted with a lot more talent that the original painting. He pointed this out to the gnome who stated, “You should be used to this stuff by now, kid. Life is like this I suppose. Now try the one numbering six, you are nearly finding your way out here kid.” Ernie looked at the gnome. “Am I just entertaining you? Or am I in a coma? What is this?” The gnome looked at him and said, “I can’t explain, I started here like you. Now I can get out. Moving around. Its like a game, I suppose.”

Ernie asked the gnome, “You were like me once too?” The gnome nodded, “Yes, I once got trapped in this same hallway. I had to see the world differently. You aren’t dead. You aren’t in a coma. You just hadn’t seen what life is. Magic is real, I believe that is still the message.” Ernie could not see the magic in his situation. He mentioned this to the gnome. The gnome replied, “Nah, not this situation, it’s just meant to confuse you so the maker can laugh. It’s her idea of a good time.”

Ernie took the key and opened the door numbered six. The door swung open and a bright light shone through. Ernie cried to the gnome, “You said I wasn’t dead!” The gnome rushed over and shut off the lamp. “Just one of them bright lights, right. Now climb the ladder and you can get to work. You were looking for breakfast, right?” The gnome handed Ernie a bagel with egg and meat on it. There was a nice layer of freshly slice cheese and pepper, just like he liked it. Ernie held on to the bagel and climber the short ladder. At the top he pushed a hatch and began to pull himself through. Light was shining and he heard a number of horns honking.

A car came to a skidding stop and way wailing at him, the driver yelled, “What are you a freaking nut! Get out of the way! What the hell you doing coming out of there at seven in the morning!” Ernie was looking both directions and found he was standing in the middle of the road. The man continued to yell, “I could have killed you! You freaking bum! Get off the road, you maniac!” The cars were backed up and honking at him and he sat with a breakfast bagel in hand. He quickly dashed towards the sidewalk. The old woman was finished setting up her stand.

He bit his breakfast and she smiled at him. “That will be four seventy-five, sir. Do you want a coffee for another two bucks?” Ernie looked at the lady and looked at his suit. It was spotless and pressed. He took another bite of the bagel. “Sir, four seventy-five for the bagel.” Ernie stood saying nothing. He stared at the lady for a moment and asked her for the coffee as well. He handed her a ten-dollar bill and asked for no change. She gave him the coffee and he dressed it as his usual. He continued his walk to work in a daze.

Viewpoint of a Short-CIrcuited Iron

“Iron!” The cats growled. They were hungry, mangy and matted. They fought amongst themselves as I sat resting against a brick with the bottom half of a broom and two thirds of a rake. “I have no food,” I said, “I don’t look for it like you.” The tomcat cursed at me, “No, Iron, tell our kittens your story, would you please?” I looked at the tomcat, a cat that would rarely speak nicely to anyone. “Well, you did ask like that,” I said. With this, I began with a shout.

“Criminal!” She screamed towards the closed door. She seemed to over-react, I thought. I was dropped on the cloth-covered table and she stomped towards the only entryway. I sat and glanced out the window seeing a picturesque winter evening. The snow fell lightly towards the white world. There was a layer of frost from the fog that morning and the window was beginning to trace tiny fractals of ice up the panes. She opened the door and stood looking at a large man with a beard.

She looked him up and down and he asked, “Why the scream, dear?” She smiled and touched his arm, “The damned iron just short circuited.” He laughed, smiling at the reaction of his loving wife and asked, “But your OK, no shock?” She looked him straight in the eye. “I may need a new one, I suppose. Throw it in the trash with the rest, the truck comes tomorrow.” He walked into the room and lifted me up by my old black handle. He brought me downstairs and through their house to the garage. He lifted the lid of the trash bin and set me on top.

I sat in that bin all night in the dark. I sat and thought of better days, when I had worked perfectly. Why couldn’t they repair me? No use, I thought. It was simply time to replace me. I’m sure if you asked them they could list reasons why a new iron would be a much better way to spend their money. I’m sure the price of a repair on a seven-year-old iron like myself is not equal to my worth. Money better spent on one of the new irons, with all the unnecessary dials and that.

