The Writtings and Poetry Dennis L. Siluk (2008-2009)

Bear under the Snow

2011-10-28T13:44:00.000-07:00

(Causes of the Vietnam War, a Personal View)

The Vietnam War was a ten-year rainstorm, one I experienced for one tenth of it (and got a decoration for). It carried us, as if to the moon, as if the moon had dropped on us. It infected the community, everyday life; it also gave some of us, excitement (as it had for me), but many funerals, 56,000-American funerals, over 5,000 a month. It gave us new and daily sounds over the radio, and television, and the full actual sounds of war, I would get to hear, in 1971.
The political power of the day embodied us all; it killed JFK, and brought the war even closer to our living rooms. As the world turned at the United Nations, behind closed doors, in our Congress, right up to the Oval Office, politicians and industry discussed its merits (its intrinsic worth) for ten-years. We had many dragons in our flag. Thus, the storm continued unabated.
We all looked at each other—back then (us soldiers), as if we were young blind owls in the night, once confident Americans, now feeling abandonment and estrangement because of the nature of the war. And the people of the nation, my nation the ones that commanded us to fight it, behind our backs, cussed us, called us baby killers, told us to go to Canada, spit at us: damned if we ran, damned if we stayed and fought.
My story is not quite like most of the other soldiers’ stories in Vietnam. I didn’t question if the war was right or wrong, I just went, matter of fact, I had taken some jungle training in Washington State, when the doctors discovered my toes on my right foot had been smashed from a bomb falling on it in Augsburg, West Germany a few months prior—as a result, I became unfit for war. I did not have to go to Vietnam, —because I would not be able to run well enough. However, I wanted to go so I kept my old orders as they were cutting new ones, and jumped on the plane to Vietnam: I wanted the experience of being in a war, I had filled my veins with patriotic fever, and the travel seemed exciting. I was a silly boy back then.
There was a hostile spirit in the core of America, so I discovered during this time—being from the Midwest, I never noticed it until I started traveling, for the Army; this spirit, I do believe created a defeated attitude among us in Vietnam. Again, I suppose I was different, single, no one back home—for the most part, but many a soldier cried in the night, wanting to go home, be with his wife, children, even some cried for their mothers, this created a storm of drug related soldiers. I saw them come in healthy, and three months later, they were on every drug available. Soldiers not wanting to be soldiers do not make for good soldiers.
President Johnson had taken the 34,000-troops that President Kennedy had sent to Vietnam, American soldiers of war—sent them home, and replaced them with 500,000-soldiers, new ones (much like Obama has done, shifting soldiers like toys in the Middle East; and all remains quiet in the White House.) What can you say to a man like that, like Johnson? Only the devil knows.
Pickled and indecisive Americans, we were all of that and more back in the early late sixties and early seventies. Actually, Nixon was the only one who wanted to stop the fighting, and started bombing Hanoi, and had we continued, we would have won the war (without shame, or dishonor), but again, America screamed and howled at our barbarism, which it was, but we were fighting barbarians. Nixon sent home 300,000-Americans by end of 1971. Those 300,000 were part of Johnson’s scheme for the American Iron Horse, American Industry, and the real barbarians who kept the war going. It was a commercial war, costing the American Government—not one dime, we made up the paper money as if it was wallpaper; oiled the money machines night and day: it cost over nine-billion dollars—devaluing the dollar worldwide, as we have done today, are doing right now, with the two wars going on in the Middle East. Equal perhaps, at today’s inflated rate, Vietnam would have cost 105-billion. In comparison, Iraq has cost us 700-billion, a war like Vietnam, of no crisis for America.
I went to fight communism. I believed in America, only to find out the cold hearts and thin shadows of the emperors of America’s industrialization had designed the war to last, or last longer. By proxy, that is to say, to fight a war in another country—a playground war sort of—instead of fighting one another (the Russians and Chinese), in our own backyards, and profit by it. In addition, in the process we destroyed the ecosystem of Vietnam, which was nearly equal to that of the Amazon, along with killing three-million Vietnamese inhabitants.
Let me add, Agent Orange killed a good friend of mine, among others of course, and genetically altered and lowered the life span of a million other American soldiers (out of the ten million sent to Vietnam), perhaps even my system was infected, who’s to say. In any case, during its usage and years later, a grasshopper was not safe to live in the environment, and for ten years after the war, defected children were born because of the massive usage of chemicals by America. Therefore, Vietnam was also a testing ground for new biological warfare (not much different from Saddam Hussein, who used it on the Kurds, and we scorned him for it).
The industrial machines of America was at full capacity in the mid to late ‘60s and early ‘70s: cranes, jeeps, wings for planes, bullets for rifles, and helicopters: trains filled up with rations: beef and butter, vegetables and fruits, all to feed those ten-million soldiers rotating yearly. It was an industrial heyday for America’s Kings of Industry (they ruled the political system).

The executives of industry knew nothing of leaping over bodies, digging holes in the dirt to hide one’s face from incoming rockets, the scrap metal, metal fragments displaced, and flying everywhichway (they quickly sent their children to college so they’d not have face the torrents of war). During one attack, a piece of metal the size of my fist, and bulky like a round smooth rock, red hot, passed flying by my cheek during a rocket attack, I moved an inch, seeing it come, and it missed me.
We were not baby killers—although babies—truth be told, in every war are killed, that is a fact, a reality of war—I do not know of any wars where they were not killed—consequently, we were just soldiers fighting a barbaric war, and trying to win it. We wanted to triumph, but no one back home did. Back home in the good old U. S. A., (figuratively speaking) they were all like happy fish, smiling at us as worms’ dangling on a hook, ready to be eaten one way or another. The very ones that called us baby killers were the ones who worked for the war machines. The factories, the food chain, the trains, the airports and transportation system in general, why didn’t they all go on strike, quite their jobs, hence, the war would have stopped abruptly—they made their living off the war and once it stopped unemployment rose to over six percent, from nearly zero. I remember because I was part of that unemployed era. Therefore, I suppose it was a Catch-22 for them, as it was for us in winning the war.
Vietnam was a cup of darkness poured over our heads. We were all invaders, if not terrorists, in some country, someone else’s country, that we were supposed to bring freedom to—where we didn’t belong, in which self-determination never came for the South. Constitutionally, the White House considered the Vietnam War a ‘Conflict’ thus giving the war justification to continue. Put another way, the only wars that were a crisis to America in the 20th and 21st Centuries, were WWII and Afganistan. No other wars of this period were politically or constitutionality correct and that came into play for Vietnam. It had to be justified. Of course, today, everything comes under the heading of National Security—hence, truth be told, we are fighting wars for world domination, not for America’s safety—which is fine if only we’d admit it, instead of pretending otherwise; we want to be placed strategically—which is obvious to the world that surrounds America, but not Americans per se.
For the soldiers the war was a jagged and heavy stone, one, no one could move, we were like a bear under the snow, we could not move any which way. We were like blind-owls in the night, blind to the ministers and department heads of American industry. We could not bomb this area or that area, or fight over here or over there, we had to shoot over the rubber trees or around it, do not shoot the enemy if they are in it. Do not shoot the enemy when they are stuck in the barbwire fences, which allows them to escape and live another day to kill more Americans. There were too many rules for us, and none for the enemy. We could not figure this out, that this was not a war to be won (because we could have easily won it; we had the manpower, the firepower, and the airpower, and even sea power—sailing about in the South China Sea; but the Americans and the political system and industry, did not have the willpower. In a way, we never lost the war per se; we simply got tired of it and walked away). No one could win a war anyhow, with such rules and such deviation among Americans—; they made such policies run ramped in our heads. These were either people who never fought a war, or people who were a lot smarter than us, who profited by it, and could care less if we won or lost, and who got killed in the process. This was America’s industrial and political way of thinking (God forbid, but the truth resides in the graveyards of America, in a so-called lost war, and in the devastation of Vietnam).
Anyhow, this is the way I see it, forty years later.

Conclusion (afterthoughts):

In closing, let me say, the first Americans created a civilization. The second developed it. The third, my generation perhaps yours also, we inherited it. Moreover, we tried to protect it, often like barbarians. However, as one can see it is a dying gift, to the future Americans. Unbelievably, barbarism is always around a civilization, especially if you intend to fight wars. Its center theme is to engulf its people by arms. Barbarism never admits its defeat, it will wait, and wait, outwait peace for war, like American Industry. Vietnam, it was a bloody war, from bloodthirsty barbarians in our country, ruled by a bloody city called Washington D.C., by a vicious, cold calculating ruler called Johnson who gave a free hand to our industrial barons to use the political system as they wished. Johnson, —the mightiest of the rulers of his day, now long dead of course, and mostly forgotten, under drifting sands, and all the better for us Americans.

Creating of the story: “The Cotton Belt”

2011-10-10T12:36:00.000-07:00

(Overview)

The Story “The Cotton Belt,” started out in episodes, it started with its first episode called: “Old Josh from Ozark, Alabama” (1862), and written on 8-14-2005, thus, the character of Old Josh, was created and molded forevermore, and soon after that, his image was drawn; whereupon, his two sons, Silas and Jordon came into the picture. Old Josh was never meant to be a book, or novel on its own. Between August 8, 2005 and the last episode, the 85th “Jes’ a Damn Nigger” June 20, 2009, the character had gone through a paramount amount of changes.
The book “The Cotton Belt,” which is a book within a book, and perhaps the main book, slowly developed its characters and images. In November of 2008, Granny Mae came into picture in “Grits and Eggs”. The Toad Races down at Leastways Downs came in, while writing episode No: 18, on January 24, 2006. The two headed rat came in, in episode, 84, 6-19-2009, where after, the following day, the last episode would be written. Amos, was somewhere in the background, but became more pronounced in “Who’s Blacker” episode 77, written 1-20-2009, and of course in Episode No: 39, we see Amos Jackson hung, written, 2-20-2008, both used for the novel. On 2-7-2007, the “Elegy for Josh” was written. Even though the date of his death had changed in the novel, as to the episodes, and where Ashley was just a passing figure, that Silas had, once upon a time, during the writing of “The Cotton Belt,” in 2010-11, she became more significant for the story.
In episode three, “Chatting in the Barn,” Silas became a speaking figure and his personality was created, which would be profound throughout the following episodes, on 8-14-2005. Jordon took a backseat to Silas, and only in the novel itself he became a more pronounced figure.
In “Josh Goes Fishing” episode nine, written 9-2005, we see Josh’s thinking more clearly, his old age orneriness. In episode ten, “Laying Sick in Bed,” we see Josh can have affairs, or a liking for the opposite sex at his older age, written also in September of 2005. So you see the character of Old Josh was laid out for the book, “The Cotton Belt,” long before the story was put together as a whole, in 2010 and 2011. Consequently, this one book out of six that make up the saga took the bulk of the time in creating the saga, seven years to be exact—whereupon the author molded the stories into a novelette, or short novel, and connected them with the other five books.

As these episodes went on year after year, the characters became more and more, such as, Abram Boston, Josh’s brother-in-law, although brief in the novel, he had a few episodes to endure, born 1789, who is the brother to Rebecca Boston Jefferson, otherwise known as ‘Sweet Pea’ Josh’s ex wife, by common-law marriage. Sheriff Parker (1840…), comes into the picture, but is never pronounced as a leading character, although in the book, his character is more obvious than in the episodes. Elmer Barchans, who owns a plantation ten-miles from the Hightower’s, never is shown but once, and then comes out at the end, in the book “The Old Folks,” that is to say, he never is developed in the episodes nor in the book all that much. Otis Fargo, the bartender is similar to the Barchans, he is, but he isn’t, I mean he is always far-off in the distance.
The Abernathy family does not come out much in the episodes, but much more in the Novel, developed in “The Vanquished Plantations”, as are the Smiley’s. The Stanley’s seen more in “The Cotton Belt”.

In the first story of the saga, “The Tobacco Kings,” which was really the third book in the six book saga, became the first book, more of an introduction to the some of the new and old characters of the Old Josh episodes, such as the Ritt’s who had been in the previous episodes, but briefly, and now, in the saga, the Ritt family comes out in all six books, and as “The Tobacco Kings” is the prelude book to the saga, “The Old Folks,” is the later, or postscript, or afterthought. In-between, we have “The Cotton Belt,” and “The Vanquished Plantation,” and “Voices out of Saigon” written through out 2008, where Langdon Abernathy becomes one of the main characters in that story, if not the main character, and when all the books are combined, be becomes even a bigger figure, after Old Josh. But this is where a new flock of characters are developed, and some old ones used to keep the saga alive, as the Hightower’s in New Orleans, and second and third generations of the Jefferson’s, and Jackson’s. Also this the connecting of WWI with the War in Vietnam becomes clearer for the Abernathy family. Also where the destruction of the plantation life is severely noticed, and the novel moves from the South to Asia, to include Cambodia.

At this point, and through the story “The Vanquished Plantains,” this was also written in 2008 (for the most part) the story is updated from 1960, to 1965, whereas, “Voices out of Saigon,” comes afterwards, 1969 to 2012. But we see Langdon in his formative years, and the infamous Wallace Brothers, and the infusion of Abby Wallace as well, and North Caroline becomes as pronounced as Ozark, Alabama was in ‘The Cotton Belt.’ The Civil War is still in the background, and so is WWI (written about the Ammo Humpers in 6-2008), and the Vietnam War is developing. A lot of well developed chapter stories come out of this one book, as for “The Monster Hog,” and the “Demonic Wolf” in particular. This book within the saga, is second to the largest, I think “¨Voices out of Saigon,” might be the largest, and the shortest book being “The Tobacco Kings,” then the next shortest would be “The Old Folks,” which is really a follow-up, book, put in at the last minute, to show the reader what did happen to all those characters you’ve already read about, and the author never told you their end plight on planet earth.
In “Voices out of Saigon,” we have new characters again, as well as some old ones; such as: Cassandra Hightower of New Orleans, Henry Small, Linda Macaulay, Sergeant Carter, Langdon Abernathy, Amos, Vang, Zuxin, Ming and so on, and of course, Caroline Abernathy, Langdon’s mother, who seeks out Langdon in Saigon, being informed by Sergeant Carter, he is in ill health.

All in all, the saga consumes about 360-years, and is a most enduring ongoing story, which keeps the reader turning the pages. The book has 660 pages, and 140,000 words.

A Letter in Vietnam (a short story)

2009-03-12T17:09:00.000-07:00

A Letter in Vietnam

She said she laid back on her bed with a book opened to about its middle, reading some short story by Faulkner, and was influenced by how the character of the woman was described, of ill repute, and it made her think of her husband’s behavior, made her look at it, and thereafter, felt responsible to make a future decision. This was in the winter of 1971, and the war in Vietnam was steadily being reduced, soldiers being brought home, from over 500,000 troops to now 205,000. She wrote a letter to Sergeant Chick Evens, a letter of inquiry you might say, on what to do, in making the right decision in telling her husband of her situation, or more like: their situation. Her husband was Corporal Mac Washington, a tall, and large boned, broad shouldered Blackman from North Carolina, who loved to make love to every woman he ever saw, and ended up in Japan with a bent spine from some venereal disease, and overdoing it. He evidently spoke highly of Sergeant Evens in his letters to his Alabama bride, and therefore she was confining in him on what to do next.

Mrs. Brandy Washington
January 4, 1971 (Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam)

“Dear Sergeant Chick Evens, I write to you for some guidance in that I have a decision I must make. I do not know whom else to trust, and I don’t dare ask my husband for consultation in this matter—and so I have only you to turn to—perhaps because I do not have to face you, eye to eye, or shoulder to shoulder. Now here it is—I married my husband in 1968, while visiting a family member in North Carolina, I came up from Alabama. He was a man about to be drafted into the United States Army—come October, it was August at the time. He was at first, sent to Germany, Darmstadt, at the 15th Ordnance Battalion. He asked for me to join him, I was in Alabama at the time, and I couldn’t, and therefore, refused on the grounds, it was too much an ordeal.
“When he came home to the states for a month (a reroute to Vietnam), he went directly to North Carolina, and asked me to join him there, and I again refused, and remained with my family in Alabama, taking care of other responsibilities. And later on I knew he was in Vietnam, and he had told me of all those venereal diseases month by month he acquired, and the penicillin shots he was getting, along with other pharmaceuticals, he was frank and honest with me; perhaps too much so. Because of this now impending disease, he was somewhat crippled, bent when he walked, it was of course due to his insistence of having woman after woman, and now he is in Japan for some kind of treatment, all this you already know of course.
“He wants me to join him there, and assures me he has no longer any hidden diseases of that nature, that for the most part he is fine, and by the sound of his voice, all indications are that he is fine, but will he be safe for me?
“My mother once said, “Love is blind,” also she said, “You’re too close my dear to the forest to see the height and thickness of the woods.”
“And with that, I do not care to place myself in an awkward situation. On the other hand I have two children now, twin boys, they are not the sons of my husband’s, I wonder how he will take that, and they will be two-years old, come June.
“I wait patiently for your advice.”

3-12-2009• Based on Actual Events

The Attacked, the Assailant, and the Observer (about a killing in Minneopolis, 1983)

2009-02-28T13:02:00.000-08:00

The Attacked, the Assailant, and the Observer

The Gem Bar on First Avenue/summer of 1983
(A Chick Evens Story)

He had went inside the bar about noon, everyone around the bar on barstools heard him bellyaching, and fighting with some fellow all afternoon long, until the hottest part of the day, 3:00 p.m., about a drug sale, the buyer, was Mexican, the seller a Blackman, and the buyers girlfriend, white, who wasn’t present.
“Where’s the stuff, did you sell it or use it up?” said the confronting Blackman, Leopold, standing next to the slim, shorter Mexican who sat drinking a beer staring into his glass waiting for Leopold to be quiet.
“In my car, I think?”
“What about the stuff your girlfriend took, did she sell it or use it?” said the confronter.
“Oh, she’s skipped town I’m afraid.”
“Where is she?” he asked again.
“Twice I got to tell you, she’s skip town. I think she’s headed for St. Cloud, she got the stuff and just went.”
They were both drug sellers, downtown Minneapolis, and the seller Leopold, had sold them a heap of drugs, some cocaine, some hash, some pot, some LSD, the works. And he was just sitting in the Gem bar drinking beer after beer, an all-afternoon event for him: suddenly, the Mexican pulls out a knife, and the black man pulls out a gun. The Blackman started shooting at the Mexican, and he crawled under some tables to the back door of he bar, finally finding the door slightly open, he pushed to open it wider, jumped up onto his feet, and ran like crazy down First Avenue.
The Mexican yelling for help, calling for the police, I had stepped out of the bar myself, watched him run like crazy, a man came up to me, “What’s going on?” he asked.
More shots are fired from the Blackman’s revolver; he ran right past me, the Mexican ran through a parking lot, about twenty-five yards from me.
The man next to me hit me in the elbow, “What’s going on,” he asks again.
“What does it look like, one man’s shooting at another, and the other is running, do I need to interpret that?”
“Na,” said the stranger. “But just tell me you don’t care to explain it, that’ll be good enough.”
I walked away, the Mexican was now laying on the sidewalk, he had been shot, it must had been ninety degrees out, and a minute later I heard an ambulance coming, and a police car.
“You know who shot him,” asks the police man.
“A tall Blackman, perhaps the same age as the Mexican, twenty-two or so.”
“Did you see it,” asked the officer.
“Some of it, why?”
“He got shot in the back, did you know that?”
“I figured as much, he was running away from the Blackman, I guess that is how it would end up.”
“Listen,” said the police officer, shaking his finger at me, “you saw and you didn’t see what you actually saw?”
“Nothing, nothing at all, that’s what I saw once it comes down to it.” I said, adding, “I really don’t care who shot him, they both were arguing in the Gem bar over drugs, everyone heard them.”
“Don’t you want the man who shot him to be caught?”
“Not necessarily,” I told the officer, as the ambulance to the Mexican away, and the police officer was explaining the situation to his boss over the walkie-talkie.
“My boss says to tell you to write it down.”
“Write what down? I told you I never saw anything that was anything, and especially nothing I could write down and swear to.”
“Poor Mexican,” said the police officer, as he got another phone call over his phone perhaps from one of the police officers inside the ambulance,
“He just died in the ambulance, twelve minutes ago, that is how long he lived, from the time they picked him up to now,” the police officer told me as he shot down his phone, looking at his watch.
Then the officer got another ring on his phone, “Yes sir,” he said, adding, “the observer says some fellow that he doesn’t know, shot the other person he doesn’t know, and he didn’t see the actual shooting in the first place, so who can prove who shot him, even if we catch him.”
The police officer looked at me, said, “It’s all right, my boss said, to tell you to go, we’ll no longer need your statement after all.”

Note: An actual event, that took place in the summer of 1983, a tinge modified for the written story, was in the newspapers, and the author wrote a poem about this story, called “First Avenue,” published in a Minneapolis, Newspaper during that same period. Written 2-27-2009•

Jeremiah Benton's Dream (a shrot story)

2009-02-17T20:04:00.002-08:00

Jeremiah Benton’s Dream

Sister Carolyn asked her class, “I want you all to come up with a question concerning God, and let’s work on understanding it better, and together.” And she looked at Jeremiah Benton, who had his hand up, “Ok,” she said, “you go first, Jeremiah…:”
“Why does God send his prophets, instead of him coming in person…” asked Jeremiah Benton, to Sister Carolyn, and his classmates, at St. Louis Ecole, Elementary School, a little French Catholic school, built in 1888, in the center of downtown, St. Paul, Minnesota, in the winter of 1957.
“That’s a good question,” said the nun, “I really don’t know, do you?”
“Oh yes,” replied the ten-year old boy.
“Well then,” said Sister Carolyn, “what is the answer?”
“He’s scary!” said the boy.
“Oh, but that will not do,” said the nun, “how would a little boy like you know he’s scary in the first place?” asked the nun.
“I had a dream last night; and God; He took me back and showed me the whole thing.” Said the boy, seriously.
“You aren’t lying, are you Jeremiah?” asked the nun.
“Oh no, I’m not kidding, it’s true.” Said Jeremiah, “cross my heart,” and the boy did just that, he made a sign across his heart.
“Well,” said the nun, “fine, then come up here in front of the class and tell us all of your marvelous dream, the very one God revealed to you concerning why He sends prophets instead of coming himself in person.”
The boy hesitated, then said to himself, ‘Oh well, I suppose,’ and stood up, walking up the isle, around a few desks, centered himself in the middle of the class, the teacher by her desk, her two hands, palms backwards leaning on the large wooden desk, and her sitting on the edge of it, the blackboard to her side.
“Go ahead” said the sister, “we’re all waiting.”
The class was stone-still, and Jeremiah was standing trying to figure out how to start his story, he hadn’t planed on sharing it, but here he was nonetheless, then he said with an outburst,

“Once…upon a time:

“As God was taking me in his boat, while in my dream, taking me to some far-off land, he called ‘The City of Adam,’ he said ‘A prophet is a person that gives my people warnings, things I points out that anger me, Elijah was one of those people, I even stopped the rain for him to prove a point to the people he brought my message to.’ Next I asked God: why don’t you just do it yourself, and nobody will get confused on your orders. He gave me a ‘hum…’ one of those things, not sure what it meant at the time, and then said, ‘I don’t want people to get confused, but there is only one God you know.’ And I said, I know that, but people get confused. And He did a ‘hum…mm,’ on that also, a second time.
“I asked him: when did all this secret stuff start, by sending the prophets do his job!” (The nun looked at Jeremiah and frowned at that statement; then a classmate yelled ‘Abraham, he was the first prophet. ‘No’’ said another student, it was ‘Adam’ he was the first one.’)