The bin was pulled out to the end of the driveway on a busy street the next morning. The vehicles moved past the house carefully as it was very cold and the road had a layer of ice on it. Quite quickly after I had arrived at the street a large truck came and stopped next to the corner. I heard the bins next to me emptied into the side of the truck. The man then grabbed my bin. He pulled the lid off and poured the contents into truck. I sat surrounded by wrappers with an old coffeepot to my left.

The coffeepot looked at me. I looked at the coffeepot. After a few exchanged glances and a moment of silence the coffeepot smiled and extended his handle. “Jake’s my name,” he said in a friendly manner. I looked at him and realized I didn’t have a name. I couldn’t think of a response for Jake. I knew I had to respond with something. “Is it your time too?” I asked, somewhat knowing the answer.

Jake laughed. “I suppose it may be. My people left the burner on over a weekend and I plum cracked myself up the backside. I can’t tell you were my other half is. I’m trying not to think about that. Why you in here?” I told Jake, “I’m not fully sure. I was working fine one minute and the next there was a large spark of light, some fuzzy noises and I just quit. I’m not a doctor, I’m an iron.” Jake smiled, “Seems like a short-circuit. It’s a waste to throw a perfectly good appliance out like this.”

“I wish I could have argued,” I said. I felt hopeless and I’m sure Jake had picked up on that. “I got a plan, stranger. It’ll get us out of this place. You’ve heard of where we are headed, right. It is where the crows rule. They are worse than the humans. Crows and big mean old ranked metal irons, cast-iron coffeepots, all that. When appliances get there, well, sir, there ain’t no coming back.” I nodded, “I’ve heard of that place too, I was afraid we were headed there.” “Yes, sir. It is where we are going, but I have a plan.”

He pulled out a wrapper with a map sketched on it. “All we need to do, and I’m saying all we need to do, is get out of this truck.” I looked at him and asked, “How do we do that?” He laughed and started climbing, reaching towards the light with his handle. I sat for a second and began to pull myself towards Jake. We climbed and climbed, missing four stops. At the fifth stop we were near the top. I started to jump and Jake grabbed me, “No, you can’t jump while we are stopped! They’ll just throw us back in, I’ve seen it before, son.”

The truck began to move, so I jumped off the side. My power cable was ripped from my body. A sharp pain tore through my side. I looked up and saw it hanging off the side of the truck. Jake came tumbling soon after. The hatch was lifting but we made it past the side. I hit the ground with a thud. I stood up and dusted myself off and looked around. Jake fell slightly to my left and hit the ground and simply shattered. It may have been the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen near this alley. His glass was in pieces and only his handle and brim remained. He waved at me, “At least I tried to live…” He said, and faded off.

I was on the street, so I climbed to the sidewalk. I jutted through unnoticing passersby. Dancing through their legs I reach the side of a building. I pulled up tight to the building knowing that I had to run or be found. I ran down the block and found a nice alley. It was this alley, to be sure and that is why I have never left. I walked slowly down the middle, glancing with horror and deep thankfulness at the garbage bins to either side. I tried to yell to those inside, “Jump out! When you are there, jump out!” They would understand soon enough.

I kept walking and looking above me, the building drove high into the sky. It was like nothing I had ever seen. Snow covered the ground and began to fall from the sky. I pulled my tired body into a corner and sat silently for a while. The snow began to cover my metal surface and the plastic became very cold. I shivered and reached for a small wrapper to cover myself up with. I had been sitting in this position for a very long time when I heard a rat coming at me from my left.

The rat tapped me on the shoulder and startled me. I swung at him and he jumped back. The rat paused and snarled. He looked me dead in the eyes and said “Look, pal you need to listen to me quick-like. This is my area, back up little broken kid.” I looked him in the eye and said, “I want no trouble, I just jumped for my life from a truck and I’m just looking for a place to sit for a minute.” The rat stated flatly, “This isn’t it, keep moving.” I rose and pulled the wrapper off me. I moved down the alley and the rat laughed.

I moved further down the cold alley, passing more garbage bins and eventually finding a nice cinderblock. I climbed atop it and sat down once again. I needed to make a plan. I had nowhere to go and it was the dead of winter, I was cold and would die if it were possible. I had heard of hypothermia and was afraid I would catch my death of a cold. This thought was stifled by the realization that I had no real body. I felt a bit safer in my condition.