“Anyhow,” continued the boy, “I was in the boat with God, and he went to this city called “The City of Adam,” by the Jordan River, and He said to me ‘It happened here Jeremiah, in those far-off days, prior to the Great Flood, I came down to talk to my people…”

(Jeremiah now tells the story in his own words, while his classmates are double focused on him, not one peep, or noise in the whole classroom, and even the nun, is anxiously waiting, almost holding her breath):

“God said He was his own first prophet, but when He came to talk to his people, when He spoke, and when people saw him, He shook the earth, as if it was an egg on the head of a needle, and people got scared, and his voice echoed from one side of the earth, through the earth to the other side, people ran and hid, thinking there was going to be an earthquake, it made the earth tremble, and when God’s face showed in the sky, it blocked out the sun, and it was all you could see, and the people dug holes in ground to hide, they trembled in fear. And God said, ‘It is just Me, your creator, why do you tremble?’ And the people yelled, ‘Because you are too awesome for us to behold,’ and some even died of a heart attacks, then God said, ‘I will promise you, I’ll send my prophets in my place, so I do not scare you.’ And the people were pleased.”

Sister Carolyn now looked at young Jeremiah—spellbound, “What a dream,” she said, adding, “You must tell us of your next one.”

2-17-2009 (written while having lunch at the Wong café, in Lima, Peru)

The Old Lady and the Imps (a short story)

2009-02-17T20:04:00.001-08:00

The Old Lady and the Imps
(or, ‘Festival of Death’)

“Away”! Cried the lofty one, to Marlene LLosa, he was the angel of death, and he came with several demonic imps.
“Those without souls are mine,” he stipulated.
A wild mournful expression passed her lips. Her husband, Edilberto was dying in bed, he should, according to the doctors, been dead hours ago, he looked at her, and her at him, and she sank down to her knees by the bed, hands over her eyes.
“Those without souls are mine,” murmured Death, in its black robe, and the imps cried, “Feed us were hungry,” and she did.
“I expected,” said Marlene, looking at her husband, and a peripheral view of the Black Angel of Death, “I expected an angel of hope and joy, not this you, who brings only sorrow, and your array of little demonic beings.”
He did not answer her back; he just looked at her with a blank expression.
“Edilberto!” cried the angel of death yelled, “The dead is thine!” He did not dispute this, he simply remained quiet and in suspense, thereafter.
“What does that mean,” asked Marlene, looking at her husband, directing the question to him, but he didn’t answer her.
Strange she thought, perhaps this is all fantasy, an illusion, betwixt, the near to dead face of her husband, appeared indifferent, near depression, anxiety, forlorn, but resigned to his fate.
“So you were waiting for a creature of hope, were you?” said the angel of death, adding (as the little imps danced around in circles laughing, keep death entertained), “Will, you be silent to your wife on your death bed?” the Dark Angel elaborated to Edilberto. He did not respond again.
“I shall call; bid the dead to speak on your behalf, why hope is gone, as soon will be joy?” Said the Dark Angel.
“Leave us,” said Marlene, “go!”
“And what shall be thy token between you two?” asked the Dark Angel.
“I will keep a lock of his hair, until I die, to remember him by, that we shall meet again,” and right then and there she cut a lock off, and put it in her palm, closed her hand making a fist, with her other hand, she held his. And then the angel of death laughed, as did his companions, even Edilberto, seemed to show a light impression of humor on his face, as if the ceremony she just did was silly, hopeless.
Said Marlene, with quivering lips, “You too, you both laugh, you’ve been a good husband, and I’ve been a good wife for fifty-years, and you laugh with the angel of death.”
She then stood up, walked to the door, hearing some noise in the hallway, and there were several demonic beings there, waiting, imps and fiends and devils and demigods from hell.
“What are you all waiting here for?” she asked kindly.
“For him,” a voice said, “to pass away, to die, oh yes, to die, and die quickly, so we can take him to ‘The Festival of Death! And have merriment”’
A taint of insanity appeared to shape her husband’s face, he sat up, on his bed, quiet, and utterly free from expression—just a stare. He looked about, harmless, unaffected by the demonic beings all about.
“Soon,” he said, “I will be a corpse. There are two kinds of beings born on this planet Marlene, the pre Adamic, without souls, and those born under the shadow of Adam, with souls. Between these two, there are no friendships, nor kindred spirits, in one sense it is pretense, he can imagine God in His glory, but that is all he cannot feel him, it is like having a blank piece of paper. He is born indifferent. We have fooled the public for nearly 8000-years. I was born under the shadow of affliction, without a soul. I married you, and I will never know why, for you have a soul.
“The Great Funeral, is the same as the Great Flood, it killed next to all soulless ancestors, and as years went on, so did the Festival of Death, celebrating that event in that God did not kill all of us. This is why those folks in the hallway are waiting; it is their turn to attend one. There is no negotiating in this disdainful situation, it is as it is.”
“Should I hold a funeral for you?” she cried, still holding the lock of hair in her hands, and again on her knees, holding his hand.
She raised her eyes, “But you even went to Church with me?”
Before he could answer that statement-question, Agaliarept, the Henchman from hell appeared in the room (untimely as it was, and intrusive, Agaliarept was always associated with the dead, but normally he arrived after the death had taken place, and tagged along to enjoy the festival. All were hushed upon his arrival.
“The Festival has started; he should be dead by now, what is the problem? Why does he live?” asked Agaliarept.
“Perhaps,” said the angel of death, because his wife has a soul, and she is so close to him, and will not move.”
Slowly, feeble and heavily he fell back under his covers on the bed, her hand in his, the lock of hair in her other hand.
“She’ll get tired soon,” said Agaliarept with a sneer, “and when she does, he will die, and you two (he looked at a imp, and a guard from hell named Gwen) grab his inners, pull him like a rag-doll out of this room, and be done with it.”

To Agaliarept, this was not a satisfactory situation, and he could not take ownership of the spirit of this man neither—at best it was a momentary dilemma, so he felt, fixable, but time consuming: thus, he dare not grab onto this man when it was so close to the soul of a Godly woman, and there she sat, and there he lay, and there they both died, hand in hand, and both buried, hand in hand, in the same tomb, by each other, hands unmoved, as the moonbeams shine over their grave, and a guard from the angel of death sat with his Imp friend for company, waiting for them to be separated, deep down in their quiet tomb.

2-17-2009

San Francisco Hotel Sweeper (1968, a short story)

2009-02-17T20:03:00.001-08:00

San Francisco Hotel Sweeper

Those mornings I’d walk the streets of San Francisco, somewhat unsure of what I’d find, looking for work, and then as the morning progressed into day, and near noon, it would turn about with producing a cool warm summer air, a fresh breeze. I’d walk by this certain hotel, it looked to be at one time, a grand hotel of sorts, now a bit warn, and more on the dim side of its life, up and own, and around its frame you could see its age, its name was evidently well known, still at a certain highbrow level, it was a landmark, of sorts and sweeping the sidewalk each morning, appeared a certain bum like character, in shabby overalls, unshaven, thin looking, not too tall, half his teeth in his head were missing, his fingers a slight bent, a kind natured person, just sweeping away, as if he had no cares in the world, as jolly as could be, as if he had a secret and only he knew it, as if the Golden Fleece itself, I stopped and talked to him a number of times, he said he had been doing that job, sweeping, and cleaning out the furnace, and putting in light fixtures in the basement, and so forth, going on fourteen-years. I couldn’t believe it. And he said, and said it humble, and gratefully, and with pride,
“I get to sleep down by the furnace, it’s warm there, I like it there, and it’s private.”
And he smiled with a funny kind of grin, as if he had swallowed a gold fish, I mean, he was happy with his simple life, and simple it was, and I thought at the time, how kind it was for the hotel to put this poor soul in a bed and give him a roof over his head and a warm spot to warm his feet, and not charge him a dime, and as a result, only expect him to do an hours worth of work, if that.

I saw him off and on, as I previously mentioned, nodded my head off and on when I saw him, and passed him by. He’d step clear of me, and face the street, like an old soldier, standing at attention, as if I was an officer, a General. Always smiling, never displeased, a merry old soul I always figured. Matter of fact, I enjoyed walking down the street, and a few times, if it was morning, and I was down in that area, I’d purposely walk by the hotel, hoping he’d be out, and I could say hello, and more often than not he was. A few times he was going in, or just coming out of the side door of the hotel, but no matter what, if he got a glimpse of me, he’d smile, wave.
‘What makes a man like that,’ I thought at the time. Most people don’t smile, and surely not to strangers. But he wasn’t like most people, he was different. A bum I used to say to myself, he’s just an old bum, no more, and I thought I was being kind to even talk to him, and I was perhaps more bum than he, I had no job, I was twenty-years old, a Midwestern boy, far from home. Yet I told myself, don’t make any judgments, he perhaps had a hard life. He was, or so it appeared that he was in his late sixties, or early seventies, if I remember right, that’s what I thought, didn’t know at that particular moment, told myself he was, back in 1968.

As I was about to say, I walked by him, and he would be waiting, standing aside as if he was my chauffeur. I liked him. Anyhow I’d kept walking looking for work, knocking on doors, listening to the sounds of the street; the tires going by, I like such sounds, the sounds of birds, the horns of cars, and so forth. Then one day, a few months down the road, I picked up a newspaper, and found out he had died. Just up and died, he was sixty-six years old that was a ripe old age I guess, back then. But what startled me, what really fascinated me above all was not that, although it was sad he had died, and perhaps not of a real old, old age—I even took a closer look at the paper, saw his face, affirmed it was the same person—it read and reread it, it said,
“(so and so)…leaves $250,000-dollars to the hotel in his will.”
‘If that don’t beat all,’ I told myself.
I tell you, you just do not know a thing about other people. Perhaps my first lesson in absolute misjudging, and I never called a bum a bum again: don’t judge the person because he looks the way he looks.
I was now proud to have known him, I wonder way, perchance could it be the money he left to the hotel. The hotel was most gratified, and seemed sincere that the old fellow passed on. And by the looks of the hotel, it needs every penny of it to update it. As I write this out, forty years have passed, and $250,000-dollars then, would possibly be equal to four times that amount, figuring it doubles every ten years. Something like that, thus, it would be like receiving a million dollars today, for renovation purposes, if not more.

Originally written in the summer months of 2008, and reedited and modified, in the winter months, of 2009.

Mothers and Sons (a short story/Flash Fiction)

2009-02-16T15:15:00.001-08:00

Mothers and Sons

I could end this story with a half to whole sentence, “Sentimental people get used… (or, overlooked)!” No examples needed. But someone has to give account, that it had been that way. Theodore Franks, had a passion for poetry, while never slaked and he was grateful to his mother for supping his passion during his formative years in this art.
While for others, people thought he was not of sound mind, a bit strange to sit in his attic room and write poem after poem after poem, therefore, he never really sought advice, after knowing how they felt, and it really made no difference where he was.
Theodore Franks’ imagination was both stirring and forever going in various directions: from the common to the not so practical, sum total, never ending. A few times in those formative years, he’d read his poetry to his mother, and she was always pleased to listen, reinforcing him to continue his love and art for his passion.
Theodore’s mind imagined he’d someday be a great poet, he pictured it, strange and bizarre as it may have sounded to the neighborhood gang he hung around with, for lack of anyone else to hang around with. Nonetheless, his writings became masterful and beautiful poetry. When he got older, old enough to travel the world, and to go to college, and a time in the military, and to a war, he had more to write about, and wrote thirteen-books on poetry on all his experiences, and for the most part, in all he did, he minded his own business.

Now knowing how war had been, remembering his earlier days, married to the wrong women, creating life to self-centered, children, he retired as a poet laureate, a sought after dream. And not having much to do continue to write his poetry, now at sixty-two years old. He had written poetry for some fifty-years, a half century.
In all that he had done in life, his poetry never interfered with his responsibilities, and he had written his first poem at twelve-years old, in his bedroom attic, looking out the side window, as the sun seeped into his lap, in patches. So it could be said, the undertaking that started so long ago, had been both proud and smugly pleasing to him.
But what was difficult for him was writing a poetry book on the grieving process of his mother, who had died some five-years prior.
It was good poetry, but it was like poison to him, to write it, and reedit it. Matter-of-fact, as he edited it, he now could feel all of that pain he had initially went through, when he was going through the grieving process, some years past. He felt as if he had been thrown into a tree of hard pine needles, crushed to the ground by the hoofs of wild horse, dust thrown into his face, splinters being pulled out of his forehead. He felt he was struck by lightening, that he was whipped by a javelin.
He wanted to climb a fence, jump over it and find safety, rest under the sun, understand death, and then burn down its bridge, if only he had kerosene, he might have tried something on that order.
To him, the road of death, was a road that went off somewhere along its winding path to the left side of life, leaving the living. A road with no trees, or roof top.

Now in old age, he had become all he wanted to become, could become, and as he walked along the high fence of Central Park, in New York City, he fell against a tree truck,
“You want that I should read it again?” he asked his mother.
“You want to hear it?” he exclaimed.
“Come on closer,” he told her.
“No, I don’t wish to write anymore, I wrote all I needed to write I suppose, I know I had a lot to say.”
“But mom—“
Then after a while, he fell completely to sleep, he had been dreaming, talking in his half-sleep, feeling hollow and happy.

“What?” he said to someone who woke him up.
“You should move on, this isn’t a hotel, grandpa,” said the police officer.
He nodded his head ‘ok.’
The old man stood up and started walking back to his apartment, depressed and gloomily, still alongside the high iron fence of Central Park.
His chest started to get tight, and his throat started closing up on him, to the point he was choking, and holding his chest, losing balance all at the same time.
“Not yet,” he said, “No,” he added, all three words came out in a hoarse voice, someone saw and heard him, a man in his early thirties. Said, “What’s wrong mister?” but Franks could not respond. Then the man said again, “What can I do for you?”
“Go!...” was all Franks could get out of his mouth, so the man left, walked down the sidewalk, perhaps twenty-five feet, stopped a lady, said, “Over there I tried to help the old man, but he insulted me, see the one holding his chest, he told me to go…!”
“He looks in trouble,” said the woman, in her mid forties.
“Well, you go help him then,” responded the man, and started to leave abruptly, overhearing the woman say:
“I really got to go home.”
Two kids, one male about fifteen years old, and his sister, perhaps seventeen, saw what was going on, the boy started to walk towards the man.
“Look,” he told his sister, “his body’s shaking, and his face is turning colors!”
“No,” said the girl, pulling him back one of his pants belt loops “he’s holding his breath, just wants to get attention, then ask for money so he can go get drunk, they do it all the time, around here.”
“All right,” said the boy, “let’s go get a burger then…!”

2-16-2009 (FF/Flash Fiction)

The Mother of an Urn (a Short Story on Death)

2009-02-15T18:46:00.000-08:00

The Mother of an Urn

When his mother (Teresa Gunderson) died he was fifty-five years old, and her ashes were put into a wooden urn, with a cross on it, and a butterfly, she liked butterflies that’s why he specifically picked it out.
His brother, Mick Gunderson, thought they’d have a wake, of sorts, small just for the family, and Mick did all the coordinating, and calling up relatives (to include allowing his brother’s wife Delia, to attend in his place if she wished and bring the urn), and so forth, while Lee (the younger brother), insured everything was paid for, and collected what little money his mother left from her bank account, and insurance policies and so forth, enough for the urn, and wake, with a few dollars left over, but not much.
Well, when the time came for the wake, everyone showed up but Lee, for whatever reasons they were, he did not give to the family members, to include his brother.
The urn was set between two vases of flowers, and on a platform, with a podium for those who wanted to give an elegy, and Mick Gunderson gave his elegy, and his older daughter Sharma, the oldest of the nieces, gave her sentiments, as Teresa Gunderson’s brother Wally, and her several sisters sat in chairs just below the platform, asking where, and why Lee had not shown up (his wife informing him of the light conversations concerning his nonappearance, after her return home from the wake). The elder niece Sharma, noticed this also, and brought it up to her father’s attention. And the wake continued unabated.
As time went by, family members asked—if the the younger brother Lee, whom had the urn in his home, wanted to throw the ashes of his mother into the river, and be done with it, as his mother had said to do, but more in jest, than seriousness.
“No,” said Lee, adding: he couldn’t.
“Let me do it then,” said one of the family members, “I see you have it right in the middle of your living room, like a shrine.”
Later on, Sharma said to her father,
“What’s the sense of my uncle having those dead ashes of grandma in the house anyway?”
Whereupon a month later the older brother, Mick told his younger brother Lee, what his daughter had said, Lee took a slight offense to it but left it alone, knowing they knew little about anything in life other than what their immediate environment provided for them, in their conservative city of the Midwest.
After a long while, a year or so, another family member brought the subject up again, this time it was the daughter of Sherrill, the younger niece to Lee, and sister to Sharma, her seventeen year old daughter Carmella, mentioned to her grandfather, about her great uncle, saying,
“Why does my great uncle, keep ashes of a dead person in the house, how sick that is?”
The Grandfather, Mick Gunderson, told his younger brother of his granddaughter’s remark, perhaps a rhetorical question.
“She doesn’t know much does she,” the younger brother said, adding, “if she had done any living, or traveling, she’d understand other cultures, that there are different ways of life, of thinking, she would understand this is not so uncommon, among the other two-hundred countries that surround the United States of America, and therefore, it wouldn’t seem so unusual, or odd, or sick, they keep them in many countries in their houses, such as in Asia, and East Europe in particular—I’ve seen them myself, matter of fact, they keep the bones of the relatives out in the open, on shelves, in Cambodia, in a person’s backyard. Perhaps she thinks she’s too above everybody else, or she lives in box, all tightly bound that says: USA only.”
The older brother didn’t say a word, what could he say, he, himself was confused on the issue, and did little traveling outside of the United States, nor got involved with other countries, or cultures to weigh his brother’s statement, and Lee didn’t give him the reason why he did what he did, feeling it was his business, and no one else’s, and didn’t think it was such a big deal, or worthy of a long explanation, especially coming the mouths of arrogance.

Another year had passed by, then Lee decided to move, was about to move to South America, from Minnesota, his wife being Latin American, she had now lived in the United States going on six-years. During the process of selling his furniture, the issue of his mother’s urn came up again, during a visit,
“Why?” said Carmella, then added, “Look mom, my great uncle still has my Great Grandmother’s ashes,” and gave a horrifying look on her face, as she looked upon them.
Lee paid her little attention, and walked away as soon as she ended her sentence, and made her face to show her mother her disgust, and he went back to take care of business. She had said it in the sly, and didn’t realize he overheard her.

Soon after, Lee moved to South America and of course, brought his mother’s urn with the ashes in it, with him, right onto the airplane, and right on his lap.
A year after that, Lee’s brother Mick, brought up the issue over the phone, saying,
“You still got mom’s ashes?”
“For god’s sake,” Lee emphatically said, “it’s none of your business, you never wanted them in the first place, and I asked you.”
The older brother thought on this, like his two daughters thought, as they talked this issue over (a while back, prior to this phone call), for they had said, “What kind of man will not go to his mother’s wake, but keep her ashes as if they were sacred?”
One voice among the four had said this to all the rest.
The older niece, Sharma had said, “I bet grandma would like to rise from her grave and damn him!”
But then the brother had calmed down, told his two daughters, and granddaughter, “Its best left alone, we don’t know the whole of it.”
It was during this time, that Mick called Lee up, as I had just mentioned, and during that conversation, asked him kindly,
“Why is it brother you keep her ashes and never went to her wake, I ask you out of love, not scorn or judgment, and because the subject has come up in my family surroundings.”
“Because,” he said, “it’s my mother, its really nobody else’s business, but perhaps it is yours somewhat. You see, she was so dear to me, and she is so much dearer now to me, and I could not think of her being gone, thrown into a river, or left idle in a cemetery, where all those who said they loved her would never visit her, only left for the birds to flyover, and dogs to run by—perhaps urinate on her grave stone, flowers to grow around her and nobody to put them on her grave. Grandpa died 19-years ago, have you ever visited him (the brother said ‘no’), see what I mean. Now she will be with me and in a way, she never left. Had I gone to the wake I would have been sadder, this way, I will never be quite that sad. I know people talk against me, and say all sorts of unjust things, but I can say now I always had a mother.”
“That’s true,” his brother said.
And for the nieces they still continued to say, “What kind of uncle do we have?”

1-15-2009 (on the Roof, Lima, Peru)

A Tucan against One

2009-02-13T15:59:00.000-08:00

In the morning after breakfast in the lodge dinning room, Chick Evens and his wife, Delilah, moved out to the open air patio, where there were three hammocks, they were deep inside the Amazon, one hundred and twenty five miles from, Iquitos, Peru, it was the month of March, of 2001, their first anniversary.
He had slept well, was looking fresh and wholesome, for his past middle age appearance. He picked up a magazine as he slipped over and into the loose and dangling hammock, constantly looking about for Big Beak, the Tucan mischievous bird. Although it had a colorful beak, and was a large and beautiful looking bird, it was a pest at best, a provoking menace at worse, that had attacked Mr. Evens two days in a row, but was the lodge’s mascot, an icon of sorts.
He was, the Tucan, simply an attention seeker among the people of the lodge, and Evans did not allocate any of his time, nor wish to accommodate the bird with any of his time, thus, avoiding giving any attention at all to the bird, whom he called the Beast-bird, or the Bird-beast, and this annoyed the Tucan.
This was his third day at the lodge, and he’d be leaving tomorrow, and he was hoping to lay back and enjoy the rest of the morning, when Big Beak arrived, another nickname, Evans bestowed upon the bird, shaking his feathers in the sunlit heated morning, under the shadow of his hammock.
The Tucan then started making noises under the hammock, if they had anything in common, it wasn’t this, it annoyed Evens; although the one thing they did have in common was the sun, the fresh air, but not the sight of each other.
“Here he goes again, with them confounded weird noises,” said Chick to his wife.
The Tucan moved down towards the end of the hammock, and with its long stretched out, hard boned beak, he grabbed a hold of Chick’s toe, it was hanging over he hammock, and he wouldn’t let go, until Chick took a swat at him, missed him with his round folded up magazine by no more than an inch, which only enticed the bird-beast to play more games to get more attention.
Several faces looked at Evens, about thirty-feet away, folks playing checkers, reading books, and having loose conversations, they gave him a ‘shame on you,’ look.
“Shoo,” yelped Evens, but the bird insisted on staying.
The feathers on the bird’s throat, stood out now, it was war, or at least a battle to be.
The Tucan came around towards Evens’ hand he let it loose, dangle over the hammock, and when the bird came to bite it, he grabbed his beak, and shook the bird, and let him go, and the folks now had turned to look at the American that was beating up on the poor helpless Tucan, but Evens paid them little to no attention, his thoughts were on the bird.
The bird was now madder than a hornet, and attacked Mr. Evens, trying to reach him, and Mr. Evens gave the bird a good swat, and that stopped his onward thrust, and Evens took that as a victory. But the onlookers were starting to get restless.
For several minutes the bird circled under the hammock, devising his plan of attack or retreat.