I sat atop that cinderblock all night, keeping vigilant watch for the rats and things that would cause me trouble. I had nothing of value and was truly useless, as my cord had been ripped off in the garbage truck. It was painful but I was glad it would not hinder my journey. The next morning two rats being chased out of a doorway by a small Chinese man woke me from my slumber. I was covered with a thin layer of snow and a wrapper I used to stay warm. The Chinese man glanced at me and walked towards the cider block. He brushed the snow off me and picked me up.

He examined me for a while and noted I was of no use, not because he knew I had short-circuited but because he noticed I had no power cord. He placed me back on the cinder block and left me there. I brushed the rest of the snow off the top of the surface as soon as he turned his back. He walked inside the doorway and shut the door with a thud. I climbed off the cinder block and began to briskly move back towards the other end of the alley.

I hadn’t made it far when I was approached by one of the rats that were shooed out of the Chinese man’s doorway. The rat came to me and I was noticeable scared. He looked at me and said, “Hey man, don’t worry. We’re all in this together, right.” I said to him, “Look man, I’ll keep moving if this is your territory.” “No man, look, it’s like I said before. Here, have some bread.” I took the small piece from the rat and tried to find a way to eat it. I couldn’t find the hole that he had to chew with.

He looked at me and said, “Oh, you aren’t a being like us, are you? One of them inanimate objects, hey? I know just the place you’ve got to go. Give me that bread back.” I handed him the piece of bread and he motioned for me to move down the alley with him. “I have your back, kid. Remember to be careful. This is the gritty street, down on this level. I wish one day to be one of them big things, you know that sort. We all live off their leavings. Like that guy chasing me out of his building. One of them.” I laughed, “Yeah, I know the type.”

We walked quite a while making very little conversation and he ate both pieces of his bread. I looked around and saw the alley did not change at all. Another dumpster was usually followed by a few cinder blocks. Once in a while there was on old plastic chair. The rat stopped by one of these chairs and reached in to a large metal pot and grabbed a handful of cigarette butts. He lit these with a large orange lighter he had hidden behind the landing near the chair. “Ever try these, man?” He asked as he smoked the butt. I said to him, “I don’t have a hole to do that either, I don’t think. You’re using the same one.”

The rat smoked his cigarette and laughed to himself. “I love this stuff, makes me feel like a big man. They say it stunts your growth though. I say it adds to the growth of you personality. Your voice changes, becomes older sounding. Like a cool, refreshing hit of this stuff. I don’t know what it is, but the French have a word for that.” He put the end of the cigarette out in the snow and we marched on again.

After a few more bricks and cinder blocks we arrived at a large hole in the wall. There was a board over it, but a gap in the board was just large enough for a broken old iron like myself to fit through. It was dark inside and kind of murky. The damp was nice; it was much warmer than being cold and wet in the snow. We traveled briskly down the tight corridor. The rat would turn every few steps to see if I was still behind him. He glanced and acted surprised nearly every time I was still behind him.

He stopped and moved a board to the side. There was a light behind it. “Here it is, partner.” The rat told me, “End of my line.” I was not sure where he had brought me but thanked him for it. He replied “A good deed a day seems to help keep me fed.” I thanked him again and he scurried down the path the way we came. I glanced into the light and saw little. I moved the board and slid through.

A calculator greeted me. He was missing three buttons on the number pad and the screen had been scratched rather badly. He bumped into me and apologized. “Who is this here?” he asked. I spoke softly, “I’m just an old beaten iron, trying to find a new lease on life.” He moved towards a desk lamp, grabbed his body and asked, “Who is that?” The lamp looked at me and said to the calculator, “I ain’t ever seen this cat. Who are you?” I was ready for some questioning so replied softly again, “I’m just an old beaten iron.” The lamp looked at me and said, “Look, Ernie here, with the numbers, he’s good at math but rather blind. Me, David, I hold the light, still. I’m just always on. You can’t try to turn my light off. Its been done. My bulb is burnt, but I feel it. I’m sure you do too. You, Iron, you must have something right.”

“I don’t know,” I said to the lamp, “I jumped from a truck, they sent me away because I was broken.” “Just like the rest of us, nearly all of us anyway,” the lamp said. The calculator said to me quickly, “Look you got something in you. You are here now. That means you have a certain joy of life. A thirst for adventure, right?”

I looked at the broken old tools in the room. There were many, including an old chess set they seemed to be fighting amongst themselves, a small TV that was missing both dials and was telling a group of dishes a story and a bottom of a rake that was found rather recently with his friend a bent up old metal dustpan. “Well,” I told the calculator, “I think I may have found the place I was looking for.” The lamp joyously bounced up and down, “That’s the spirit! Welcome to our home.”

I stayed at their shelter for the winter and made many friends there with rather similar stories. Many of the beat-up appliances were just trying to avoid the dump like myself. I shared the story of Jake the coffeepot with the friends I made and they claimed not many glass-based products make it out in the gritty world there is. They were not surprised he broke on impact with the cement. It seemed a common tale around these parts. The products were all making use of their existences after they were discarded, and they were all very happy to not be fighting the fight at the junkyards we had heard about through myths. It seemed everyone here was in this act together and at some point we would all have to move on.

In the spring, when the snow melted we all moved briefly outside. This move was brought to an abrupt end when fellows from inside, some bigger items, were thrown back into dumpsters one night. We became scared and now, as we all finally know better we only come outside during the day. This world is an uncertain one, we never know who may be thrown back in a dumpster and brought to the wrecking yard.

This warning is not so much for you, children. We are not the same beings. The worst you can fear is a fight with other cats or maybe staying off the road. The humans care for what they call “living things.” If the humans find you, they take you and feed you. They cuddle and try and help you. In our world they try to destroy us. Sending us to a lot outside humanity where we are pushed and buried amongst each other. I have heard tales of irons and such coming back from there. It is a horrid existence still. Feel lucky you are a cat. You can run and jump and play. Your shape does not hinder you. You are free to do much more than us. You all are lucky to be cats. Myself, I am an iron.

Men Who Simply Like Bags

The issue of the overuse of plastic bags is one found in the mainstream media. Articles can be found in many mainstream papers, including the Calgary Herald. This is also a topic of discussion on the television news broadcasts.

Art is something made to share an interest with an audience. In thinking about the corporate CEO’s form of art it becomes abundantly clear these men would like to share their love of bags with us. There is no other reason they should have been spread across the globe in the fashion they have been. Nearly every piece of mass-produced food is wrapped in one of their indestructible bags. It is clear their art is to share their love and interest in bags with the commoners of this world.

It is a reasonable statement from the consumer that we have seen enough of these men’s fantastic and indestructible bags. It is clear the problem lies with the producers of these bags. The corporate men who have made the decision to spread these bags across the globe are those who need to be listened to. They have shared their love of bags with the common citizen for the last quarter century. One only has to visit the local landfill to see just how much these men like bags. We must share with them that we understand their statement. It is the only way this will end.

It is time to realize their love and move forward with them. Please do not misinterpret my message. I do like bags. I think they are all right. I do not, however, like bags quite as much these men do. I feel they are wonderful way to transport goods from one place to another. I do not, however, feel the need to feel my way through three or four bags to get to the proverbial Pizza Pocket.

It is time for us to tell corporate America that we do understand. We realize they truly love bags and would like to share their love with us. We realize that the ultimate goal is to spread their love across the globe. We must tell them we realize this before they will quit making these unnecessary mass-produced bags. If we group together as the common consumer and explain that we understand their art form they may let us move forward to a world with fewer plastic bags available in it.

I suggest a letter writing campaign to the owners and CEOs of these companies. We could start with a simple thank you for the food. We would then move into a clearly written suggestion that we understand their art. We understand they have just been trying to share their love of bags with us. We can write them personally and thank them for increasing everyone’s interest in bags and bringing the topic to the hearts and minds of the common man. With the realization their goals have been met, we may be able to convince these men to produce fewer bags for our handling.

New Years Haiku

Old man found outside
He spoke only in haiku
Soft it left his lips

A man trapped inside
A haiku with needed rights
He spoke then he ran

Stepping up the stairs
A single set of shoes slip
Silently outside

Hard concrete chasing
The light had brought him down, sir
A breathe of the air

I chased him outside
Followed the cracks in the snow
But lost interest soon

I could not find him
Hiding away a rhyme scheme
And last they were pure

I could not find him
He spoke only in haiku
He remained silent

Helpless wanderlust
That last single set of shoes
Were lost somewhere else

When we did find him
He spoke only in haiku
So remained silent