“Have you and the bird got over your squabbling yet?” asked Delilah.
“Very funny,” responded her husband, “too bad he doesn’t go over there to visit you.”
Evens was now talking to the bird, as if it was a deaf, child, “Read my lips,” he said, “go away, leave me alone.”
“You simply should not pay the bird any attention, and it will go away, be nice to the bird and off she’ll fly to visit someone else.” said Delilah.
“I’m tired being nice to this bird-beast, I don’t want to be nice, I want it dead or gone out of my life.”
“Don’t talk like that, if people hear you they’ll kick us out of here,” said Delilah, adding “she’s not going to eat you up.”
“I’ve tried hard to be its friend, I’ve come to the conclusion, no American can make a Peruvian Tucan happy, no matter what.”
“No,” said Delilah, “you got to be more patient like us Peruvians.”

Written 2-13-2009. Dedicated to Rosa.

To-Morrow is Saturday (a short Spoof: Ref: Hemingway)

2009-02-11T20:29:00.000-08:00

To-Morrow is Saturday

(Hotel Ambos Mundos, Havana, Ernest Hemingway's
first residence in Cuba (1932-1939) where most of
For Whom the Bell Tolls was written)

Two Bellboys are guessing what Ernest Hemingway is writing in his hotel room at the Hotel Ambos Mundos, Havana, it is summer of, they are in the bar, drinking down some beer, they’re a little tispy.

1st Bellboy—You know what novel he’s working on now?
2nd Bellboy—No, how would I know.
1st Bellboy—I bet you do know, you’re in his room all the time, you should.
Cuban Bartender—Here you boys go, you’ll like it (He pours two large glasses full of beer, filled to the brim of each of the glasses, and places a pitcher of beer alongside the two glasses). That’s a nice cold pitcher too, on the house.
1st Bellboy—Manual’s kind to us employees, always giving us a little extra, on the house, be sorry to see him go, too bad that writer isn’t like that! Rather moody if you ask me.
2nd Bellboy—It’s best you don’t mention his name too loud, news gets around fast, plus I got a head ache.
1st Bellboy—You’ve drank that beer down too fast, its too hot to be doing that, gulp it slower.
2nd Bellboy—It cools my insides down.
1st Bellboy—You’ve been in the sun too long.
2nd Bellboy—Say, Manuel, tell my friend here what Ernest Hemingway is working on in his room, what book now?
Cuban Bartender—Maybe he’s rewriting that book “Sun don’t Rise” now how do I know, you ask silly questions.
(The 1st Bellboy fills his glass back up with beer from the pitcher).
2nd Bellboy—Hay Manuel, what else did you put into the beer glass?—it looks like coffee grounds?
Cuban Bartender—Just drink it and shut up, it’s just some cigarette ashes fell into your glass, your cigarette ashes, to be truthful, you’re just too cock-eyed to notice, it’ll make you walk upside down.
(All three start to laugh)
1st Bellboy—Take a guess at what he’s writing…
Bartender –-You talking to me?
1st Bellboy—I’m looking at you, so I must be talking to you.
Bartender—You were really out of it last night, but so was he, you know, the writer, he told you what he was writing, because you asked him, it sounded like, “Bell and “Toll”, whatever, that means.
(The two bellboys look at one another; both take a drink of their beers, the 1st Bellboy looks confused, the other one impressed.)
1st Bellboy—Holy Hemingway, what do you say, to that.
(He raises his eyebrows, looks at his pal, and then the bartender.)
2nd Bellboy—The big man talked to you, haw, and you didn’t tell me!”
1st Bellboy—Oh, I can’t remember, we both must have been drunk.
2nd Bellboy—Maybe he’ll come out of his tomb tonight and drink with us peasants.
1st Bellboy—He don’t like Cubans, he only likes writing about us, that’s his game.
2nd Bellboy—Show me a guy that doesn’t have a game in motion.
1st Bellboy—I got it, “For Whom the Toad Bellows,” that’s his new book, ask Manual, he’ll tell yaw.
Cuban Bartender—I tell you both once and for all, I don’t know, but I guess it’s something like that, “Bell a Toll,” something like that in the title or maybe “The Bell Toll” not sure what toll means though.
2nd Bellboy—I think when he gets drunk he likes to brag his work up a little…or maybe a lot!
1st Bellboy—I like the book “Women that can’t find Men” that one was pretty good.
Bartender—You got the name wrong, it’s “Men Don’t need Women.”
2nd Bellboy—I don’t think he’d write something like that, and who cares what he’s writing anyhow, my head hurts.
Bartender—I’m one who really don’t care, just change the subject.
1st Bellboy—I was surprised he even talked to me last night.
Bartender— Don’t be too surprised, he was even talking to the dog, the floor and some ghosts, new ones from Madrid.
2nd Bellboy—Maybe I’ll be lucky tonight and he’ll come down out of that room of his and talk to me.
1st Bellboy—What became of his women?
2nd Bellboy—They faded out when he got married. Actually some of them got tired of his moods; he got married didn’t he?
Bartender—The men stick around him all right, it’s just the women get tired of his mouth, and ways.
1st Bellboy—You’ll get into trouble talking that way.
Bartender—Boys it’s getting late, got to close up here soon, so drink up, and well finish this discussion tomorrow.
2nd Bellboy—Why do we keep coming here, this beer just makes me pee, my head hurt, go to sleep wakeup and pee some more…and
1st Bellboy—and nothing, now look over there, the fat one leaning over and talking to the dog, I think that’s…
Bartender—I think you both had one too many that’s an old woman with a white beard. Goodnight now!
(Manual looks a little worried at the gentleman who is walking over to him, he doesn’t have a beard, nor is he fat, he’s just hairy on the forearms, drunk as a skunk, and asks):
“Which way’s the door, I’m going to La Bodeguita del Medio!”

2—11—2009 (written under the sun, on top of my roof in Lima, Peru)

Twentieth Century's Greatest Read (s)

2009-02-03T21:15:00.000-08:00

Twentieth Century’s Greatest Read
(Novel, Novelette, or short stories)

Everybody has their own selection, I read a lot, but I normally only buy my favoured authors, and a few of them have only written one or two books I feel worthy of mentioning; on the other hand, in the Case of Mary Renault, or Hemingway, or Faulkner, or F. Scott Fitzgerald, even Erich Maria Remarque, they really do not write bad books, all their books are fairly well written. Perhaps the greatest book written, novel that is, in the 20th Century’s “The Great Gatsby,” (the worse being, James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’), ‘and the greatest writer, who influenced the most people, was William Faulkner, so I believe. Hemingway brought in some new dialogue, and Remarque, showed us how it was over there in Europe without going in circles like Faulkner likes to do, after and during WWII. He, Remarque, was perhaps the most interesting writer, as far as action goes. F. Scott, brought us the Jazz age, and kind of stuck with that through his first four novels, the fifth, he never finished, that being “The … Last Tycoon.” That may have even surpassed the Gatsby, had he not died early on in life.
Funny, now that I look back at these writers, Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, were all alcoholics.
Mary Renault being gay hid her passion between the lines in her Greek books of which she had several, I have all her books everyone of them…and all of Faulkner’s, and all of Hemingway’s, and so forth. I have found out it is easier in life to pick out the crazy few, the ones that you really like, and stick with them, instead of trying to fill your library up with junk you never want to look at after you read the first paragraph.
After Hemingway wrote “Across the River and into the Tree,” in which he was scorned for, because it was not of is old self, less than perfect, he went out and wrote, the best seller, you know which one, “The Old Man and the Sea.” That is a good book, but I would have recommended it be a short story, it gets boring.
Faulkner never wrote for the reader to read it once and forget his story, he wrote for the reader to ponder over it, because if you don’t, you lose the plot, and theme, if indeed you can find it, and it is all twisted up usually, he likes to go in circles, like Gertrude Stein often did, so it gets planted in your brain. He is difficult to read. On the other hand, Jack London, is very easy to read, who wrote a book called, “Before Adam,” a great read, and of course “The Call of the Wild,” and all those other books, of which I have about fifteen of his first editions, he wrote so much, I keep finding new books by him I never heard of, and he has some good short stories, like F. Scott, Hemingway and Faulkner. He was clear in his writings, surprisingly so, because he belonged to that alcoholic punch I just mentioned a moment ago.
In any case here is my 20th century list:

The Great Gatsby
Go Down, Moses
The Fifth Column…
Before Adam
I, Claudius
Call of the Wild
Absalom, Absalom!
The Sound and the Fury
A Movable Feast
To Kill a Mockingbird
Light in August
The Beautiful and Damned
The Jazz Age
Kind were her Kisses
The Persian Boy
The Mask of Apollo
Pillars of the Earth
Flight over Water
A Passage to India
The First Man in Rome
The Grass Crown
Across the River and into the Trees
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Far Well to Arms
The Night in Lisbon
The Arch of Triumph
All Quiet on the Western Front
The Lost World
Neverwhere
Dharma Bum
Letters to Allen Ginsberg

The Demon Lover (A Poetic dialogue between a demon and his lover)

2009-01-23T18:32:00.000-08:00

The Demon Lover
((A Poetic dialogue between a demon and his lover) (witticism at its best))

In their apartment, in ‘Times Square,’ NY, NY

I.

A woman wailing, “No—not a bit bad!” she exclaims.
“Not bad at all—d’you think?” she adds.
“Rather good,” said the demon.
“What time did you say it was?” she asks.

((His eyes tapering—hideous like) (expressing dim
displeasure.))

“Seems I’d said something wrong?” barked the woman.
Said the demon, in a hoarse like voice, “Can’t you
try to concentrate?”
“You bore me to tears,” murmured the demon lover.

II.

The demon, bobbling his head up and down,
back and forth, doing a double-take on that note,
says (with a solid firm tone to his voice)
“What did you say?”

(The lover is fixing her hair, painting her claws;
overlooking his statement, for the moment.)

“I told you already,” she says (bright eyed), you
should have written it down.”
The demon (a noble aesthete) “We never pass out
we just keep going on and on…!”
“I bet,” says the lover, “you think your endurance
is impressive? That’s particularly silly, when you’re a
dead duck! You boast too much, and lay about like
a tank, roll under the table, where you belong.”

“I’m going to the theater,” says the lover.
“Why?” says the demon.
“Here I can’t do any deep thinking! Plus you need
to learn the thing you’re making love to is a woman!”
“My god,” says the demon “is that what it is.”
“I’m tired of you,” she tells the demon, annoyingly.

The demon, as though talking to him, himself that is,
says: “I think after the next round, I’ll go to a musical
comedy.”
“I heard that,” said the lover, “that is your kind of
intellectual libretto.”

Now you could hear the demon groan and grunt,
“You are,” said the demon lover, “a dull meaningless
figure in a dull meaningless world.”

III.

The Demon: “Sex isn’t dull!”
“In itself it is,” she explains, “it does although, make
life more playful!”
The Demon: “Good show baby, you love it!”
“On the contrary,” says the lover, “it’s a lot of work
especially for me with you! You give it a purpose,
otherwise it couldn’t stand on its own.”

“Well,” said the demon, inhaling the unpleasant
atmosphere “in any case, I’m a pragmatist and so
grant a poor demon a… a little you know what?
Matter-of-fact, if everyone believed in what you
say, we’d be out of business.”

“I suppose so,” said the demon lover, “and to anguish
with conventional morality, we’re all borderline heretics anyhow, and you think you’re so sophisticated.
We don’t need demons to teach us this
rot, if anything, it’s our gift to you…!”
“How can that be, I don’t even know what that all
means,” said the demon.
“If only people really knew, how dumb you really are,
they’d not put so much value in your, demur.”

(Here then, came a knock on the apartment door, the tickets arrived for the musical and cinema theaters, and who know what might have gone on, and been said, had they not arrived.)

1-23-2009 (No: 2557)

Midnight Lost (a poem)

2009-01-22T23:22:00.000-08:00

Midnight Lost

In youth one seems to have an immortal river,
to rise at dawn and never to see midnight come.
It is life on the rainbow, from dust to dust, or
dawn to dawn, and all you hear are echoes—
resounding, booming back and forth, and you
wonder: “What happened to midnight? Where
has it gone?” Somewhere, somehow, along the
way, it simply got lost!

1-23-2009 (No: 2556)

A Curious Afternoon in Tijuana, Mexico ((1969)(the Whorehouse))

2009-01-22T17:47:00.001-08:00

A Curious Afternoon in
Tijuana, Mexico (1969)

At 1:30 p.m., Chick Evens is sitting with a close friend, his amigo, Mick Gunderson, at a common bar, in Tijuana, Mexico, drinking down a heavy, almost syrup like Mexican beer; it is the first time for both of them to be in Mexico, and Chick is exceptionally watchful, his eyes are if not imposing, near to it, everyone can see him, the red head, with sharp blue eyes, ‘…the gringo…’ someone mumbles at the other end of the bar. His dried out, protracted blinking eyes, hurting from the bright sun; he rubs them, as if trying to readjust them in the low lit tavern.
He is with a man he considers his best friend, and who is a friend of his brother’s, whom he is visiting in Montclair, California, and who will be accompanying him back to Minnesota.
During Evens’ time in San Francisco, at the karate dojo, he was considered a top contender for the next belt, the Black Belt, being the most original with his karate style, quick and deadly.

•

They are glad to see one another, it’s been over a year, when Chick moved to San Francisco, at which time, so did his brother and his wife, along with Mick move to Southern California, they are all from the same old neighbourhood back in St. Paul, Minnesota, Cayuga Street.
Thus, their eyes are full of kindness for the most part, both feeling effect of novelty, after the long separation. They finish the beer, relax a bit on the bar stool.
The Mexican bartender, behind the bar, is purring behind that smirk, as his catlike face checks out the redheaded gringo. Check nervously and restlessly senses it, there is not much conversation between Mick and Chick, so Mick suggests,
“Let’s go check out the whores?”
Chick: Sure! (Impatiently.)

(Outside the bar walking around)

Mick: You’d think the whores would be walking about, trying to get customers.
Chick: Look at the man over there (to his right, he points) his cart fell over; he’s picking up his food from the ground, tacos or is that a tamal cart, whatever…!
(They both laugh.)
Mick: sure is hot!
Chick: Over there, look over there (he points to the far left) that girl she’s waving at us (a dark-haired, Mexican girl about nineteen, with a short black skirt on, looking pleasantly at them both)
Mick: Yes, it’s us she’s looking at, let’s see what she cost. (They both walk slowly over to her; it is about two-hundred feet away.)
Mick: No speak Spanish, I hope you speak English?
Chick: How much will it cost for sex?
Girl: Ten-dollars for you señor…
Mick: Sounds like the right price! Ok, where do we do it?
Chick: Me, too!
Girl: Of course, honey! (Chick and Mick both look at each other as if to say: what are we getting ourselves into?)
Girl: You go señor into that room over there and your friend (Mick) he comes with me.

They had walked down an alley, and in the back was four three story brick buildings, and a low, one story wooden structure built up against a wall, with several enclosed rooms, there was out in the front, within this enclosure area, a dirt like empty lot, mysterious to say the least, thought Chick. And they both went into the two separate rooms, individually, and separated from one another.
Just prior to Chick’s entering the green door, to the one room, with only a bed it, which stood in the centre of the room, up against the wall, a chair to one corner of the bed to put his close on, and a skimpy looking rug, for a lone moment, it was a thought, that this was all stimulating, exciting, just the process of doing it, not the sex he thought he was going to get, but the building up to it, the development: there was something breathless about such an unknown moment, like abruptly going up a hill on a rollercoaster, and knowing in a moment you will be going down at a hundred miles per hour.

•

As chick waited in his room, a different girl came in, smiled, said, “Take off your close señor, I’ll be back in a minute.” And then she left, accordingly, he took off his trousers, and his shirt, now standing and waiting for the girl with only his under shorts on and his socks. At this point, he sensed there was more to this than meets the eye. And he would be right. For it was just a matter of minutes between the girl leaving and a knock on the door, and three He-men, Mexicans, with guns came in…

Ten minutes later

There they sat, Mick and Chick, a few blocks away from that so called Green painted wooden whorehouse, telling each other their stories, vowing to each other they’d never do that again (with a tinge of laughter in-between every few syllables).
Both had been robbed by the three armed he-men, but Chick had his money hid in his socks, $300.00 dollars to be exact. And there he stood almost naked with the three gangsters, guns loaded, as they asked, “More money, where is your money?”
He had told them, he only had change, he had paid the girl the ten dollars, and only change left, didn’t need anymore, because he was going back home. Mick on the other had, had $40-dollars left, an that was his contribution.
If there was to be any satisfaction out of this episode, it was that Chick got a measure of superiority on that side of the fence, that he outsmarted the Mexicans, who had ambushed them.

Written at Starbucks, In Lima Peru, 1-22-2009

The Portrait of W.S. ((Raison d'être) (reason to be))

2009-01-20T20:40:00.001-08:00

((Raison d'être) (reason to be))

The Portrait of W.S.

Chapter One

You could barely at times, during the onset, stand the crying, the noise the razor-strip made across his back, I speak of those who could hear the slashing and echo the thin leather strip strap made; it was made for sharpening a razor not for whippings. Those in the extended family, learned to acquire deaf ears while the old man was in his mood, the neighbors in the summer with their windows down, open to the air, could hear, they also learned to tolerate the ongoing affair, calling it a ‘slight disturbance’; perhaps the truth, the whole truth, was, they were getting accustomed to it, thus in such a process one minimizes, if not completely putting it into a dead chamber of ones mind—you know what I mean, the old saying, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Something likes that. No one knew what the reasons were for his beatings, why he battered with the razor strap W.S., perhaps not even the old man knew why he did, what he did, nonetheless, he did it.
His wife, the old man’s wife, W.S. ’s mother, had been dead now for some years, double pneumonia—the Minnesota winters can be hard on ones body, and it was on her’s—she gave the old man eight children to raise though, perchance that played a role in why the old man chose W.S., to take out his frustrations on; sometimes we do that, pick out a certain individual, person—save we don’t take it out on all—to displace our anger (and yes, anger can come out sideways, if it is not directed toward the reason and person one is angry at, in many ways, as I mentioned before, frustration being a lighter form of anger, like trying to push a door open and someone is behind it as a counter weight pushing it in the opposite direction, thus comes the anger, the frustration the irritation in life, it comes from not being able to open the door), and now that his wife was dead, his help mate, and not being able to speak English well, being from Russia, and having the children at hand, working two jobs, W.S., was his release.
In the cellar, where he kept his pigeons, he raised a horde of them, that is where he took W.S., quietly down a wooden flight of stairs, pulling him by one ear, stretching it out as if he wanted to pull it off, yet he didn’t allow himself the pleasure, lest he be considered inhuman, a beast, and he assured himself that—he was not.
He had him lay over the edge of a table, shirt off, pants down, and he whipped him, upper legs, buttocks, lower and upper back and across the spine, up to his lower part of his shoulders, but not on exposed areas, only areas that he would cover up later with his cloths.
The rhythm of the leather razor strip, rapidity went smoothly across those exposed areas, almost spaced perfectly in time, as if he was playing a piano in 4/4 time, from one to the next hack, as if he had it tuned perfectly, that being his arms reached the proper distance with the wave of the strap, and the slap of it on flesh, to produce little red marks, on his pink flesh, but not cutting him. He endured these beatings several times a year, for years…

(Interlude) We look for reasons why people do what they do, sometimes, when we can’t find them, it simply comes under, reason to being, a motive for existence. Perhaps the old man knew, things give in, fall apart, and he could (as in his homeland of Russia), they always have, like the falling stars, the shooting astounds in the night sky, fall, never to be seen again (he was sending money home to his mother, now in Warsaw, and he’d never see her again, and his father who fell off a roof in Russia, he’d never return) possibly he felt he was in a strange sea, and if he stopped doing what he was doing, he’d fall off that same roof, or disappear like the asteroids, the falling stars, he was as if sanding under a lit lantern, tied to a mast, and forgot what happiness was, and when things don’t work out as you plan, where was he to go, he didn’t read, study the news per se, he didn’t drink much, he couldn’t go back home, to Russia, had he done that, it would have been like jumping back into the depths of the sea. Consequently, W.S., was his discharge, his savior, his way to get back to sanity.

and he who beat the strap so cunningly, from years of practice now, being 82-years old, looked everyday of his age. His legs were beginning to become wobbly, unbalanced, and weak in strength and endurance. His thin straight hair, lay flat on his balding head, and his dark eyebrows, once bushy, now were thinning out, like loose threads, just lying dormant almost to his eyelashes, with no flexibility to bring them back up to life. His forehead extended backwards, as if it was a receding glacier, unrelenting and soon to be completely balled. His eyes were being pushed back farther into his eye-sockets, and the sockets were deeper and wider than they had ever been, almost as if they were tapped onto the skull itself by a hammer—, spot-welded on for survival sake, like a tapered pair of pants, then ironed onto the skull. His eyes had dark pinholes for irises, thinner than a ghost’s mist. He was shockingly cadaverous looking in posture and looks.
W.S., didn’t know his father’s daytime hopes and aspirations, other than they were most likely connected to his insomnia, and for each person, it is different, it comes in essence, in a different package, not sure if any one person knows the other person that well to figure out that package but between he and his father it was an ever widening interval, and perhaps his troubles commenced with the war, scarcely did he talk about it, and when he did, he got deeply engrossed, as if awakened from or into a nightmare, pin-pricked in the finger (often times we think we know the other person, only to find out later one, we have simple reviewed our own personal suspicions of the other person, something W.S., never did), and those nights, the ones where prior that day he talked about the war, he, W.S., would end up usually,
flipping on the bedroom light, as his father would be uttering something (something haunting), and a wild scream would follow, as if he was charging, devouring the man in front of him, and after that he was very, very tired, and W.S., would walk him back to his bed, in the morning never knowing a thing about anything the previous night, he though, the old man thought, he was in a total sleep, never figuring out, the intermittent horrors—of his sleep-walking; such an undertaking, interlocking circumstance, for W.S., yet, they generally seemed thin to him, diminished in force and urgency, and viewed in his mind more as a coincident for a lighter subject: conceivably more on the order of ills of an old man’s functioning body.
On the other hand, W.S., was sympathetic to his father’s ill and eternal quivering in the bed, trying to get to sleep, again imagining but not quite honoring his imagination for realism, he thought the war might have stayed with him, the Civil War, and those great battles he talked about, to the point of bringing him to the edge of an abyss, and should he fall face first, forward and viciously down into that abyss, an endless grimy tragedy was waiting, he saw his demons there, singing him a lullaby, and their only wish was to enfold him into their nightmare.

But the old man was aging, his skin starting to sag; forearms were forming lasting wrinkles, muscle tone deflated, and the muscles knotting up from lack of use, and over use, and outstretched skin. And those once thick Russian bones were now bending, he lost height, none that he could really afford to lose, he was only five-footed two inches tall to begin with. Even his silver watch, around his wrist left a thick impression in his flesh when he took it off at night, twice as deep as it was a few years back, and the watch, was dulling as was his skin tone.
“Oh yes,” he yelped, as he punished rapidly with his descending whip and thrust of the strap on the back of W.S., muttered something (with the eyes of five-thousand hungry dogs) and the old man said,
“Oh no, I know you did!”
Ah, W.S., muttered something back, and the old man said,
“Oh no, I know you did,” and caught his breath, then added “I’ll take the devil out of you yet!”
But W.S., would not disclose his sisters name, the one he did this and that with, his so called sidekick, and had he disclosed here name, I doubt, the old man would have done anything about it anyhow, he would have blamed W.S., for leading her astray; thus, whipping him more, and at the same time, wiping her soul clean, sanctifying her by proxy. Sometimes W.S., and his sister, the third of the eight in age, would run off and into the city, returning late, or not returning until the next day—this was a peeve with the old man, amongst other things.

Chapter Two

The old man cursed worse than a dying warlock, he had a hard time with the English language, but not with the English cursing words. It was as if some evil spirit cast a spell upon him, during his voyage over from Europe, to New York City.
The old man had run away from home when he was only ten-years old, a stowaway on a ship, it was 1864, when he arrived in the United States, and somehow found himself in a war between the states at eleven years old. Thereafter, in 1866, he found his way to St. Paul, Minnesota, along the Mississippi, making his way up from New Orleans and St. Louis. What happened in-between, was all hearsay, the old man was never that coherent to put the pieces back together for anyone to create a complete and finished story out of those years.
But getting back to W.S., he simply endured like a dutiful and proud son he was, from a stock of Russian and Polish descendents, his grandmother being of that second order.

The father, the old man that is, shameless in his degraded anger, buried a lovely and church going wife, a woman of some breeding, a second wife that is, he had ridded himself of a previous wife, whom he had no children with, and was only married a short time to in comparison to his second wife, whom the first was nothing less than a drunk. He had kicked her out of the house, and went looking for a new one; almost as if it was a commodity he was looking for.
After his wife had died, he had gathered most of her things, so many things, of fifteen years of buying, and therefore he had only the things around him he was fond of, which was to the old man very edifying, a black mantle clock, a picture of him and his wife by the clock in the living room, and in his bedroom a medal from the Army he was given. He had very few impressive photographs of old, but the one he had, he’d look at very preciously, of course at this point and time, it was late in life for him. Hidden in his sofa chair W.S., had found one some pornographic black and white pictures, photographs of a young woman, she looked familiar, from up the block, W.S., put them back in the same location, it was a shame he thought, he had even found them. He looked already as a man on his death bed, yet he’d live longer, W.S., knew this and was hopeful he did, such folks always do, it seems, it is as if God himself, is giving them an extra chance to repent. He had kindness in him, otherwise he’d not have raised eight kids, save for it was simply kindness stretched out ineffectual. All in all, he had the good taste, not to marry a third time, lest he endure more frustration, anger, and dissatisfaction, and that would just not do.
The woes of so many people, in his life haunted him—W.S., was sure of that, from Russia to the Civil War, to his first drunken wife, and then onto his beautiful beloved second wife, and her death, as if this was some theatrical introduction to a classic drama to be played out on state, so W.S., often would ponder on, undertook to reissue his old thoughts and collect his new ones. He was always trying to figure out what made the old man tick.

•

There was at this time, the neighbours who honourable stood by staring out their windows, laughing at the cries of the boy, as if ready to applaud, if only they had an actual eyeful of the subdued in their mist. This was never on his mind though, the old man was many things, but he was not trying to feed the pleasures of others, but most frequently did, in his underground hush-hush, and these cries were of course prior to the boy’s teens, once he reached the adolescent state, he never cried again, matte of fact, he was taller than the old man, and stronger.
Oh yes, W.S., endured and even murmured to his father as he was being beat on his 15th birthday, the old man breathless,
“Take me to the shed pa, so the neighbour’s won’t hear and say bad things about you.”
But the old man never paused to listen, and therefore, the beatings remained in the cellar.
W.S., made no attempts to run away, not for good anyhow, he and his sister E.S., were tied together like Amos and Andy on the Radio broadcast they had weekly, they were sidekicks, sort of, but too often this gave the old man more reason to beat W.S., to punish him, to slash him with the leather strap, and listen to the blows, but now with no tears, or cries, silent was his victim, and accordingly, much of the pleasure dissolved.

About this time, 1940, the boy being seventeen-years old now, the old man asked W.S., “Vhy yo no cry?” (The old man now 93-years old)
The old man was exhausted from giving W.S., a beating, he even dropped the leather strap to the floor, his fingers stiff, didn’t even feel the leather fall out of his grips. He then caught his breath back, shook his head.
“It doesn’t hurt that much any more father,” said W.S., the old man had lost his strength, his ability to put that much force into the wave of the leather strap, and half the slashes, hit the table, not the boy, his aim was off, his balance was terrible, he almost fell on top of the boy.

This day, the old man stood stone-still, looked about, he was disorientated, couldn’t figure out exactly where he was. So much anger, so much death in the back of his head, swollen skies, not much life, he murmured, “…everythin’ goin’ to hell…!”
He was dizzy; his head felt like it was crashing, like thunder falling from eardrum to eardrum. W.S., helped his father to sit down in a chair nearby, then halfway down—bending his knees, he stood straight up, pushed the chair away from him, now regaining his strength.

The boy, if anything was very proud of his father, proud he had fought in the Civil War, to him a hero, and W.S., being the last, and youngest of the eight children, born in 1923, having missed the great War, told his father, “Pa, I’m going to enlist in the Army, I want to fight in this new war in Europe.”
That was the last of his beatings that day, he’d never get another.
The boy smiled when he told his father his ambition, and for the first time in his life, he smiled back. Matter of fact, he would comment to his neighbours in due time, of his boys intentions which would be reality in a matter of month.

As W.S., stood there, waiting to get a second beating, thinking his father was going to give him a second beating, now that he had his strength back, and especially for talking back to him, the old man simply turned about, walked quietly up the old wooden stairs, mumbling and swearing, but proudly this time.

Chapter Three

The boy knew, it was hard for his father to live amongst the herd (society), where there was more wolves than lambs—and his communicational skills were dull at best, and that the wolves get hungry and have to eat, and we cannot stray too far off, lest, finding the lambs may eat us also. He had no special gospel to teach his children such things, or the words, he knew they had to learn this on their own, let us assume, he didn’t like it, or half didn’t like it, having to teach them, having no teaching skills, and if the leather strap helped teach W.S., how terrible his father could be, then how bad could the wolves be, or even the lambs. He was somewhat relieved when he was told W.S., was going into the Army, this would be his teacher.
For himself, he was a man wrapped up some, with domestic rats, his ways were cut from an old carpet you might say, and in a few months his boy would be gone. “How strange,” he mumbled as he often did, “I didn’t suspect it,” he uttered to the mirror as he walked by his black mantle clock, looking at Ella, his wife; seeing how old and ugly he had turned into, all those 90-plus years weighing on him.
Once there was a whole lot of him, by and by it disappeared, like his sleep was doing, if anything, to want for sleep, and not have it, and to be in bed, and sleep not, was his worse curse you might say.
He loved Ella, she was the only perfectly respectable girl in his life, no matter how long she lived, she would never leave his mind, well I suppose it isn’t quite true, Oh-h-h! he found that one young girl, some thirty-years younger than he, up the block, the one W.S., found the photos of, and he W.S., had talked once to the girl, visited her one afternoon, who introduced him to her three children, and when he left, she said in passing, quietly,
“Your father bought me this house, and these children, belong to him.”
He never mentioned it to anyone, it was as if he got slapped in the face, but then each man must live his own life.
She had said to him, as he sat in the kitchen listening to her,
“I’m giving a dinner tonight, I want you to come.”
But he refused, nicely. Not so much because he wanted to, nor was he trying to be rude, he just felt out of place,
“Look me up in the future,” she said. But he never would.

•

That summer was a hot moist summer, 1940, the air with gossiping with mosquitoes, and the mosquitoes were attacking every living thing, and the thunderstorms brought bitterness to two cities, of St. Paul, and Minneapolis, destroying homes in the countryside, and folks slept outside on the grass it got so hot, foreheads sweating, people dying of heatstroke, it was the summer W.S., would join the Army.
If W.S., was angry at his father, it was because he would not let him love him, nothing else, matter of fact, E.S., often asked,
“Why aren’t you a bit heated at father, I don’t understand, he never treated you fairly?”
He couldn’t answer that question, he didn’t know the answer, but E.S., understood, with his staring eyes of forgiveness; to E.S., it was like the old man poured black rain on him, and the more he poured the more bright he became, he wanted if anything, W.S., wanted for his father that is, happiness, something he lost along the way of life.
E.S., was no longer a woman servant either, as many were in those far-off wondrous days, she had worked for four-years as a servant (as her other sisters had off and on) in a household, living at home when she could, and staying in the master’s household, with their children, and cleaning, and so forth, when they needed her, she had been paid very little, but was fed, and clothed, and that helped her father out.
Now she was going to go work for the munitions plant, they were hiring. Thus, things were chaining for all.
In the old man’s household, there was neither frost nor famine, per se, he was a hard worker, a painter of houses, buildings, and half owned a restaurant on Wabasha Street, in St. Paul, there he made his Russian stews, and so forth. His job paid him well, and he took on some side jobs, that paid him cash in silver dollars. And he worked up to the last three years of his life.
This was indeed a changing summer for everyone, for E.S., and his sidekick sister, E.S., and the oldest sister had gotten married, Ann, and even for the old man, he was making more money from the restaurant than he expected, and now on Social Security, as he must have thought, ‘why now, why at the end of my life do I get what I really don’t need, success, I should have got it back when…?’
And it came to pass, W.S., departed for the Army, and would spend most of his time near and at the end of the war, in Florence, Italy.

Chapter Four

No matter which way one thinks of it, W.S., had inherited from someone, perhaps his mother, the character in large degree, namely, patience, call it a virtue. Having said that, he received in the five-years he was in the military, or near five-years, the rank of Sergeant. By and large, he was a sharp trooper, and all who knew him liked him, he was the driver for a Colonial.
On occasion, he conservatively sent home some money to help feed the extended family, his father now slightly ill, and unable to work at his restaurant.

The war was a pale mooned war, for W.S., he dreamed on, and of the summer he had with is family, that being, 1940, the one he had spent with his sisters, and father. It was the summer he was treated as an equal by his father, or at least, he put a light in his eye.
On the other hand, the war grew faint the first few years, it would sweep over though…and he’d find some shade by a tree in the afternoons, and dream about going home with his uniform on, and standing proudly by his father, as if to be among men, gods and ghosts.
During the last days of the war, he got to see the gorgeous Vatican, sharp against the night light of the moon; he listened to the organs tremble during the day, and loitered through the corridors thereafter.
From the moment when, as a young boy, handsome, he’d gaze out of his bedroom window into the imaginary future, as if he had an audience, watching his progress, he imagined he was in some kind of accidental glamorous life, and it was just that now, he felt he was almost a star, in the cinema, but he wanted to go home and see his pa, that took precedence.

•

Upon W.S.’s return home from the war, 1945, he found his father in his sofa chair dead, neck stretched and head lying against the back of the chair.
W.S., stood in shock, his mouth open, wide open, his uniform on, his brass shinned, his heart pressing against the walls of his inner being, he gasped for air—he noticed he was thin, too thin, but no pain on his face, he was 98-years old, he held a letter in his right hand, which laid across his lap, it had the insignia of the Army on it, he had received it a few hours earlier, it was now 11:00 a.m., June 16, 1945.
W.S., felt his father’s arms, his blood was still warm, he took the letter, it had his name on it, he seen from the side of his eye, at a glace, as he scanned his father’s body, tears rolling down his cheeks as if a lock from the Panama Canal had been opened, and a flood of water was being released, he saw the part of the letter that read, “…killed in action, in Italy, May 29, 1945.”
Today would be the second time in W.S.’s life he’d notice a smile on his father’s face. A withered smile, but a smile nonetheless.
‘God had been kind,’ murmured, W.S., he died with little to no pain, and he died thinking his son was a hero, like him; that was the happiness he could not give him directly, but somehow his father got it indirectly. For once in his life, he pleased his father; and if there was anything analogous to this, it was just that, the letter indicated he died in some great battle, likened to the ones he must have saw, and maybe even partook in, he was quite young in the Civil War years.
Had he knew, the old man known, W.S., was a Colonel’s driver, things might not have been so spectacular for the old man, at that vital moment, he might have died from a heart attack because his son was no more than a driver. Even if it wasn’t true, and it wasn’t true indeed, W.S., was no hero of that sort, although, had he been given the chance, he may have been: in any case, he filled his father’s expectations, by another man’s death.

Written throughout the day, 12-20-2009, Lima, Peru

Gray January (With Commentary)

2009-01-19T20:01:00.000-08:00

Gray January by Dennis L. Siluk

A lot of gray was in the city yesterday, a puffed-up skyin this dreary January, brings forward memories.
My boys, brood still in that dark blue room, won't come out—

Everything fell apart, years ago in that dark room like a boiling pot, their minds flooded; yet, they will not rise and roll down, the puffed-up sky.They are still in that room, mauling old memoriesperhaps reading my poems, turning pages. Even if I die
today, tomorrow, they will not come out…They just don’t want to, they like their prison—
don't you know I loved you more than words, but am helplessat fixing your anger, expectations ? You’re grown up nowI loved all my days with you, back when: gray, dark or sunny:
I still relive them, now and then, the sweltering air, the travelthe chasing of insects, and swatting mosquitoes,and the cobblestone streets—none with bitterness…So if you do sometime emerge from that dark gloomy room,parting your ways with the puffed-up sky,lift up your forehead in prayer to God ,
Show him eyes of forgiveness and all will fadeeven though you will not let me love!I would have leant you my love back then, but it was as
bright as yours, not like the gray yesterday, here in the city;
now I love only happiness for you, and I can live without
your love, as I have—I hold onto the past those far of memories
swatting mosquitoes, travel, and cobblestone streets.

Note: Dedicated to the Twins. No: 2555 (1-19-2009)

Commentary: sometimes children, when they grow up, charge their parents for the returning of their love, oh yes, you who are reading this, believe it, it is so. But what goes around comes around in time, and sad to say, they get in return what they thought, they never would, thinking it was a one sided deal, it never is. And my suggestion to the parents who are walking in these shoes, take the best years out of what they gave you, and you gave them, and tell them beat it, why spoil a good thing.

Siluk Horror writer: Bram Stoaker Award (2009)

2009-01-15T17:46:00.001-08:00

Siluk: Bram Stoker Award

Announcing the Horror Stories and books by
Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

Under consideration for the Bram Stoker Award

For best short fiction collection, 2009

See his horror books: the Tiamat trilogy, series, plus several short story horror books, “Death on Demand” (to include the renowned story, “The Rape Angelina of Glastonbury, AD 119” read by many of his 150,000-monthly readers) (and: “The Seventy Born Son”); “Dracula’s Ghost,” has eight trying stories, and “The Tale of the Jumping Serpents of Bosnia, another Colleton of eldritch short fiction (to include the growing interest in “Night Ride to Huancayo” a horrific supernatural tale). Also, the psychological thriller, “The Mumbler,” and “Manticore, Day of the Beast” And his book on visions “The Last Trumpet…” and “Angelic Renegades…” he is the unknown crown horror writer of the decade. Also see “After Eve” [a book of historic adventure].

His books can be seen on Amazon.com; B&N.com; abe.com and all the other internet big and small book dealers.

For those interested in the readings of Mr. Siluk’s books, he invites you to email the following:

stokerjury@horror.org stokerjury@horror.org
admin@horror.org

See Reviews by Benjamin Szumskyj on Dennis L. Siluk (and visit his many websites http:// dennissiluk.tripod.com

BENJAMIN SZUMSKYJ is a qualified teacher (Bachelor of Arts in Education / Bachelor of Arts in Social Sciences, minor in English) at a private high school. He also has a diploma as a librarian technician/assistant and a graduate diploma in Christian Studies. Szumskyj also acted as convener on the horror panel of the 2005 Aurealis Awards. In addition to being a member of the Australian Horror Writers Association, he is also a member of the (American) Horror Writers Association. His blog can be found at SSWFT, which is updated irregularly.

"In the Pits of Hell, a Seed of Faith Grows" - a review of The Macabre Poems: and Other Selected Poems (Volume III) by Dennis L. Siluk for Calenture: a Journal of Studies in Speculative Verse (Volume 1 # 1: September 2005).

"Interview with Dennis L. Siluk," for Lost Sanctum #2 (Wild Cat Books, 2006).

“He Is What He Writes: The Weird Tales of Dennis L. Siluk" for Dissections: The Journal of Contemporary Horror #2

(http://www.simegen.com/writers/dissections/February%202008/dissections_page_06.html>, 2008).

Three War Poems: Al-Qaeda's Dark Chiefs, Off the Coast of Somalia & To Vietnam

2009-01-08T21:09:00.000-08:00

Al-Qaeda's Dark Chiefs

From gravid dugouts and brooding ramparts,
Blasphemous they wound the lands and minds with death!
They have turned upon the world with cannons’ from Hell,
Until many millions of mother’s eyes are wet!
Ravage they say, even God’s holiness…!
For the gates of Paradise are open now:
Another ruin for their youth on earth,
And ashes they fined, and shall not forget:

Some by the devastation of their guns,
Some by the tempest-shock, of rockets,
And yet some by the slow removal of their children
Thus, the downfall comes, betrayer to their own kind!
But at the inauguration of their credo
The lying words of their Clergy,
Sink their honor and their souls to dust.

(1-8-2009)(No: 2538)

Off the Coast of Somalia

Near all evil that the tongue can name,
Somewhere in the pits wherein we think resides Hell,
Oh! Deep, deep, deep below the crust of the earth
There is a secular abyss called the Coast of Somalia,
A place secular, of human shame:
Here is where the monster ships of the earth sail
And the worms and snakes may find a cell:
They are called the Pirates of the sea
And they capture the ships, for ransom.
But now the pirate hunters have come
(The Russians, Americans, and Chinese)
To eat the fancied devils, where they dwell
And find their honor and thine own the same.

(1-8-2009)(No: 2539)

To Vietnam

The names that time shall turn one’s stomach to recall,
Now polluted in the jungles and waters of Vietnam,
In which, not so long ago, armies worked their dark desires,
And in whose slime each soldier had to crawl,
Today, I remember them all!

(1-8-2009)(No: 2540)

War poem: Before Dawn in Iraq

2009-01-07T09:31:00.001-08:00

Before Dawn in Iraq
(1-7-2009)(No: 2537)

Now breaks the night on Iraq and America
Over the heal of the world, I know
What bloods gleam on recording sands
(That page of Hell’s scrolls that lay so impure!)
So, dedicated to a race, a huge misfortune,
Men die, O America, that thou endure
O Liberty their eyes are obscure!

To the Palestine War-Lords (a Poem)

2009-01-05T23:37:00.000-08:00

To the Palestine War-Lords
((1-6-2009/ No: 2536) (by: Dennis L. Siluk))

I

How have you fed your people upon lies,
And cried “Peace! Peace! And knew it would not die!
For now the iron demon takes to the sky,
And in your new-found city and lands,
Vigilant and fierce a deadly dragon flies.
Twenty-thousand cannons echo your ruling,
To whose philosophical exhortation to you bend your knees
And lift unto the Lord of evil your eyes?

This is Hell’s work: lower you hands from heaven
Lest those hands melt, from holding up the sword!
There stands another blood stained alter,
At your bowing, there stand the infernal seraphim
Give unto Satan, your conspiring secrets,
For the blood of nations, flow by your mandated credo.

II

Be yours the doom Palestine’s voice foretold
As unto Babylon, O ye has cursed the Lord,
Cast the evil sword, its shadow upon you own kind
And for whose pride a million souls grow cold!
You shall reap what you have planted, and hold!
You have murdered and claimed God’s permission,
And at your judgments, desolation stands;
For in your hearts, minds and souls, God has left them grow cold.

Your soldier’s parish and your civilians drown;
You are the vulture, and the fist, beating on the weak.
It is ye, whose words have sickened the clouds,
Infected the rivers and the people’s hearts:
Your prayers mislead, nor give good will:
Hide on the brow of the murder-Satan, or Cain.

III

Lift not your voices to the gentle God:
Your god is of shambles! Let your nation
Moan, they shall be your sacrifice to your king and deity:
Bel and Moloch, who offer fire and death,
A world in which ye preferred, with lies;
Learn now from horror and truth,
What God has tried to teach you!

The Days (Tribute to Juan parra del Riego)

2008-12-28T21:05:00.000-08:00

I

All year, knowing you’re dead,
I’ve sat in two hard-pillowed chairs,
Looking out the windows, being sad
With human melancholy, trying to restart
Those days in which you lived your poetry—
(in translating, editing, and selecting your best),
Days when your youth like mine, felt the sun
Carried ambition, from earth to sky,
Ominous days, with inspiration to share;
I live them now, but feel yours in death.

II

Today, is like any day, I suppose
As you once knew, expected death,
As I do now. The sky is overcast,
(I hear the shuddering rain, the splash
As cars drive by, their engines alive)—
And in the dash, like a river off-course, now
This is my moment when air
Being most full of life and images,
Appears lifeless, no motion, now:
Land, river and sky, we merge, the
Splash is gone. And so is my sadness.
Everything is drowned out of me, but you
(so I can write this poetic tribute).
My memories emerge (with them), I’ve found
The days you lived, the key to your poetry;
The secret closet you hid as a poet.

III

I think of all you did, when you lived
(That is, all you wrote, and might have wrote
And done before death undid you…despair)
There was much promise in your youthful
Years--your wild reserve, the color of autumn leaves
In your Face, inspiring the wind, and woods
And the bare silence in the hummingbirds.

None had such promise then, not even
Cesar Vallejo, or Borges, not even Yeats,
Or Keats, Georg Trakl, or Pablo Neruda.
Your rhythm and rhyme, scapegrace charm,
Pattern and structure of sound, verse and meter,
Accentual-syllabic line, all gave motion
As if glazed in rain, falling hard to soft…with
Disarming grace, yes, oh yes, you were bold,
As Homer, building a wooden horse
To Deceive and then destroy Troy!
In the Age of Symbolism and Modernism.

It was, was it not, in your luckless blood?
That failure came only because all passion
Was taken away in mid-course? By Death!
You shrank to nothingness, but still you
Wrote your poetry, an hour before your death!
You lived beyond the gloomy boredom of regret.
You did not deject any love, the beat of your heart,
Was for Blanca Luz Brum, no cold fortune…

Your slow death, shaped your stare upon life
There was blood within that sightless stare,
But it made you one, made you look and wrote
Your poetry in stone, at the end, alone…

IV

Your poetry has outlived you, and that sightless stare.
Your poetry Parra, has outlive that boat you rowed—
So long ago, in Montevideo and it will
Out live the painting that hung in your room
Where you sat by a table— the ultimate last hours
Before your death (with Blanca Luz and an amigo)…

I see the grief upon her youthful face, drunk
With loss, seeking some oblivious place, to hid in
Desolation, despondency, mouth open as if in horror,
Eyes staring, for the haunted hour is near, harrowing
Face, full of disgrace…for being helpless!
She holds hard onto her chair, legs half crossed,
Breathing slowly, she knows soon, what she must endure.

V

Blanca and Juan’s amigo, stood by him the hour
Of his humiliation, yet he did not turn upon them
In the last hours of the night—they in a sad self-
Loathing, Juan, concealing nothing,
He heard Blanch cry, “I am lost. But you are worse!”
Perhaps the dying do not own to their dominance.
But this night, the lights were lowered,
It was the later hour,
And then the lights went out,

then the dissipation of the night passed…

Everybody worn-out, utter destitution
And the two now knew, the world deprived!

VI

Knowing, and having heard, read the bare fact
Of your death, the word lingers in my head--
Death in that haughty room,
Shut tight, from sky and cloud,
Only silent thoughts, cast from
Moment to moment, to illume later on
With those loved ones by your side
...

The hours you and I have now known,
Even though you’ve been dead over eighty-years,
Neither denounces my poem, tribute for you,
Nor pardons, my words, if they offend…
Like you, I have seen the moon’s light, glide
Upon, and over the sea’s tide, and the waves
Lost on the sandy shore, as they recede never
To succumb to them even when the dark has come;
I hope I am strong as you (when my death comes),
Although I cannot promise what I cannot give…

and now to your Surpassed fame, O’dark!
you have turned into light!

Written 12-24-2008 (Morning); Huancayo, Peru, No: 2533

Two Poems: Painting Words and The Andes Have Eyes

2008-12-17T10:57:00.000-08:00

Painting Words
(a poem on life)

The weaver and their sweating hands
faces and expressions,
meats and potatoes…!
The miners and the dirt around their faces!
It’s all life in the raw, sweat upon brows
brows, and more brows—; no answers!

Leaves have one color, but it’s everything
that counts: the sky, the grass the water,
I mix my words up like colors, for the eye
of the reader, each dote of an ‘i’ is seen
before I dote it—! It’s all life uncooked,
sweat upon brows: and no answers!

There is light and darkness in my words
…finding oneself, is finding all
the little things that make up the world.
We mustn’t let the blind lead the blind
there are too many ditches to fall into…
too many questions, unanswered!

…and so little time!

No: 2527 (12-2-2008)

The Andes Have Eyes

There dwells a pushing, almost crushing
once enclosed, encircled, by the Andes:their immenseness, takes away ones breath,
and with their sardonic eyes, they suck in
the overhead sky, near to suffocating
everything within their boundaries; likened
to cascading cells, they—dominate, all within
its presence: and if you listen closely, they ask:
“What are you doing here?” You must reply…
(it’s a waste of time to try to understand).
You need simply breathe in deeply, say to them
(staring, sardonic eyes) “I’m in your hands…!”

Written 12-17-2008 (No: 2532) “The Andes Have Eyes,” theme poem for the story
“The Loro Machaco of Villa Rica” a story that takes place in the Andes of Peru.

Paris’ Stone Streets

2008-12-17T10:56:00.000-08:00

(With Lee Evens)

He, Lee Evens and his wife, and his wife’s sister, Juliana jump on a jet in St. Paul, Minnesota, to Paris, France, where Lee has been four times, and it appears, he had a whim of an obsession after a dream to go back there again on the spur of the moment.
It is five p.m., they arrive three a.m., when they arrive in Paris, they go to a hotel, and Lee he walks the streets, the stone Streets. Juliana comes along on a fluke, to get away from her boring and somewhat tiring husband. Tiring in the sense he is emotionless to her needs, and perhaps a little indifferent, they’ve been married 15-years, Lee, going on nine, he and his wife travel together, she’s like a flee suck on a dogs tail, his tail, but Lee doesn’t complain.
It is 4:00 a.m., in the morning, and Lee is walking around Paris by himself, his wife, Patty Ann, is sleeping, as is Juliana. He finds a door open to a factory, slightly open that is, and goes into it, he is dressed like a designer of cloths you might say, soave, like hot shot writer, with an atmosphere of arrogance that seems to encircle him, as he is a writer, and journalist himself, and that look is for the most part, or has become for the most part, part of his daily look.
Now in this four-level building, people seem to overlook that he is there, and he walks about, looking here and there, and seeing sheet metal workers, and an empty assemble-line, along with tools machinists items, apparatus, gear and devises and objects used for producing cars, and different sorts of workers, but mostly the plant is empty, just scattered workers, as if they were preparing for tomorrows shift, the morning shift.
On the third floor he spots a man heavy set, perhaps six-foot tall, flat looking face, not too smart, a beer belly type of fellow, and he talks to him, the young man in his early 30s, Lee sixty-one; the young man, thinking Lee is a manager or some kind of official looking about, engineer perhaps, making sure everything is operational, gets a little friendly with Lee, and jokingly says,
“Watch, I can swing on the this pipe, and he does so, and the pipe shifts, away from the safety zone, into the open area below one floor, below, where people are working, not realizing the pipe is movable, it gets too far out from the safe zone, and now the young worker is worried how he will get back, he is a janitor. Lee, stretches his hand out, almost on his knees, to move the wiggly pipe back to the platform, The young man has a slight worried face that he might tell someone of his practical joke, which was for some odd reason, showing off, but Lee, smiles to release him of that worry.

●

Lee, finds himself getting a phone call the following morning from a gay manager, who wants to show him the rest of the plant? Johannes, the young bulky man, saved Lee’s card, showing he was a writer and journalist, whom had given it to Hymen, and he meets him, and as they are walking around the plant, Hymen, puts his hands around Lee, and Lee quickly puts a stop to that. Hymen smiles, says,
“I guess I was thinking…” he doesn’t finish the sentence—he doesn’t need to, he knows Lee is not gay, and Lee knows Hymen is now, but Lee is not belligerent about it matter-of-fact, he is quite contained, and cool about it, and Hymen, continues with the show of the plant, and then goes to show him a brown and chrome shinning roadster, there are two of them, and the older gentlemen, with an apron on the foreman, does not want Lee to take a picture, he is not gay, thinking Lee is because Hymen, is, and he being quite critical in this area, shows distain toward Lee, although Hymen is an executive officer, and the older man, Thomas, is himself a foreman, Hymen leaves it alone without protest.

The show now is over, for the most part, and Hymen, introduces Lee to Mr. Gordon Gunderson, a German in France running the plant, next to the highest person at the plant, the assistant to the General Manager.
“How did you like the plant, Mr. Lee?” asked Gordon with a warm smile.
“Quiet well,” says Lee, adding, “Hymen was a good guide, but I see the foreman, called Thomas, wouldn’t allow me to take a picture of the Roadster, not sure why? I mean if I was going to buy it, I’d have to show it to my wife, wouldn’t I?”
“Quite right, absolutely,” says Gordon, “do you realize the car runs $190,000-dollars?” adds Gordon to his dialogue.
“No,” says Lee, “but it looks like it’s worth it…!” he hymns out—at the end of his dialogue.
“Follow me,” says Gordon, and thus, both Lee and Hymen follow Gordon Gunderson down to the department where Otis Thomas works, sees Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Thomas sees all three, but his eyes remain on the face of Gordon’s,
“Take you picture Mr. Lee,” says Gordon, and Thomas just smiles,
“Can I…help…” says Thomas, as if he was going to shine a certain area, or for that matter any area Gordon found needed to be shinned.
Lee takes the clean rag from Thomas’ hand, and cleans two spots on the roadster, and takes the picture, actually he takes two.
“Very well,” says Gordon, “I hope you have what you want, and your wife will like what she sees.”
Thomas, goes back to wiping the car down, that really doesn’t need anymore whipping.

●

That afternoon, after Lee had left the plant, he gets another phone call from Hymen on behalf of Gordon, and is asked out for late lunch, at 2:00 p.m., and told to bring his wife along, and anyone else in his party, Lee explains, Juliana, his sister-in-law, may wish to come along, and Hymen, who is doing the asking, says,
“Fine, it will be just fine, Gordon wants to take you to a fine restaurant for lunch, and if you wish, we can take you to our hairstylist, your wife and sister-in-law may appreciate it, she does a great job.”
No comment is really needed, and they meet at a corner near the Café de Flora, and Juliana, says (after they have had introductions and a small conversation between the five),
“Gordon, Hymen mentioned you had a hairstylist, she’d quite fine I’m sure if she is yours, and I’d like to have my hair done, just trimmed a bit, washed and dried, and blown out before we go eat, it should only take a hour, is that ok?”
“Why sure Juliana,” says Gordon, with an apprehensive look at Lee to see if he was satisfied, and once he nodded his head up and down, and smiled, so did Gordon, and so did Juliana, and henceforward they went up onto the second floor gallery shop area, and there was the lovely thirtieth, girl named Sophia. Between Juliana, and Sophia, introductions were made quickly, both about the same age, both with shapely bodies, both talkative, both seemingly on common ground, and both at ease with each other, neither did each of them have children.
Gordon showed the gallery area of shops to Patty and Lee, as Hymen tagged along, there were several shops on the floor, as Juliana got her hair done, which during the process a lot of conversation took place, and upon their return, Juliana said, quite frankly,
“Sophia is going to close her shop Lee, and I won’t be making it to lunch with you folks, we’re going to eat at her place, she wants to show me her etchings, if you don’t mind.”
Well Hymen knew exactly what that meant, Patty was dumbfounded, and Lee was catching on little by little.
“Well—what can I say,” says Lee, “will we be seeing you later on?”
“Of course,” said Juliana, “but who knows in this world what may develop!”
And she laughed, as they walked out the door holding each others hands (and she never left Paris, thereafter.)

Written: 12-17-2008

Wrapped in Leaves

2008-12-15T14:50:00.001-08:00

(Part eight, of “The Loro Machaco Villa Rica,” saga)

Angel of El Tambo, a moment before death

As soon as death came, so did darkness, and a moment before death, came a nightmare, presumably a nightmare, a trial of, or for the dead…
a profound darkness seeped into his existence—Angel, he was dying—left on the hilltop plateau of a coffee orchard, in Villa Rica, Peru, after raping a young woman and killing her by the name of Katita (or so he thought he killed her).
Steadily and quietly, there was nowhere for him to go, his nostrils flaring through the new found darkness.
He ran for an hour without direction, then suddenly he stopped with a thudding mind—sounds followed them, sounds of drums.
A stranger appeared, he offered Angel some raw meat wrapped in leaves (as if it was his last meal, perhaps trying to take his mind off the moment, or perchance trying to occupy it), then the sounds of drums encircled him, but still at a distance—but closing in. Angel sat down and ate a portion of the meat, and then wrapped it back up with the leaves, “You have twelve-hours,” said a voice, as he started to stand from a squatting position, his knees trembling.
“Wish I was with the gang again…” he said aloud, looking about, in a stupor.

Again he ran into the darkness surrounding him, howling like a mad and lost hound. Something behind him was trailing him (he didn’t think about the girl he had rapped, tortured, it was now like before, all self-interest, if anything he would learn, dying, death or living, nothing changes at the last second before death—in most cases that is, and now his mind was preoccupied with his surroundings, and other elements that he was facing.)
There was two worlds surrounding him, it was as if he was being hunted, “Twelve-hours,” he repeated to himself (not knowing exactly what for, but if he was to guess, it would have been before the two figures behind him caught up to him.)

He was running, and it came to mind, he had run almost half a day, some forty-miles (the last thing he remembered was that he was puking up and out his guts, dying, and was this what dying is all about, his subconsciously, tried to analysis, another voice tried to intervene, but he wouldn’t listen).
He saw a sunset before his eyes, lying in front of him, now there was two shadows chasing him, behind him: ‘henchmen,’ he murmured. He had caught a glimpse of them, they looked as if they had come out of the middle-ages, and then came sounds again, those drum sounds, closer and closer, and the two men behind him had chains and a battle axe, under their arms.
He really didn’t expect death to come so soon, nor have these visions or nightmares or whatever they were from whatever dimension they came from, he figured death was just darkness, and silence, and everything fainted from his mind, gone forever.
His life flashed in front of him, like a movie, especially his last act of violence, of Katita, the one he pulled off the bus, rapped.
He was completely naked now—except for the meat and leaves he still held in his hands, the last taste of food he’d ever have, that was in itself a death warrant.
The closer he got to the sunset, the closer the two henchmen got to him, as if they were in a race, and time was of the essence. Before him now, out of nowhere came a million cottonmouth moccasins, as if to block his bath to the sunset, and accordingly, he did have to slow down, lest he lose his balance and fall into the clutches of the moccasins, now slipping and skidding on them anyhow. The drums were now louder and faster than before, and they appeared to be closing in on him. It was a few minutes to his 12th hour (in real time, it perhaps was minutes or seconds), and the next thing he noticed was that he no longer needed air to survive, and the sunset was gone, and he was completely dead, and the two henchmen chasing him, were really, real.

The Hoarse Whisper

2008-12-15T14:48:00.002-08:00

(Part six of “The Lore Machaco Villa Rica,” saga)

I

The Lore Machaco gang, escaped down into the valley of Villa Rica, crawling at night to distance themselves from the Peruvian soldiers, sent out to capture them for terrorizing buses that went from Lima, to Huancayo, in addition, Juan Diego Martinez had gotten into the drug business, and had graduated from ten-guerillas, to twenty, now with rifles and pistols (it was the late 1960s).
They were now crawling slowly down in the mud, in the coffee orchard fields, around the mountains of Villa Rica. They had made their way to Divine Mountain, and crossed the roughly made moving bridge, and disconnected it from the other side that is when the soldiers equally all agreed to leave the gang alone for the time being. The area was hot, full of mosquitoes, and they had to find fresh water to supply themselves constantly, and there was only a platoon of them, forty-four men in total, and two had been wounded, and were being carried by four other men, feeding them, with refills of water from their helmets, wiping the sweat from their foreheads with rages, everything being done with a clumsy mildness. That also was slowing the other soldiers down.

●

On the other side of the wobbly bridge, was the cartel, the Loro Machaco gang, the Boss, Juan Diego, feeling the earth move, and a sound of a wind galloping and winding up around him, and his Army of terrorists—dumbfounded of what was happening, stood stone-still, capturing the moment. He held himself tight against a tree as the earth shook for the second time; Fernando, Carlos and Angel were by his side. They were underneath, a peak, that was onto of the hill, a slope formation, overlooking them, they stood down by the hills tunnel, they were about to enter. A third quake came, it must had shook the floor of the whole valley, so Diego conjured in his mind, wherein truth it just shook the mountain area of Divine Mountain, and the area around it, and the forth quake was faint but more destructive than the previous three, it opened up a dark hole into the earth, a fissure of sorts, nearby where all twenty of the gang had been standing, and down plunged Diego whom was leaning against a tree, and his three comrades into the fissure; the other sixteen were covered up with a landslide that broke off the slope, overhead, part of the mountain had fallen upon them.
Diego felt himself tumbling hitting against the walls of the crevice he was dropping down, foot by foot, into the dark bowls of the earth, he heard Fernando’s cry,
“I’m down here, alive…not dead!”
Coming down as fast as Diego, was a ton of earth above him, when he landed—uninjured, Fernando franticly dug him out of the earth that covered him, Angel and Carlos were just getting back up off their backs onto their feet.
There was light above them, but it was two-hundred feet, and the earth soft and jagged, it would never hold their weight, but there was also a cave entrance to their back: perhaps it led to the other cave entrance, the one they were standing by, ready to enter, thought Diego. It was worth a chance, better than climbing the cliff like crevice they were in, slipping and sliding down and using up their energy.
“I wonder how many of the gang is left?” asked Angel to Diego.
“I don’t know, or care right now they’ll simply have to dig their own selves out of that earth slide!”
“Let’s get on with our journey,” said Fernando looking at the Boss.

II

There was only one direction to go in, and it had a profound darkness attached to it, so much so, no one could see their feet several feet, inside the cave.
“Be quiet,” the Boss said in a hoarse whisper, “I don’t want to upset the earth anymore, and have a cave-in, I’m sure there’ll be an entrance further up someplace…!”
The fissure was deep and Diego knew it might close up at any moment, tighter, thus causing the walls inside the cave to cave-in, as a result, hurling a tone of dirt over their heads at any second, so time was of the essence, and air was becoming thin, and everyone’s breathing was becoming faint, and voices hoarse.
As they walked between walls no more than a foot or two wide, one could feel the cool air seeping into the cave, and the four men starting to laugh as if victory was at hand. And the farther they walked the more light came into the cave, and the seepage of water was coming out of the mud walls, the men were snarling with trying to talk, but their lungs and noses were filled with dust and debris, mud and water covered their whole body, so all this appeared to have a consequence on their speech. The last one-hundred feet, the men struggled to get to the entrance, and made it, and there they were, back where they had started; several of the men were digging the others out of the tonnage of dirt that had fallen upon them.
The Boss walked up to see who was left; he looked up at what was no longer a peak in the mountain, above him, the slope, where the landslide had been created.
“Give me a count of the dead, Fernando,” commanded Diego, as if he was a general, not turning around to look at the dead bodies lying by the mudslide.
“Up to now, it looks like three broken necks, or five dead, and still counting.”

Note: Part one to “The Hoarse Whisper,” written in the morning of 12-8-2008

Judas’ Provisional Reprieve

2008-12-15T14:48:00.001-08:00

((in Poetic Prose) (‘the Judas Dilemma’))

There were twelve apostles that sat at the table, Abraham, Adam, Moses, and Micha’el, the Archangel; they were to look at the provisional reprieve Judas had requested. And the questions were:
“Judas what did your mind see?”
“Immortality?”
“Did you not see the All-being, immutable and enduring?”
“Did you not hear the words, “Believe in me?”
“Did you to pause like Lucifer to start an iron war?”
“Did you think you were immune of your future sins, your stained window?”
“Were you in a state of unreality, thinking you were invincible to the apostate you were?”
“When did your dream of a splendor and glittering end to the Trinity?”
“Did you think you had just enough, to do what your dreams and desires wanted you to do; only to find out it was all merely a vision in- extractable (removed from reality) and forever placed into idealism; did you not think a court order would be issued unto you, upon the day of judgment? Was it not your own self-made longing, your barren spot, your private destiny, private donjon you wanted to create?

Then one of the voices sitting at the table, a judge, as they all were except, Judas, who would have his say later, said:
“Somewhere in time and space, the fragility, and strength of your faith was tested, as if measured by a gauge; we are subject to this, starvation was found in you, as the records now show, and if you could, you would have taken the Godhead, which remains intact, had it never been otherwise, and reversed it. And that was why you lost your position, not necessarily when you stood on the stone floor and took thirty pieces of silver that was forgivable. Yet that day, you being a man, failed man, and into the second phase of your brief pretense, make-believe charade, you went, filling your belly with bitter and glory for a throne you could never sit upon, disclaiming the Holy Spirit. That is what you believed in, what the records show, what the movie of your life came to be; and that is what your destiny came to be, its end. Had it not been that day, you would have known no better for another, time in any dimension, in any form or place is your moment, no one else’s.”

Then Judas said with agony and criticism,
“He (God, our Lord Jesus Christ) could have put me into a new time, a new age, in a new world, with different passions, where man discovers God, and does not lose sight of him, and perhaps a new gene in the recovery of hope which all men seem to lose and only a few regain, which includes me.”

And the Verdict was given, by the last judge, on behalf of all the judges:
“From where you have gone, you shall remain, in the arms of enmity, for did you not say, ‘But not I.’ Denying God’s rightful position. And did you not flee from fidelity and watch the Lord pass? For even the shadow of a breathing man, owes his loyalty to his creator!”

And there he stood, Judas, holding the chalice that held the unpardonable sin…!

Note: Written in the evening of 12-13-2008, in my apartment in Huancayo, Peru, No: 2530 (part two, to ‘The Judas Dilemma’)

No Time to Retreat

2008-12-15T14:47:00.001-08:00

((1980s, Villa Rica, Peru) (part twelve in “The Loro Machaco…” saga))

Alcalde Vladimir Vargas, relinquished his dream to be sent to one of the United States prominent Military Academy’s in the 1980s for the sake of Peru—so he claimed to the media—to put Villa Rica (a dote on a the map, a small town in a valley, in the Andes of Peru) under the guillotine for the sake of mankind, peace, and to restore law and order—not in Villa Rica per se, because the township was tranquil compared to many others, and especially compared to Lima and Huancayo, —but because he felt that was where the Loro Machaco Cartel lived and hid their supply of guns, weapons and ammunition (thus endangering the entire country as a whole, this was all the doings of a green-eyed or spiteful—you might say—Commanding General); that the people of Villa Rica were harboring them, the cartel and its people in particular. It was all speculation of course, and some of it was true, but not all. And had the military or police done a better job on the highways from Lima to Huancayo, they would not have had to contain, or gone to such lengths, gone to the edge of the jungle to Villa Rica to try and accomplish a mission of terrorism that took place on the highways of Peru, not in the little hamlet or township of Villa Rica.

Here was a young man at twenty-three, with peasant and brittle bones, quite intelligent, who wanted to be known permanently in the annuals of warfare, be made general at thirty, who at sixteen had this obsession to go to West Point Academy in the United States—a man with a vast sick pale moon for a face and a deep set of eyes in sockets that looked hungry, who had told his mother at this youthful, and trying age, “Watch, I will be the general of the Peruvian Army some day,” then she died of Cancer.

He picked out a public figure for a wife, at the age of twenty-years old, she being seventeen (and just out of the stage of playing with paper dolls), was unconscious to his obsession; and he became a captain in the Army in two-years; her uncle being a general from Huancayo, assisted in that quick promotion.
His dreams of success was like a painted backdrop—in that he had it planned out, and now they were smashed and he accepted that with a fragile stride to go and root out the guns and terrorist in that impenetrable valley and township of Villa Rica. He knew nothing of the cartel, nor cared to, thus he was stepping into unreality, angry and his mind filled with the beauty of his new shapely wife, and a dream smashed, by a general higher up than Carmella’s, uncle.
Vladimir Vargas now had to prove himself, once and for all, and if intelligence did it so be it, but what he had at the moment was this unfutured, unuttered (by all the military), outpost, to establish himself.

●

Whether or not Villa Rica had ever been an actual threat once, is now a mystery, what actually took place, under Captain Alcalde Vladimir Vargas’ command, of which he had a company of 160-men, planted within the city’s limits, and the backing of the Commanding General, and his leadership in Lima, in due time, would bury its ostrich-head from the sight of it all, as the youthful Captain, started taking its liberties away, and throwing democracy into the sewers of Athens, where democracy was born. This atrocity took place for five-years in the 1980s, from that first day he arrived, to the beginning and end of that fifth involuntary year, and day which he had fallen in the eyes of every officer in the Army, and everyman in Peru everywhere, before he noticed it himself: So grave was his defalcating leadership, his wife buried her eyes in shame when she walked the streets of Lima.

Without warrants, or provocation, without the manual of war, he declared war on the township of Villa Rica, he, Captain Vargas, believed he knew the answer in getting all the guns and military paraphernalia, out of the hands of the cartel, by taking them forcefully out of the houses of Villa Rica, and its citizens.
Captain Vargas, he was looking different from what he had looked a year ago. No longer fragile, so much so as incurable, unblemished, by the ransacking of houses, ripping open matteresses at will, and in 99% percent of the search and attack procedures, they found nothing. He broke down house doors when civilians locked them, for avoiding confrontation was not possible unless you actually left the house, the premises, and then, they’d return, the military and question them why they had left, interrogating and torturing them in many cases to gain false information, and when they found out it was false, because there was no real condemning information to give the Captain (they had made it up to appease him), they’d be jailed (thus, building a jail five times the size they had witnessed when they arrived in the township, the only other escape was to sell their houses, or move); he even searched the classrooms to schools, he’d open up student lockers, and teachers desk drawers, In fact they, the soldiers under the captain’s command, if they had no more use for the untiring event, he’d allow his soldiers to rape a virgin at will, a housewife, even a student, he was more feared than the cartel itself, more ruthless, more insensitive, and this is what he thought would bring law and order.
He had his crucifix indeed, his amulet, his reliquary, his theater and boulevard to play his power game—but save that one, who gave the command for him to prove himself, the General, but he knew the answer to this, it was a gesture not to the youthful Captain, but to congress, one of those modest and discrete, but potent and powerful gestures, one they had been waiting for, for a long time, and he gave it to Carmella’s, uncle, in front of a congressional committee, as if it was his doings, plucking an Army officer before he could kneel as a candidate for consecration of saying he did what he did under the orders of the Commanding General.
And so now those who might have been jealous of this young captain, with a general behind him to further his career, who might have hid all his youthful wrongdoings, who might have named his coeval partner, this general who hated him for whatever reasons from the start, and used him to his bitter end, offered his wife’s uncle, the lower general, a pardon for his son-in-law, and should he not take it, god-forbid.

He was vanished to some far-off island (and this I cannot disclose, list I put his life in the hands of some butcher, and thus I become the infamous one, perhaps even claimed to be insensate to his impasse, with hungry eyes); his rank now reduced to sub lieutenant, none knew where he was sent to, except the commanding General (who is now dead), his wife didn’t even want to know; he was vanished from the knowledge of the Army, wrapped in wolf’s skin, to hide his identify, you might say, and to silence him, and those around him, once and for all, his last name was changed to sound more Napoleonic than Peruvian, for he became a villainous legend all wanted to forget.
At first, before they shipped him off to this island post, he even hid his name when he’d look at an Army list and someone was behind him. Now, as for the Army and his wife’s family, and his wife in particular, he was dead. His bones scattered and diffused about the perimeter of Peru, no flag to fly over his head when he’d be buried. And where would he be buried, this is yet too early to tell.

Note: Written after the author had gathered more information from a writer friend who lives in Villa Rica, and has for 35-years, came to stay with him a day in Huancayo . Written in his apartment 12-12-2008.

No Middle Ground

2008-12-15T14:45:00.000-08:00

Kathy’s entry into the Loro Machaco Cartel (Part Ten)

“No, no!” Kathy cried. She had been leaning forward; he didn’t respond he didn’t hear her, he apparently was in some kind of thinking process or, trance, “Turn back, and don’t go on!” she insisted.
When Tony said what he said to Kathy, that he was going to take her, or rape her, or slay her, she almost slammed his foot on the brakes with her foot, now she knew why he was heading into the dark side of the highway.
“I was just kidding,” Tony said, “we’ll just park next to the river bridge (near Saint Jeronimo, in the Mantaro Valley, Peru; Kathy had been dating Tony going on a week now, she was twenty, him, thirty-five, both from Huancayo, it was the winter months of 1975, she was a student at a nearby college, him a professor from the same University).
Her face was pale, eyes blind with rage, hers mouth open, and him, he was in some kind of agony of despair, as if to surrender, but Kathy had taken the situation, at face value, and watched his hand set the lever back into gear, no longer about to stop the car and rape her, as she felt he thought he might; his foot came down on the gas pedal hard, and again he was racing down the valley road back to Huancayo, the throttle wide open.
“You said it yourself,” said Kathy, “you’re going to rape me or slay me…!”

It was about an hour after sundown, Tony stopped the car, and she got out, and he watched her disappear down the road toward the township of St. Jeronimo, where her uncle owned a silver shop, by the name of Jesus, she figured she’d get a ride home from him.

He honked his horn at her to return, she made no reply, it was as though she had not heard it, but he knew she had, then with his headlights, he saw her in motion, descending the dark street into the township, her skirt lifted from her trim, ankles and feet, he wanted her even more now, perhaps that was why her voice was no longer quiet, and she yelled at him to leave her be, and she picked up a large stone, it overlapped her palm and hand and as the car came closer to her she swung the stone at his window, and he lost control of the car, and Tony Jose Martino, hit a post, and just died, just like that. She did not telephone anyone she just went on down the road to her uncle’s, shop and house (combined) and stayed the night.

●

Kathy Delia Herrera, met Juan Diego Martinez, at a house party in Huancayo, the following month, it was near Christmas. He had stopped there, before heading back to Villa Rica, to join his gang of thugs.
He had planned to stop in Merced on his way back, and he stayed there in Huancayo a full week gathering information from a few of his police friends on busses, that being, which ones would not be watched and so forth, those would be the ones he had intentions of robbing.

Juan was a little on the drunk side, which he often got, but was yet consciously aware of, and when he saw Kathy, a passionate sense came over him, if not belief in immanent romance, and expectations.
Kathy was at this time under suspicion for the premeditated murder of Tony Jose Martino. Court dates were set up, and a trial was in place, and she was seeking relief, she was at first impervious to it all, but now the strain had hit her, and she was in a state of intoxication often, if not escape, apparently he was not wrong, when he asked her to dance, and drink with him, she did immediately. Even before they had introduced themselves to one another formally, meaning, they didn’t really know each others names at that point and time.
It was no more than twenty-minutes after they left the house and its party, and they spoke to each other as old friends, and slipped into a taxi and Juan supplied the address for the hotel he was staying at.
She had learned in those twenty-minutes, when he went to the bathroom, his reputation, who and what he represented; and it didn’t seem to matter to her, matter-of-fact, to the contrary.
She didn’t talk, nor even look at him, sitting in the back set of the taxi on the way to the hotel. She was with him, and that was that.
Juan knew something was wrong with her, a kind of depression, aloofness, yet wanting to hang-on to him, a small tenseness to her lovely eyes, and long black hair; the taxi stopped. She turned to face him, who had been sitting tightly in the corner of the cab, “I’m sorry she said,” he looked at her strange, “it’s a rotten trick I’m playing on you, I need your help?”
“I don’t mind it at all,” said Juan, “just mention it, and I’ll see if I can help you?”
“Come into the hotel with me,” replied Diego.
“Yes,” she said.
“It’ll be all right.”
He looked at her face, “I believe you really do need help,” he guessed, “I won’t let you down,” he added.
And they spent the night together, and she explained the following day, what her problem was. And he asked her, “Do you trust me?” and she replied, “Yes,” and that was that, he fixed it with the judge to drop the charges of premeditated manslaughter, indicating, she was fighting for her life; furthermore, the report was totally rewritten by the police. And for his assistance, she had to agree to a year with his organization. And accordingly, this is how Kathy got involved with the cartel (The Loro Machaco); and for a while after, they dated. And after the dating stopped, they remained close friends.

Written December 10, 2008, at my apartment in the night, in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru

Last Visit to Acopalca

2008-12-15T14:44:00.000-08:00

(Part nine, of “The Loro Machaco Villa Rica,” saga)

Johnny, a journey to Huaytapallana (White Mountain)

Before Johnny Urdanegui went on his last job with Juan Diego, the Boss of the Loro Manchaca cartel, he spent a day visiting with his father, who lived in a little hamlet, on the dusty dirt road that led to Huaytapallana (White Mountain), near Huancayo, Peru, the hamlet called Acopalca, known for its fat and tasty trout. Little did he know, this would be his last visit? Kathy, Carlos and Juan Diego, stayed at a quant hotel down by the Plaza de Arms, in Huancayo, awaiting Johnny’s return.

“Sure enough,” the old man said to his son Johnny, “it’s about time you come home to stay…!”
Not knowing it was only for a day, not knowing he was part of the recent kidnapping but knowing something, but not completely sure of anything.
“Yes,” the young man said.
“I haven’t smoked since you left a year ago, been waiting to tell you, it was hard after forty-years.” The old man boasted with pride.
Then the old man took his boy by the hand, “Behind the house,” he said, “let me take you behind the house, I got something to show you!”
(The old man thinking, and hoping he’d settle something.)
“What confused me son for a long time,” he started to say, standing in one particular spot “was you hanging around with them outlaws, I hear you joined the “Loro Machaco Gang,” and I thought all the time all the money in the world wasn’t worth losing you, so I thought when next I saw you, when you come back home like you did today, I’d do what I planned on doing, unburying my money I’ve been saving for ten-years, I got 10,000 soles ($3500-dollars), it’s all yours just don’t go back to the cartel please.”
The old man tried to catch his breath, and then asked, “Who is this man called Juan Diego?”
“I can’t tell you,” exclaimed the boy.
“I wanted to give up and die if you didn’t come home,” said the old man, his voice shaking now, then adding, “I always expected you to out live me, not sure if I could take you dying before me.”
Again the old man tried to catch his breath, his heart pumping faster than a wheelbarrow in fast motion.
“Are you in trouble?” asked the old man.
“What kind of trouble are you talking about,” replied he boy.
“The law type!” exclaimed the old man.
“Don’t get me wrong pa,” said the youth, “I’m no wilder than the other youth around Huancayo.”
“Alright,” said the old man.
“No,” said the youth, “I’m not going to take your money, nor stay around here, matter-of-fact, I got to be leaving in the morning.”
It seemed the old man didn’t want to hear what his son was saying, and started digging into the ground with his hands, and the boy tried to stop him, because he was breathing hard, and sweating, and he wouldn’t stop, and then he pulled out a tin box, held it up to his son, and tried to give it to him, but he wouldn’t take it, yet the old man insisted. Then the old man fell flat on his face, the tin box fell out of his hand, and there he lay, stiff as board.

Note: “Last Visit to Acopalca” written in the afternoon of 12-8-2008, at the café La Mia Mamma, in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru.

A Cross for Bridgette

2008-12-15T14:43:00.000-08:00

(Part seven of “The Lore Machaco Villa Rica,” saga)

I

When Miss Bridgette Martinez, died, a large portion of our town’s folks went to her memorial service: the men seemingly went to see a legend behind a legend, the women, to see how she had lived, for it was said among many of us, after her uncle died, the store and house—which was one building structure—remained as it was, and that was thirty-years prior (in 1978). No one—save the old renegade, Fernando, her uncle’s spiritual leader—had seen her face to face—other than by a window profile, or a shadow walking in the backyard of her now empty and vacant store, in at least ten-years.
It was a large, corner adobe brick store, and the living quarters was up a floor, it had not been painted in nearly a generation. Built, with a Spanish style architecture to its doorways and windowsills, built around the turn of the century (1899), with a balcony, over the front of the store—that when standing on it you could get a good view down both of those, dirt roads meeting at the corner, it had once been the busiest grocery store in Villa Rica. But “The Lore Machaco,” gangsters and their reputation to the Martinez family, had eaten, if not wiped-out the once good name they had, even her good name, Bridgette’s was smeared in our hamlet, or small town, of Villa Rica: only Miss Bridgette’s store was left, the other family members went to Huancayo, and Lima to live, and here the old store lay in decay among the gravel streets, newer built hotels and gas stations. Not a pleasing sight for the new generation’s perception, rather a blemish. And now Miss Bridgette had gone to visit her old family members, long deed—in the nearby mountain-valley cemetery, among them her uncle Juan Diego Martinez who raised her after her parents were killed a bus accident near La Merced (a township two hours by dirt road from Villa Rica, and nearer Huancayo, the large of the three cities); her uncle who was the Boss man of the ‘Loro Machaco,’ cartel, killed on the streets of Huancayo, for trying to rob a bank.
Living, Miss Bridgette had become a legend of sorts, the one who endured, and remained worried for her family name—or so it appeared to us, a sort of inherited compulsion, that now the town had forgotten about; her family dating back fifty-years, prior to the township’s officially becoming a district, sixty-four years earlier (1944), when General Martinez (her great uncle), became the first unofficial mayor of the town, and built the store for his son to inherit, Juan. He made a law back then, that no Chilean could enter the township, without a paper of recommendation from a member of the hamlet’s Committee, and there were only two members on the board, himself, and a writer. Thus, if no such paper was submitted at the time of entry, the allowance dating from the moment he entered the town’s limits, he could be jailed, time without end, although they only had a one cell jailhouse, and one had to have a relative nearby, or a mighty good friend, to feed the prisoner, for the township didn’t have the money to do so, or was unwilling to do so.
The General had documented that his store had paid for the town’s jail to be built, and in doing so, the town would compensate him by allowing his store to be tax free, not of duty tax, but land tax. A way to repay him, true or not, he never paid land tax, nor did his son, Juan Diego, nor Miss Bridgette, Diego’s niece. No one believed it, but everyone in the Martinez family lived by it, and so did Villa Rica.
She was no longer young, a short, thin woman, with deep dark eyes, who wore no jewelry, no rings, or earrings, or necklaces, her face once bronze and smooth, now pale and vanishing into her bone structure. She used no cane, but leaned on everything, everywhere as she walked, seemingly much older than what she was. Her once wavy black hair now streaked with white. Her frame, petite and unused—she had never married, merely (we town folks all guessed), because she was so fussy.
She looked skeletonized, almost deboned, likened to a body frame crushed by a tone of coal, pressed tightly against her every pour, and as she stood in the cemetery, she looked from one headstone head to the other, as if recalling earlier days. Nearby, there were other visitors, visiting gravesites, once they caught a glimpse of Miss Bridgette they stared at her as if she was the mystery of mysteries, their duty to bring home the gossip.
She did not ask them to stop gawking, she just quietly looked about, faltering from one headstone to the next, as if undetectable like, her heart ticking like the solid silver watch, that was attached to along intertwined silver chain, her uncle once gave her, and Fernando polished now and then.
A murmur, perhaps more on a whisper, came from her voice box, slight and iced,
“You’ve been dead a long, long time Juan, they haven’t forgotten!”

●

Consequently she, Bridgette, left the cemetery, Fernando helping her by foot to his old 1950s Chevy, passing the small groups of visitors to the cemetery along the dirt path; just as she had done thirty-years prior, when they buried Juan Diego, and ten-years prior to that, when they buried the General. Her last visit was ten-years ago, a short time after her lover, the one everyone thought she’d marry, had run off with another sweetheart, he had charmed—they say—we didn’t know for sure of course—but we figured we had guessed good, he having charmed half the town’s unwed girls, and a few of the married ones. That even isolated her more, and Fernando, who had promised Juan Diego to take care of her, kept his word, and like his uncle—a young man back then—kept a close eye on her, and anyone and everyone, who had ideas to possess her, were subject to his scrutiny.
Several of Bridgette’s schoolmates, had tried aimlessly to get a hold of her, to call on her to join them at the church, or poetry readings her uncle had started back when, but she never gave them the time of day, and Fernando did all the market shopping for her and him.

The house was unkempt, upswept, the grass uncut, the weeds as high as the fence posts, neighbors complained, and the cities officials decided to trim the premises up free of charge, knowing Miss Bridgette wouldn’t, and Fernando could care less, his duties were to Bridgette not to gardening and we all figured that to be the case, he was afraid to leave her alone. And the judge knew her uncle, Judge Franca, now in his 90s, and he would not lift a finger against Juan Diego’s niece, nor allow anyone else to do so, they—Juan Diego and the Judge—were compadre to one another, at one time.
As Fernando, and Miss Bridgette, crossed the dirt street, she saw in a window, a café underneath it, curtains opened, behind them an old man, she saw mostly his torso as he stood up from a chair to get a better look at her— (an old schoolmate she thought); unbelieving his eyes, still as the frame of the building, she walked slowly across the street, a shadow of a dog ran past her, she saw it only by the blink of an eye, then the shadow, or silhouette, once in the window was gone, went away.
That was when people started to remember her, and her uncle’s terrorist gang; people in our town, remembering how he brought scorn to us, not necessary her great uncle, the general, but Juan Diego Martinez, known as the ‘Loro Machaco,’ the deadly snake killer. They started to think the Martinez family, and perchance Bridgette, held her status a little too high, for what they and she were.
Miss Bridgette’s parents, were really way back in the background, no one remembering them for the most part, a shadow in the foreground, their daughter hanging onto their memory though: a shadow and infamous legend: two father figures framed in a decaying adobe store, vacant for twenty-years.

When she got to be middle-aged, and still not married, the town was suspicious, but blameless, so they felt, perhaps allowing her a tinge of madness, that of which her uncle and great uncle portrayed long ago, she may have inherited—perhaps a family trait. Chances now were nil to nothing, that she’d ever marry—perhaps at one time they thought it might materialize, but of course it never did.
When her uncle died, she inherited the store that was all that was left of his so called empire of terrorizing the land from Lima to Huancayo. I think we all were glad she got something from her uncle; it made him look more humanized in our eyes. If anything, thereafter, she learned the thriftiness of spending and saving.
After her uncle’s death, many town folks went to give their condolences, and assistance, verbally anyways, it was traditional in our small town, there was much grief in her face, and she couldn’t or wouldn’t believe he was dead, not until Huancayo sent his body to be buried in the local cemetery of Villa Rica, a week later. She kept the body in the house for another week, until it reeked, and Fernando had to insist the body be removed, and it was, painfully for her.
None of us called her mad, not to he face anyhow, it was not the thing to do, he fathered her for many years, we all knew that, and she really had nothing left, especially after the few relations she had in the town left shortly after. And I suppose we all felt, she was robbed, just like all those other victims by the gang called ‘The Loro Machaco.’

II

She had isolated herself for a long time after her first lover had left town, some fifteen-years prior to her death, thereafter her second lover came into the picture, she had gained some weight, and even darkened her gray hair with coloring, bought new cloths, we were all happy for her in town, thinking and finding out our thinking was correct, she and Gunderson, a European had been dating.
The township had just paid for the paving of the dirt roads in what was turning out to be a little city. There was lots of machinery on the sides of the roads now—sitting idle during lunch times and at night, but running steadily during the work day, and a new sewer system was being put into place also, here and there, alongside the buildings the road was parallel to…
Gunderson, was a tall white European, with a deep rustic voice, charming green eyes, white to reddish cheeks, and a large face, perhaps he was twelve-years her junior. The young kids would follow him, and watch him torment his workers, as they built a small house along Wetland Lake, a sort of gatehouse; likened to the one her uncle had purchased, but one forth the size.
Alex Gunderson would be working right along with the help, the Cholos, people from the mountains surrounding the valley. It was during these days, we folks of the town saw them both on weekends, Saturdays and Sundays, walking in the park, and down around Wetland Lake, and up and about Divine Mountain.
We were all glad for Bridgette, or at least for the on-start of the ongoing relationship, but some of the folks stated,
“I’m sure Bridgette is not seriously considering marrying a foreigner, especially a gringo, I mean, what would her uncle think?”
It would appeared to us, she forgot her noble name at this juncture, and so we just felt sorry for her, and let her go along her own life path.
She had some relatives in Huancayo, and they came to visit her during this period (about fifteen-years prior to her death), two young men, who wanted to do work in the coffee orchards that surrounded the countryside, and so she allowed them to stay in an upper room above the store, in the back section of the house, the lower section had been vacant now for about five-years.
Oh we all talked about Bridgette and her affair with Gunderson, but we pitied her more than favored her for her selection. I mean, some of us at the bar asked each other,
“Do you think it is so? …what else could it be but marriage?”
This wasn’t jealousy or envy, nothing like that, just plain old curiosity and being nosy, meddlesome you might say.

She was back to being a proud woman, not that she ever lost it, we just kind of pushed it aside for her, hoping for the best. And we started to see Gunderson fooling around with other women in town, and thus, we knew it was going to be another fallen relationship, in due time that is. But as she walked around town, she seemingly radiated a demand for more recognition, or at least that is how a few of us saw her equanimity. At least that is how Mr. Valentin saw it when she visited his hardware store, and demanded he make a cage for her, out of wood and iron bars, and the top being of strong wood with a hole in it, with a circumference that would allow her thigh to fit through it. She wanted it to be three feet high, two feet wide, and she wanted handcuffs. He asked her,
“What is all this for?” and she said, point blank, “Is it against the law?” adding, “is it really any of your business, just make it.”
“Yes, Miss Bridgette—” Jose Valentin said, avoiding her cat like, angry eyes.
He remembered Bridgette asking “Is this sturdy rope?”
“Yes,” remarked Mr. Valentin, “…the best you can get!”
“I want it also,” responded Bridgette with a stern look—not at Mr. Valentin, she was too intense looking down at the rope.

●

We all thought, she was going to hang herself with the rope, but couldn’t figure out what the box was for, or the handcuffs, unless he, Gunderson, wanted kinky sex with her, but she didn’t seem that kind, and we all wiped that from our minds.
Gunderson sat in the bars many a night when she and he got into a fight, and I over heard him, as did a few others say, he liked men as well as women—bisexual, we thought, what a tragedy for Bridgette in the making.
As weeks passed we saw less and less of him, he was living with Bridgette, along with the two young boys working now in the coffee orchards nearby, up in the mountain area, in particular the one her uncle used to own, but was sold to a author and journalist, shortly after Diego’s death.
Valentin had given the cage to the young boys to deliver to Miss Bridget and that was the last we heard of the cage. But shortly after that, the boys left, and went back to Huancayo, never to return.
Gunderson we started to dislike, because of his so called preference towards both men and women, and the women at the Catholic church wanted the priest to confront him on his preference, and about living with Bridgette. He refused to talk to Bridgette on this matter, but would confront the man, and he wrote him a letter.
It was right about this time, he decided to go, so he was bragging in the bars, and so we thought he did go, for that was the last time we saw him in town. We were glad for the town’s sake, and for Bridgette, and the priest was happy also, the perfect storm that was building, was over for the most part—and I suppose you could say, we were not surprised, a little sad for Bridgette, whom seemed again to get the harshness of it all, a backlash of shame and pity, and loss.

III

The next time we saw Miss Bridgette, perhaps a year later, she had grown thin again, gray hair, wrinkles she was just getting, had now dug deep into her face, and she had now shut her windows, locked them, closed the curtains, locked the front and back door, and Fernando would not give out any information to anyone about her.
During the following years, those of us who saw her, it was usually when she was picking up her mail, or emptying garbage, her frame and hair was thin and sprinkled with white, her skin pale, and there was an odor to her house, she had fifteen cats, and we thought maybe it was that. Up to the day of her death, at sixty-one years old, she remained secretive in all her affairs; especially the downstairs where the store used to be.
During these same years, we watched Fernando grow older and older, and thinner and thinner, yet he remained active, and healthy, he was to our understandings, twenty or more years older than Bridgette, yet he looked younger than she.
And so she died, it was said of double-pneumonia, she had evidently gone out in the rain, and fell to sleep in a chair, downstairs, in a corner of the store.

●

The sheriff and I met Fernando at the front steps of the door of her store, and he let us in, it reeked with a stink of death, We walked right into where Bridgette had fallen to sleep in her chair, the funeral was the following day, and perhaps two-hundred folks came to see the mysterious lady, reflecting intensely at her last moments before being put underneath the earth. Perhaps recalling seeing her when she was youthful, at the poetry contests her uncle started so many years ago, or buying something at her store, that had been closed for decades, or seeing her walking down the street before they were paved.
We all knew, and we all kind of felt sad, that we knew, this was the last of the mystery behind the uncle’s saga, the Loro Machaco, gang. After they put her into the ground, the sheriff and I went back to her house to investigate the reeking smell; we figured, silently figured that is, and spoke little of what we were thinking, or might be guessing at, of what the smell was or could be, hoping it was just the cats and the long enduring years the smell festered into the woodwork and furniture, and floorboards and rugs, until it circled the outside of the premises, but we knew it was more than the cats…
In a backroom, we found it, the smell, it was in the wooden cage, with the iron bars around its square frame, that stood three feet in height, a body was in it, its head outside of it—through the hole that had been made for that very reason, the man’s neck between inner part of the wooden cage and its outer space, his hands handcuffed behind him, and a rope around his neck, a hook was wrapped round a upper beam above him, and his knees were cramped into this three by four space—he had to kneel, and all that was left was bones and cloths that hung on his skeleton, but the sheriff and I knew who it was, it was Gunderson.
It seemed like hours we stood there and stared, yet it was perhaps no more than five-minutes, we held our breath off and on, covered our mouths, lowered our heads in emotions, and tried not to show a grin, just blank faces. What was left of him was paralyzing to see; rotted blood stains on his shirt and pants, his skull looked fractured, perhaps from hitting it on the iron bars, or the edge of the wooden frame.
We saw Fernando leave, as if his duties, or obligation, was complete, the last we heard, was that he went back into the mountains, and that was the last we saw of him.

Note: Part one to “A Cross for Bridgette,” written the night of 12-7-2008

Eyes without Edges

2008-12-15T14:41:00.000-08:00

(Carole’s’ story and dilemma: entry into the Loro Machaco Cartel)

I

When she looked at him, Carlos, it appeared to his mind, she had eyes without edges, hair intertwined, as if it was unkempt wool, she had been ill for along while now, and he took care other, when the nurse was not around, she was incapable of walking, yet she could move her hands, and if need be, when Carlos and the nurse was gone, crawl to the bath room, across from her bed.
She had been ill since 1965, five years to date. Her bedroom was on the third floor, top floor of the mansion, her face today rosy and hands rosy from the heath, on the left side of the bedroom. She was inattentive to his mindset, and his will, conspiratorial to keep him in her home and life until she died; it was almost like a mission, her last mission in life. She tried her best and succeeded, in chasing all his women guests out of his life, once they found out how unaccommodating she was, rude and indifferent, they left Carols, knowing he’d never leave her, and she’d never release him.

“Good night!” Carlos, told his mother.
“Yes,” she affirmed at once, her expression on her face told him, even at forty, which he’d be next month, or at fifty, or at sixty, she had no intentions of letting him go, it was a healthy look, as if she’d live to see ninety.
He couldn’t leave her though; her pupils were like needles to his inners, as he looked at her and turned about, and walked out the door, his face ferocious for allowing himself to be as he was.
There was an immobile moment then, Carlos could feel her eyes looking right though his back at him, she had lost her breath, and said through her silent weeping, choked the words out, a low but surrounding voice, “Are you going to ever leave me?” adding, “Oh Carlos, answer me truthfully?”
She still stared at her back with a curiously rigid face:
“No mother, I will not leave you until you are dead!” answered Carlos.

●

—Now reflecting in each others pupils (he had turned around and walked back to her bedside), he stared at her dirty white hair, she at his blank look, and sheepish-colored face—a crucified quality encircled the room, the mother’s mascara streaked her face, she looked at her photograph of him and her, on a dressing-table, she once used, before she was bedridden, it was in a silver frame, he was three-years old, the best year, and years to her was those when formal reasoning was developing in him.
There she laid in the bed, he thought, the very bed she’d lay in until she died: there she lay unless dead.

II

The window to her bedroom being on the third floor was open, he walked over by it, in a dresser-draw she kept a bottle of whiskey, he opened it, took a drank, a large gulp, then two and then three…(she sometime needed two shots of the whiskey to help her sleep).
He stood there musing, thoughtfully musing there was a pistol in the drawer he looked at it, he looked abut, it was all within a glance, a millisecond, he put his had on the windowsill, she said something, her voice was muffled to his mind, something that sounded like, “What are you up to…!” during that muffled state, those words not quite seeping completely into his mind, his mother pushing her body up against the two pillows to see what he was up to, propping herself, he, Carlos leaped out of the window, like a giant grasshopper (in an attempted vigor of suicide).
Then he heard nothing, but she heard his body thump on the sidewalk below, cold and impotent, she knew she could not live without him, and she fell from her bedside, purposely, and crawled to the dresser-drawer where the gun was, and pulled out some cotton socks along with the gun, put the socks to her forehead, and the muzzle of the pistol, and pulled the trigger.

●

The ambulance came and two aids, picked up Carlos, moving him swiftly to the hospital before he suffocated because of a punctured lung, he would survive (to join the ‘Lore Machaco,’ cartel).

At the Hospital

“Why?” asked the doctor to Carlos, after he had spent a week in the hospital—and after he was well enough to speak and listen, “did you try to commit suicide?”
The doctor standing at the side of his bed looking down at the recovering patient, it was an April morning in 1970.
Carlos hesitated to answer, not because he didn’t know the answer, or have the answer readily available, he knew quite well what it would be, why he did what he did, he know it all too well, but he hesitated because he was unsure why the doctor wanted to know, I mean, he was a stranger to him, yes a doctor, but was it out of curiosity, or concern, and that mattered.
“Why do you ask?” asked Carlos.
“We get many suicides here, the young because of confusion and perhaps high expectations from their parents, and the older folks seem to have had to tolerate the impact of being neglected too long, bored with life, and little family to assist them, and they end up eating dog food or cat food, and shame comes and devours them, and then suicide prevails. And still there are some because of mental illness, depression, not able to function very well, work a job as they’d like to, and you, I just can’t figure you out, I mean, you have a rich mother—had (he repeated, he had explained the day before she also had committed suicide), and you have freedom, food, youth, education, everything none of these others had. How can I help people like you?”
“Because,” he said, “I felt like Abel, you know the one in the Bible, the one man damned to be alone on the face of the earth, be it his own fault, by his own makings, it doesn’t matter, likened to me, like to like. I no longer heard the beautiful sounds of the birds, only the imperious sounds of my mother’s voice, her will; I seemed to have been trapped in a world of unhappiness, that is why—and when you put a tiger in a cage, it dies little by little, and if it has a chance to escape, it takes it, and this was my only way of escaping, unless I killed my mother, and I couldn’t directly do so, and I knew—I suppose I knew, she’d kill herself, if I did, and I didn’t care, I mean I am happy I survived, and I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance to survive, but if I didn’t it was better than being a fixture in her home.”

Written December 10, 2008, in the morning, at my apartment in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru

The Little Russian Twins (Yulie and Anatolee)

2008-12-09T14:19:00.000-08:00

Poetic Prose Narration

No children ever looked so scornful, so undignified—than Yulie and Anatolee, the little Russian twins, gossiped the neighbors as they passed through Prince Lane, a rich neighborhood, on their way to Pleasant Elementary school each morning. But no matter who peered from their windows, porches or lawns—they would have to admit, Yulie and Anatolee walked splendidly together: chatting along the way, and showing very much interest in what one another had to say, not noticing the onlookers.
Yulie, the youngest of the twins by nine minutes, wore oversized shirts, short pants and a jacket—with three shades of colorful dirt: sandals that were made to fit his little feet by squeezing them in. Anatolee, the elder, wore basically the same except for a hat which he found some months past and never seemed to take off. Both wore the same cloths—it seemed—: winter, spring, summer and fall, except for trading with one another every so often. And for lack of a comb—their hair seemed always to be messy.
At school, the well-to-do children often ridiculed and teased Yulie and Anatolee for their broken speech, dirty cloths, and messy hair. But the twins never laughed back, got angry, or gave it much notice.

One day during class, Mrs. Rightbird, Yulie and Anatolee’s teacher, asked Yulie,
“Can’t you and your brother afford a simple comb to groom your hair with before coming to class?”
“We have very little money,” replied Yulie, “and what we do have must be used for food, paper and pencils so we can eat and learn; because of this, we feel a com b is less important, and used our fingers, which cost nothing.”
This angered Mrs. Rightbird to the point of stomping her feet and yelling:
“How disrespectful you are! I will surely have to talk with your parents about this.”
Anatolee exclaimed, “My brother simply answered your question. I’m sure he is not trying to be—as you say—disrespectful!”
Angered again, Mrs. Rightbird yelled,
“You both are disrespectful and out of place! Have you no manners at all? I would never let my children dress or be seen the way you two are!”
After school that day, Mrs. Rightbird went to the main office to check Yulie and Anatolee’s records, hoping to get their address and telephone number. But to her surprise she found the records contained only their first names, grades and the date they were admitted into school. How mysterious she thought, for the twins had been at Pleasant Elementary going on two years.

As the children arrived back at school the next day, Mrs. Rightbird pulled Yulie and Anatolee aside and questioned them about the odd files she had found, demanding she be given an explanation promptly. Yulie quickly explained that at the time of admittance into school they had no residence and was in search of one—but, that they had one now. She then demanded it be given to her.
“One Riverside Lane,” replied Anatolee.
“Is this an apartment?” questioned Mrs. Rightbird.
“No,” said Yulie, “it’s kind of an old castle.”
Having heard this, Mrs. Rightbird left Yulie and Anatolee to their studies.
That day after school—uncertain the twins had given her the proper address—Mrs. Rightbird followed them on their journey home. They walked through the rich neighborhoods, the inner-city, down to the riverbank, and then alongside the Mississippi River, and its neighboring ancient tall cliff walls, which gave light to many caves.
After walking a short distance further, Yulie and Anatolee entered a small inlet that led into a vast inner cave. Mrs. Rightbird followed close behind.
Inside the cave, Mrs. Rightbird hid behind a hug rock that looked like an ancient pillar, while observing the twins. Yulie went quickly to the center of the cave where a fire was barely burning. He picked up a few pieces of driftwood—gathered the day before—and set them in the center of the fire to feed it. Anatolee joined his brother. Both of them, then sat down harmoniously on separate wooden fruit crates—resting form the long walk and absorbing the fire’s warmth form the brisk fall air.
They gave thanks to God for the day, the food they were about to eat, the chance to learn, for His presence and love. After a moment of silence, they gave thanks for their loving and caring parents who had brought them to America for freedom—although deceased now.
Mrs. Rightbird leaned tiredly against the wall of the cave. She thought of the humiliation, shame, and disrespect she and others had tried to inflict upon these two young immigrants. Then with a tear gazing at the twins, she thought how fulfilled they appeared to be, how simply pleased, how noble.

Notes on the story: “The Little Russian Twins (Yulie and Anatolee)” Originally published in the book “Reading for Little People”; 1983 © Dennis L. Siluk; written in 1982, and published in a chapbook form of 100-copies, in 1984 © under, Dennis L. Siluk, printed by Four Winds Press (Edited y Donna Reading) Out of print for 25-years (reedited and translated into Spanish, 12-2008)

A Soldier to Another

2008-12-02T13:09:00.000-08:00

(The summer of ’61)

Hank, me and the Cayuga Street Gang

Part I

Then one day, Hank Gardiner, whom really had very little to say, I had met him the summer before, a relative of one of the gang members (The Cayuga Street Gang, also called ‘Donkeyland,’ by the local police who combed the neighborhood daily), who lived near our neighborhood, knew most of the guys, six-years older than I, said something in an almost whisper, after we had walked from the small neighborhood ‘Pitman,’ grocery store, near Granite Street, heading down towards the church steps, off Jackson and Sycamore Streets. He had parked his 1956 green Oldsmobile across the street from the church steps, by my friend, Bill Kapaun’s house (by twilight the whole gang would be there.)
He said, “I’ll be going soon!”
“Going where?” I asked.
“To Vietnam, the war, I’ll be a soldier, I volunteered.”
“Oh,” I said with a surprised tone to my voice, adding, “that war over, by China? Maybe you’ll not end up there?”
“No, the recruiter said I would,” replied Hank, “yup, tomorrow I go, can’t wait around here, nothing going on but drinking, fights, Chick, nothing for a man my age to do but drink, and I can get some college in the Army also, I think I’ll take advantage of it. Just think, before school starts, in September, I’ll be fighting in Vietnam.”
“School, hick with school, I’d like to go with you now, tomorrow, I just as soon be gone, then sit around here.” I said as if wanting to follow him.
Then I hesitated, looked at his face, he was there already, so it appeared, daydreaming of his Army career.

Me and Hank would go down to his green Oldsmobile, occasionally—prior to this day—and he’d turn on the radio, and we’d sit, usually with a few other guys, he, usually being more inclined to talk to them, than me, except for today (perhaps because of my age, at fourteen), and we’d be listening to Elvis Presley songs, Rick Nelson, Johnny Cash, singers like that, tapping our feet on the asphalt street, leaning lightly against his car.
Just prior to dusk—just like today—we’d head on down to those church stops, that faced Jackson Street, the church being of red brick, and its tall steeple on the other side of us, the steps actually led into an addition to the church, perhaps the chapel, or hall of some kind, I never saw anyone go through those doors, they usually went to the back side of the building to get in it.
Anyhow, most of us guys in the neighborhood heard about he war in Vietnam, but up to now, now one went, and the war was not called a war, it was called a ‘Conflict’ perhaps to lessen the stigma. In consequence, Hank would be the first one to go, if indeed he went.

And we sat there, listing to a small battery radio, on the steps this pre-evening—it was a warm late afternoon, Oakland Cemetery across the street, they were locking the gates, and I could see Roger’s girlfriend, Shelly, she was walking about the Caretaker’s premises, she lived there with her mother and father, the old child to my understanding; she was the first girl I ever kissed, at the age of thirteen years old, Roger made a bit with her to do so, and after she did, I wanted a second round, and she and the guys laughed. But I was serious.
Well, there we were, Hank and I on the church steps, and a man walks by, “You know where Cayuga Street is?” he asked, and I said, “Down three blacks,” he was a stranger and we knew everyone on the block, everyone by Smiley’s friends, a guy who moved in a year prior, and Doug was going to get into a fight with him, but it never took place, maybe he was his friend, so I got thinking. Then down the block, I noticed several bodies coming, Jackie, the girl I was kind of dating was with them, she was Chippewa, dark hair, about five-foot one, cute, with dark eyes, she and her family lived up the block, on Sycamore Street. I noticed Doug and Larry, and Karin, with John were among the group, and behind them, Big Ace, Jerry, was trying to catch up, he was all of six-foot five inches tall, two-hundred and fifty-pounds, and a tinge slow, he was about ten-years older than I, and bought the booze for everyone, that is, he never had much money, and drank free off us, but we got the booze.
Jackie was the same age of me and she hung around near what was called the turn-around, next to my grandfather’s house, where me and my brother lived with our mother and grandpa. Next to that was an empty lot, and a hill called ‘Indian’s Hill,’ Jackie and I would go up there and kiss, oh not much more, just necking.

“Yes,” I said, “tomorrow I guess you got to go then!”
He, Hank, heard me, he put his hand on my shoulder, and it was a different kind of stillness.
“You?” he questioned “cannot go in the military for another four-years, if the war lasts that long, maybe I’ll be a sergeant then, and we’ll meet one another, it’s not all that long.”
“You’ll be killing all those…” I didn’t know what to call the enemy, so I left it at that…

The he explained in depth to do something, anything, but get out of this neighborhood he implied, when I was capable of doing so, that here there was only a dead end, a road that lead to no other roads. It made me think, planted a seed to be harvested later on. Oh I didn’t quite understand all the rudimentary that went along with that statement, we seldom do when your so close to the forest, it is hard to see it is a forest, likewise, it was hard for me to see, the dead end (but one person did say it correctly, some twenty-years after this day, when I was clean and sober, and becoming a counselor, he said at a meeting at the hospital to a group of recovering alcoholics, while I was taking an internship at Ramsey Hospital, “There are two corner bars in this neighborhood I went to, and I discovered the folks that live there, started drinking there since they were teenagers, and they are now older men, and still there, dying slowly of the alcohol…” he was talking of my neighborhood, and he didn’t of course realize it, and I never told him to my knowledge, but I did mentioned after the lecture I was aware of where, and whom he was talking).
Nonetheless, Hank went on to say, the Army was offering him opportunities to go to college (something that was foreign to me, I would hardly make it to High School, I felt, thus college was the forest thing from my mind, yet the goal of going to college, coming out of my neighborhood—as Greek, and as far fetched as it sounded, it would be an afterthought that would come back a throughout my teens, and even into my early twenties, perhaps Hank planted another muster seed in my subconscious, because it would grow, and someday I’d get my Ph.D.)

I was back then, too young for the Army, and Hank knew it, and as impressionable as I was with Hank, and the adventures the Army were starting to offer—travel and education—I didn’t fully understand it all, I was too young, and then one day, the next day he was gone, disappeared.

“I’ll write you,” I said to Hank.
“No,” he commented, “just finish school, I’ll be back on leave to see you and the gang, now and then!”
Anyhow, he was listening to me attentively for the first time it appeared, until the gang got to the church steps.
He punched me in my left arm, he was on that side of me, sitting on the stops, leaning back against the cement back of the upper step, my chin in my arms, my elbows on my knees, and I almost fell over,
“Yup,” he said, “You only got to stay here a while longer then join the Army and see the world.”
“See what?” I asked, then I noticed my brother Mike coming down Jackson Street, he was two years older than I, with Gary, whom was called Mouse, they had been working on his go-cart.
It was now a matter of minutes before the gang members were climbing up the steps “Shut up now,” said Hank, “you’re the only one that knows this…that I’m going tomorrow.”
“All right,” I answered back, as if to confirm my hearing him.
He then put his hands behind his back, leaned back more onto the upper step,
“Well, Chick,” said Jackie, with a smile, “anything goin’ on?”
“Nope,” I said, and she sat down beside me.
(I didn’t want hank to go, I didn’t hear Jackie, what she was saying, she was talking lightly, I seemed to have been in a fog, something like in a state of disassociation, in her world, but outside of it, like in a fish boil looking at everyone around you, she nudged me, slightly—the Vietnam war was running through my head—“are you alright?” she asked, perhaps thinking she did something wrong, and she hadn’t, and I moved my head right to left, and she sat quietly, talking to Karin below her whom was sitting with John, who would marry her in a number of years; after he and I would take off to Long Beach California, although that was years ahead, and when we’d come back she and he would marry.)

Jackie’s sister showed up, Jennie, her and Larry were going steady, and Larry was the tough guy of the neighborhood, whom I lived with a number of times, upon my return from several long trips. I lived for a summer in his attic, another summer in his garage, and had party after party, booze and girls, and I lived in a duplex he rented the upper apartment.
Well, Larry and Jennie were there, and my brother was dating Carol, and she showed up, and Ace was not dating anyone and dancing about as he often did.
“Jackie,” I said.
“Of course I’m all right, I’m just thinking.” she chuckled as if it was a delayed reaction, she had already forgotten she had asked how I was doing, and onto other things with the gang, talking about getting some cases of beer and either going to ‘Indian’s Hill’ to get drunk, or jumping the Cemetery fence and drinking among the ghosts and gravestones there.

I now looked at Hank, perhaps one of my last looks, and he said in a spirited voice, jumping up, pulling out the keys to his green 1956 Oldsmobile, in my ear, “Hush,” and I did not disclose his secret.
He stood up talking to a few of the guys, as then; Jackie asked if I would later go for a walk with her, down to Indians Hill. I could hear Mike talking to Carol, and Larry and Doug talking, and then Rick came up and sat with the guys.
Jerry, otherwise known as Ace, was singing a song called ‘Twenty-four Black Birds…” and everyone started laughing.

“Everyone pitch in two dollars, Ace is going to buy us two cases of beer, and a bottle of wine,” said one of he guys.
Ace looked at Doug, said, “I didn’t say I was going to!”
Roger and Ronnie, his brother had shown up, said, “Come on Ace get with it, you one of us or not!”
And so Ace, Doug, and Roger went to get the liquor up on Rice Street, on the other side of the Cemetery, “We’ll meet you guys down on Indian’s Hill,” said Roger, and he drove Ace and Doug up to the store to pick it up.
Hank was still standing, looked at me, “See…!” he said to me, nothing more, he figured it was a neighborhood affair, he seldom drank with us anyway, and so him not showing up at Indian’s Hill would not be any surprise.

I sat back down, watched Hank go to his Oldsmobile, not realizing this would be his last time I’d see him…
I saw Jackie pull out two dollars, gave it to me to give to Roger, to give to Ace to get the booze, and I did likewise, as everyone did, and they went to get as much booze the money would buy, Ace didn’t have a dime, as often he didn’t but when he did, he was generous with his money.
“I forgot my false teeth,” said Ace to Roger, and Roger replied, “you don’t really need them, but we can stop by and pick them up,” he lived on Sims, street, his father a Captain of the Fire Department of St. Paul, Minnesota. In a year or so, I would take a liking for his sister, she and I, like Jackie attended the same High School, Washington High on Rice Street, Kathy was her name, and she’d show up in the neighborhood and we’d hang out, we kissed only a few times, and it seemed it kind of fizzled away, although we were friends for the next twenty-years, until she got hit by a car. She had gotten married, and lived close to the two bars on the corner of Jackson and Acker.
And so Ace, Roger and Doug jumped into their cars, and Hank, into his, as Jackie and I headed with the rest of the gang to Indian’s Hill.

Now Hank was gone, and the first thing I knew was Jackie and I were on Indians’ Hill drinking with the gang, then it started to rain, and everyone ran for cover with a beer bottle in their hands, and four cases of beer up on the hill, by a large thick tree, Jackie and I with a blanket over our heads, down by my Grandfather’s garage—not sure where we got the blanket, I think I slipped it out of my house, and we kissed a bit, not much, and we held each other, lightly, and we could see the guys walked to and fro crisscross across the empty lot, everyone getting drunk, and the police driving by, shinning lights up into the thick of the bushes onto of the hill.

I thought about writing Hank, but I never got his Military Address, and so I stopped one day at his house, his brother, older brother came to the door, and I introduced myself to him, “Oh, yes!” he said, “Hank had mentioned your name a few times…!”
“I’d like to write him,” I said, it had been about nine months since I had seen him, I was all of fifteen-years old, plus a few months, date freely, no one in particular, although Jackie was still around, and Kathy, and I had met a girl called Sheila, I was in the second year of High School, she one year below me, and we danced at a lot of the park and school dances, and she always wanted me to make love to her, but I wouldn’t and she told me so, that I was missing something, and I suppose I was, but I was getting into drinking and quicker affairs, but she was popular in High School, and we dated that fall.
Anyhow, this visit accrued during the time I was seeing Sheila, and his brother took a second to say what he needed to say right, “He was killed in action in Vietnam, a few months ago.”
You really do not know what to say at a time like that, you just stand still numb, absorbing the substance of those words, as if you would like him to reconfirm what he said, although you know what he said. I was not prepared for that, a tear came to my eyes, I had no control over it, an automatic tear. My inners became disrupted, and I had to catch my breath.
“Oh…ooo!” I said, looking down at my feet to find words and all I found was zigzagging emotions.
And so I left it at that, what more can a person say, the brother tried to put a smile on his face, but couldn’t. And I couldn’t and I left as strangely as I had appeared.

I told myself, ‘…go get drunk,’ perhaps that is where I picked up some of my avoidance of stress: drink it away. I knew I was growing up fast, and the world around me would change, and I’d soon be making choices, like Hank did.

((In 1969, on my way back from San Francisco, and after visiting Mexico for a day, I’d head on up to Grand Forks, North Dakota, and thereafter, be joining the Army, more like drafted into it, and head onto Augsburg, Germany, and then onto Vietnam. Then it would be, a solider to a soldier as I had imagined it to be in the beginning, but it would have to be in a secret kind of world of our own, my own, because of course he was gone: but not forgotten. I would be heading on down to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, for Basic Training, and then over to Redstone Arsenal, Alabama, for more training, and to Fort Lewis for Jungle training. This was just the beginning of my world, my adventures to be, the ones he sadly did not get a chance to, but then, perhaps I did it for him, as they said in the neighborhood when I’d return, and I did return several times, they lived through my adventures) (or by proxy.))

(The fall of ’69)

From Minneapolis to Chicago to…

Part II

“Where does one go to take his physical?” I said to a military man, who was called ‘Sergeant,’ I had a paper I showed him, confirming I was the person who was to take it, along with my Minnesota Drivers License, confirming the paper, it had a picture on it (I had just come back from San Francisco, it was October, of 1969).
I was a bit afraid when we got to Chicago, from Minneapolis, that we might catch the wrong bus, in a town as big as Chicago, I figured it would be easy, for the Sergeant had left once he dropped us off from the first bus—the one that drove us out of Minneapolis to Chicago, not sure where he went, perhaps to go get drunk.
But we caught it all right—the first bus, I never had to ask the bus driver if it was the right one, he knew who we were—because the Sergeant was there, and in a way I was darn glad he did know, because here we all were, cars and busses rushing by us like birds in the air— Minneapolis was twice the size of St. Paul, and Chicago was three times the size of Minneapolis, thus, movement was everywhichway, and a few shoving folks here and there to boot, and it was early afternoon, and by the time we would get to Chicago, it would be pre-dusk, and the spell of night would be falling over the city, me and my companions, were hopeful another sergeant would be there to guide us onto the next bus, but this was just hopeful think, not reality.

I thought about Hank, had he not been killed in Vietnam, he would have most likely wanted to see me before I seen him, at some location, perhaps even at the distant Military Base I was headed for, and given me so pointers, but those were just thoughts as I waited for the second bus. He wasn’t there, or never would be, I was on my own, and doing what he and I talked about me doing so long ago.

My family, Aunt Ann, her husband George, and Betty, and Grandpa Anton, Colleen and Sally, all relatives, along with my brother, and the rest of my relations had thrown a party for me before I went on this voyage, I am not convinced why they did, perhaps for my mother’s sake, perhaps because I was the only one in the family drafted, but I had told myself, ‘If I’m not drafted, I’d join, although I was now 22-years old, and most of the young-men with me, and those I’d meet in Boot Camp in a day or so, were between seventeen and twenty. I would be the second oldest in the platoon of some 44-men.

Standing there in the mist of twilight—in Chicago, I seen all the tall building surrounding me, it was like being in the Rocky Mountains, or the Andes, crushed inside of them, I wanted to get out of Chicago, and fast.

At the Gates of Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Then a bus stopped, near the corner, one I never saw before (hired just for this purpose to take us down to North Carolina, so I’d find out), a heap bigger than the one I was put on in Minneapolis, Minnesota, I thought, and me and several others would be soldiers thought I’m sure, as we stood together, looking at the Greyhound Bus already holding our tickets in our hands (the Sergeant on the previous bus had said this one would take us to Fort Bragg, and we’d be met at the gates, and another bus would pick us up, bringing us to our Company area.) we, all thought, and saw the driver signal with his arm to move onto the bus, for us to get on the bus, I was wore out for sleep, but I couldn’t risk getting on the wrong bus, so I stepped out and up onto the first of three steps—blocking the door entrance, ready to find a seat noticing the bus was half full of young fellows like me already, “Is this the…” I started to say, and the driver seemed as if he knew me, and simply said, “Yes…! You’re on the right bus, take a seat!”
And so I walked the isle to find one.
I saw all the towns from Chicago, to Fayetteville, as more young would-be soldiers, come onto the bus, at small stations, and brought tickets, like me with them, and then we were gone again.
I seen a number of trains go by along side of us, some more towns, and I just fell to sleep somewhere along the way.

I knew I was right to be on that bus, or so it seemed like to me, it went on forever that ride, but would be a new beginning for me. I had already crisscrossed the country, living in Omaha, Nebraska, Seattle, Washington, Long Beach California, and San Francisco, “That’s right!” I said to myself, “I’ve got to get out of this country to see the rest of the world now, today…” then my drifting subconscious spoke back to me saying , “Of course you must, you can find friends anywhere in the world,” and I told my subconscious, “I guess I can, I guess I’m not missing a thing, I haven’t got but one life to live, I mean the person you meet might have lived anywhere in the world, people in the Army were folks scattered all over the place, and overnight you got to meet them, from California to Main, from Europe to China (places I would visit in the future).
“Yes,” my subconscious confirmed to my conscious, on that bus ride, “That’s what I already told you, you don’t need a case history to see the world, this is a good start…and you’re lucky, at that.”
The bus driver said, “Youall goin’ to be met by another bus once we git to the Fort Bragg gates, I mean, jump off fast enough to suit the sergeants, they like that.”
“I ask you,” another man said on the bus to the driver, “are we officially soldiers now?”
“Yup,” he said, “since you got on that bus back there in Minneapolis son, so good luck to yaw-all.”

Written 11-25-2008

The Blight of Judas!

2008-12-02T13:07:00.000-08:00

Don’t look for proofs or conclusions, only a few
Metaphysical acquittals, in:

The Blight of Judas!
(A Speculation, in Poetic Theological Prose)

Judas’s account, or call it legend, has been over simplified in that his act of treason, by those who have written his story, have disrupted it to look as if it was sabotage (preordained): although consensus would prove me more wrong than right, yet, I feel he wasn’t that cleaver to have outwitted all the apostles, and Jesus Christ himself, he is given too much credit for his treachery… Oh well, it did occurred, did it not?

This tragedy one has adapted in history was not accidental, yet, mysterious, nonetheless, in that, how it developed. Is he not like all men, born of sin, and an evil heart? Was Christ’s divinity, a secret among the few and many? What did he inform? Christ’s whereabouts? And so we are led to believe (like sheep to be sheered) he lowered himself into the abyss, the fires of hell, with the corruptible, for thirty pieces of silver…! I doubt that! (If indeed that was the case, Peter denied him tree times, hence, he has saintly company!)

There is more to this reprehensible psychological drama than meets the eye: even though some have said it was in the plan of the Lord, that Judas was his instrument planned long ago…! And as a result, he gave the kiss of domination to Judas’ soul, for what? I doubt so! Did he not have choice of will? If indeed he did, the theological game that the Lord had planted—likened to a mustered seed, far-off in ages yet to be—is miraculous, because the grace of God was not with him, and he placed indifference upon this man’s soul, to hang him for humankind…oh but, should we call this the propagated glory of God, if so, would not history proclaim Him the Infamous Slayer, not the Saviour (?)

Oh no, I do not think Judas, played this game to be a legendary infamous hero, not at all, nor would the Trinity allow this, abominate crime. If so, Judas must have thought Christ less than the word itself—then, and again, this could not be, and far from proven? …yet theologians, the world over, and centuries on… rebuked him, for his hypocritical, contradicting, sharp-edged heresy… (but it was quite the opposite) likened to Paul, the once quarrelsome, argumentive, slanted pious Jew; in the beginning he was no less a betrayer to the truth of the Messiah and maybe God saw this before time, long before the Paul’s birth…who accepted his calling.

Where is the doctrine of theology where Judas claims Jesus Christ needed to redeem man? Did he not know Jesus was Omnipotent? Perchance what he didn’t understated, was that Jesus, did not come to chose between right and wrong, only to announce, the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand, and in so doing cured the ill, the sick, the leprous, and showed by resurrection, man was invalidated, but he would bring them back—that he was the bridge to cross over from blasphemy, and tyranny, and rebellion—and in the end he was the one the Baptist called the Messiah, the Christ, the Lamb. And in the process he cast out demons—and who else could do such deeds?

Perhaps, just perhaps, Judas was mad, that his king of kings would not take command, by moving the force of the world, with the switch of his hand, as he did with the Red Sea, for Moses; perchance it had to do with extravagance. Therefore, for the greater glory of God, would he not be heroically, and historically, invested in the world kingdom?

Oh yes, he tried to glorify himself, and thus, as theologians have indicated, found Hell…! But not by intent, rather by increasing extortion (for God could read his mind, conceivably before time, I don't know that he did (thus comes pre-destiny, and a man of infamy); but possibly he did not, for He said, “It would have been better had you not been born…” and so there was no curse, that God, in his divine—upon his throne, cast down like lightening upon this man; in essence, Judas’ simply, did not change his formal reasoning, nor his attitude, remaining as he wished, as it always had been; nor was it planned, for Satan was at hand, and like a poisonous viper—like unto like—he was like him, wanting the glory no man nor angelic being could ever have; likened to sitting at the right hand of God Mighty…Himself (or thinking a grasshopper, and rule the earth)!

Judas knew, Jesus could if need be, change things with a switch of his hand, and this was his plan. Perchance, he felt God would not read his mind, like so many of us do, day to day, in front of him, sinning and wearing his cross, and sinning again as if he was blind and lost. Even with a horde of Christian Churches surrounding, we spit on His word, thinking he so far off, he’ll never notice.

…but what Judas didn’t fully understand, was this: that Jesus Christ (like John’s mother who wanted her son to sit at his right had side, Christ said ‘You don’t understand…’ and she didn’t…) Christ could not offend the Trinity (God the Father and the Holy Spirit), nor could they denounce the blood of Christ, and so it was, that the son of God, became the son of man, and humankind’s sacrifice; it was the only thing that could and would cleanse—with out question and reproach (thereafter)—the sins of man, and the Glory of God was taken out of the Judas’ hands, as he would have had it. with the blood of Christ (God in flesh); now there would be no second thoughts, within the house of heaven, and his glory in tack, his name was at stake, where as the switch of his hand, could have reversed such a plight.

Judas, he lay prone, with half-opened eyes; saw the invisible instrument he was for Satan, and the evil labyrinth his mind was in; an unendless unwinding wind. He gazed into a sorrowful pit, at his ends wit, and committed suicide then, while stretching his arms to the heavens, and died.

Note: written 11-26-2008 (No. 2526)

Poet Dennis L. Siluk in Villa Rica, Peru

2008-12-02T13:01:00.000-08:00

Article

Poet Dennis L. Siluk in
Villa Rica’s 64th Anniversary—Reads Poetry

Writer and Poet, Dennis L. Siluk, was a special guest at the 64th Anniversary of Villa Rica’s becoming a district (where he did a reading of his poetry, from his book “The Poetry of Stone Forest…”): the gathering consisted of over 100-persons in this little busy mountain town, carved out of a valley most beautiful, they welcomed Dennis with open arm; his welcoming Committee, consisted of the well known writer Gilbert Ortega Lago, whose books include “El Perro y el Jaguar,” and Lagrimas tiene el camino” and Rolando Mandujano Antonio, who wrote, “El Mundo Amazonico en su Cultura Ancestral” & “La Puerta De Walla.”

During the event and reading, Dennis was most impressed with the young dramatic poetry readers and actresses (female children) from eleven years old to fifteen or older, especially Bridget, a young poetess, who is taking after her uncle Rolando M. Antonio: in which she dedicated her performance to Dennis.

During his 24-four hour visit, the committee paid for everything, except the transportation, and Julio, the brother to Gilbert O. Lago (part of the committee), provide much of that during the visit, and some of the way back to Huancayo: all three of these writers (Julio working on his book), took the Poet and his wife out to eat, to a coffee plantation, to the “Wetland”(lake) where he visited an Australian who owned a resort, by the name of Anderson, and to Mt. Divine, where he walked across the moving (or wobbling) bridge, and scared his wife almost to death by pretending he fell.

“All in all, the trip was fantastic,” says the poet, and he has now a new story he tells us of suspense for his next book, the story is called, “The Loro Machaco of Villa Rica” (meaning in English: 'The Green Snake Attacker’: Sara, Gilbert O. Lago’s wife, provided inspiration for the name). It will be put into the appendix part of the book to be out in July, of 2009, called “The Selected and Translated Poetry of Juan Parra del Riego (and Poetry of the Miners, of Cerro de Pasco).

by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

—The Ragged Sparrow

2008-11-19T13:34:00.000-08:00

((Winters in Minnesota) (a story of compassion))

In winter in Minnesota the days are short, the season long, and everything turns to a light and sometimes dark gray; snow hides everything, like a giant white umbrella. The Countryside, even the city produces profound feelings of disenchantment, haunted by the ragged looking sparrows (and some squirrels); occasionally, the sun flutters through the desolate sky and its clouds, and inside the winds resides gloom, you squint your eyes after a while in the endless white on white—snow.
If you have braved the season and youth is on your side, it will thereafter be kind to you, in that, something majestic will come out of it all; on the other hand if you are old, the thoughts of another oncoming winter can be hand clinching, it not leg trembling and mouth stuttering, but you know you have accomplished something great, and with harsh gestures, a fist at mother nature, you show it. Yet by and by you know it will reappear, and through those three following new seasons, imagery of the old produces stress.
Even Mother Nature knows for the old man, a new life will demand a new triumph, once winter starts, to make it to April, a spark will do, a muster seed perhaps, a little miracle, to refresh the spirit: something, anything.

The old man, Mr. Beck, watches the sparrows, and occasionally the squirrels (if indeed he can fined a white squirrel, it will be to his fancy, and he will have to look closer to believe it is not just his imagination), he watches also, dogs and cats, but mostly he is intrigued with the ragged sparrows. Thus, he gazes at them from his bedroom window, in bed often, the ragged haunting looking gray bodied sparrows, so little and dainty, but enduring, gazes at them as they go to and fro.
To him, Mr. Beck, they are the champions of non-defeat. He watches each detail of the birds, and is really their only noticeable audience, all other neighbors, especially the older ones are somewhere huddled around their furnaces in their homes, impressionless, unaware of the sparrows untiringly almost magical endurance of the frigidly cold and long-term winter at hand.
But there is one neighbor, to the left of him (or west), when possible watches him open-mouth, watching the sparrows; wondering at Mr. Beck’s sanity, because of his so called regularity in this sport like atmosphere, his devotion throughout the winter, his key importance he puts on the ragged looking sparrows, it is Mrs. Stanly (widow), she’s sixty-three years old (it is 1960, Mr. beck, he is seventy-eight.)

A Little Sparrow

The old man had handed in his railroad badge, took off his watch they gave him for over twenty years of service, put it into the top drawer—near his bed, forgot it was there, he had put it there, and left it there going on thirteen-years now, since his retirement. He, like his neighbor, Mrs. Stanley, is a widower, on pension, collecting money due him, pay his utilities on time, and keeps mostly to himself, never missed a day of work, unless he was really sick. He was willing! Intelligent! Quiet and honest! And most of all, grateful he had reached the ripe old age of seventy-eight.

A little sparrow—somewhat ugly, ragged looking that is, inexpressibly, was laying in the snow by a large oak tree, outside his bedroom window (his house being on an embankment with the tree, Cayuga Street below the embankment).
Looking at it, ‘Lovely and sad,’ he thought, but to no end it looked in misery, if not potentially dead. Then he looked closer—it had evidently fallen from the tree onto the soft cold white snow—he saw a spark of life in it, there was a general death twist to its wing, a movement, more by automatic impulse, the nerves reacting like an electric light blinking, ready to go out.

The old man stared at it, it was numbing, and the morning was getting onto forenoon. There was a passionate quality about his peering, and every time the old man saw the wing move, he smiled, kind of a stress reaction, a smile you do, not because you are happy, but because you need to endure the moment without panic.
“Heaven help it,” he murmured, talking to himself, then adding, “Vitality is born early in such creatures and also taken away quickly under such circumstances, such a little body, how can it endure the elements, —I bet it has not more than a few sparks left…!”
All he murmured would have been utterly evident to any onlooker, thus the old man eagerly—with his thin frame and glaring eyes—pulled off his white linens, and tossed to the side his two thick blankets, and with a startling and revenant grimace, kept his eye on the sparrow as he put on his robe, and slippers, “Well, it’s certainly a nice day,” he muttered (the suns ultraviolet rays were piercing through the clouds, yet it was below zero).

His eyes now in transit, falling downward for a moment, in a posture of emotional thought, then his smile again became radiant, as if he had said a prayer, and his face showed no artificial pretence, he had a mission, his heart pumped new blood through its veins, and his face got rosy, the dim paleness of winter’s dread left.
He looked dearly and closely at the ragged sparrow, its wings flapped once more, he said, tying his robe, with a rope of sorts, “I’m not sure what were suppose to do now (talking to the sparrow through the window, across the porch, all the way to the big tree, knowing if he did nothing, the little ragged sparrow would die, that was for certain, if indeed it was not dead yet, it seemed to him the bird was aware of his activity, his willingness to do something to help it).

From the Porch

Again he noticed a single movement from a sole wing, on the little ragged sparrow, an indication for him, there was still time (a shot, spurt of energy still left in it), but perhaps little hope.
Now he went out to his cold screened-in porch, and could see the little bird closer, the window had not blocked the sparrow from his sight, the porch being to its side, yet it was a closer distance by several feet to the tree, now, he could and was peering right over the sparrow, perhaps three feet.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he told the sparrow—if indeed the sparrow could read lips, it would have gotten a little more hope I’m sure—“Just stay perfectly still, I’ll fix everything up,” he added to his monologue.
The sparrow now moved its wing one more time, and then it dropped it, as if it was too heavy to hold, for even that millisecond it had before. At that point the old man knew it was curtains, the show was over, he was to slow, too late, too old, for that was the death signal, and he knew death had no favorites, and it did not wait, and that it had a continuing digesting stomach, it was always hungry, and wanted to be feed.

Suddenly, involuntary, almost in a state of disassociation, he opened the screen-door, made a short abrupt leap into the cold, cold snow, quickly and gently he grabbed the sparrow and away he went back into the house, with a growing preposterous smile— (as if he had eaten a chocolate covered cherry).
He took the sparrow and laid it down in front of a large space heater in the living room inside of one of his soft slippers, so the heat would not scorch it, and just starred at the ragged bird, as he sat in a nearby sofa chair, giving it an ominous silent look, said, “There isn’t anybody here except me,” he was talking to the sparrow, his hands in the prayer mode…

The Wing

He looked at the sparrow one last time, as if he was worn out himself, and ready to fall to sleep from the stress, and enduring ordeal—a mental strain, anxiety, then he thought he saw a wing move, said to himself out loud, “It must be a winter dream, they vary…,” then looked closer. He took off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes, put them back on, leaned over to touch the sparrow, its body no loner stiff, “A precarious adventure we are having little one,” he said, “time to wake up!” A tear came from his right eye, as the bird wobbled about inside the slipper, its feet stretched out, and its wings helped it get back onto them somewhat steadily, and it fell over the slipper, onto the floor. Now the wings were both operational, and it stumbled over to the old man, and with a last spurt of energy, it lay down on his bare foot, to rest, and it and the old man, took a nap, after their triumph.

Note: written 11-18-2008, after lunch at the café, La Mia Mamma, Huancayo, Peru. Inspired by actual events, although in a different realm, during the author’s twenties … (which was with a fish brought back to life after frozen from the Minnesota cold, a small fish for an aquarium brought home frozen, after being left in a car.)

—The Ragged Sparrow

2008-11-19T13:27:00.000-08:00

((Winters in Minnesota) (a story of compassion))

In winter in Minnesota the days are short, the season long, and everything turns to a light and sometimes dark gray; snow hides everything, like a giant white umbrella. The Countryside, even the city produces profound feelings of disenchantment, haunted by the ragged looking sparrows (and some squirrels); occasionally, the sun flutters through the desolate sky and its clouds, and inside the winds resides gloom, you squint your eyes after a while in the endless white on white—snow.
If you have braved the season and youth is on your side, it will thereafter be kind to you, in that, something majestic will come out of it all; on the other hand if you are old, the thoughts of another oncoming winter can be hand clinching, it not leg trembling and mouth stuttering, but you know you have accomplished something great, and with harsh gestures, a fist at mother nature, you show it. Yet by and by you know it will reappear, and through those three following new seasons, imagery of the old produces stress.
Even Mother Nature knows for the old man, a new life will demand a new triumph, once winter starts, to make it to April, a spark will do, a muster seed perhaps, a little miracle, to refresh the spirit: something, anything.

The old man, Mr. Beck, watches the sparrows, and occasionally the squirrels (if indeed he can fined a white squirrel, it will be to his fancy, and he will have to look closer to believe it is not just his imagination), he watches also, dogs and cats, but mostly he is intrigued with the ragged sparrows. Thus, he gazes at them from his bedroom window, in bed often, the ragged haunting looking gray bodied sparrows, so little and dainty, but enduring, gazes at them as they go to and fro.
To him, Mr. Beck, they are the champions of non-defeat. He watches each detail of the birds, and is really their only noticeable audience, all other neighbors, especially the older ones are somewhere huddled around their furnaces in their homes, impressionless, unaware of the sparrows untiringly almost magical endurance of the frigidly cold and long-term winter at hand.
But there is one neighbor, to the left of him (or west), when possible watches him open-mouth, watching the sparrows; wondering at Mr. Beck’s sanity, because of his so called regularity in this sport like atmosphere, his devotion throughout the winter, his key importance he puts on the ragged looking sparrows, it is Mrs. Stanly (widow), she’s sixty-three years old (it is 1960, Mr. beck, he is seventy-eight.)

A Little Sparrow

The old man had handed in his railroad badge, took off his watch they gave him for over twenty years of service, put it into the top drawer—near his bed, forgot it was there, he had put it there, and left it there going on thirteen-years now, since his retirement. He, like his neighbor, Mrs. Stanley, is a widower, on pension, collecting money due him, pay his utilities on time, and keeps mostly to himself, never missed a day of work, unless he was really sick. He was willing! Intelligent! Quiet and honest! And most of all, grateful he had reached the ripe old age of seventy-eight.

A little sparrow—somewhat ugly, ragged looking that is, inexpressibly, was laying in the snow by a large oak tree, outside his bedroom window (his house being on an embankment with the tree, Cayuga Street below the embankment).
Looking at it, ‘Lovely and sad,’ he thought, but to no end it looked in misery, if not potentially dead. Then he looked closer—it had evidently fallen from the tree onto the soft cold white snow—he saw a spark of life in it, there was a general death twist to its wing, a movement, more by automatic impulse, the nerves reacting like an electric light blinking, ready to go out.

The old man stared at it, it was numbing, and the morning was getting onto forenoon. There was a passionate quality about his peering, and every time the old man saw the wing move, he smiled, kind of a stress reaction, a smile you do, not because you are happy, but because you need to endure the moment without panic.
“Heaven help it,” he murmured, talking to himself, then adding, “Vitality is born early in such creatures and also taken away quickly under such circumstances, such a little body, how can it endure the elements, —I bet it has not more than a few sparks left…!”
All he murmured would have been utterly evident to any onlooker, thus the old man eagerly—with his thin frame and glaring eyes—pulled off his white linens, and tossed to the side his two thick blankets, and with a startling and revenant grimace, kept his eye on the sparrow as he put on his robe, and slippers, “Well, it’s certainly a nice day,” he muttered (the suns ultraviolet rays were piercing through the clouds, yet it was below zero).

His eyes now in transit, falling downward for a moment, in a posture of emotional thought, then his smile again became radiant, as if he had said a prayer, and his face showed no artificial pretence, he had a mission, his heart pumped new blood through its veins, and his face got rosy, the dim paleness of winter’s dread left.
He looked dearly and closely at the ragged sparrow, its wings flapped once more, he said, tying his robe, with a rope of sorts, “I’m not sure what were suppose to do now (talking to the sparrow through the window, across the porch, all the way to the big tree, knowing if he did nothing, the little ragged sparrow would die, that was for certain, if indeed it was not dead yet, it seemed to him the bird was aware of his activity, his willingness to do something to help it).

From the Porch

Again he noticed a single movement from a sole wing, on the little ragged sparrow, an indication for him, there was still time (a shot, spurt of energy still left in it), but perhaps little hope.
Now he went out to his cold screened-in porch, and could see the little bird closer, the window had not blocked the sparrow from his sight, the porch being to its side, yet it was a closer distance by several feet to the tree, now, he could and was peering right over the sparrow, perhaps three feet.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he told the sparrow—if indeed the sparrow could read lips, it would have gotten a little more hope I’m sure—“Just stay perfectly still, I’ll fix everything up,” he added to his monologue.
The sparrow now moved its wing one more time, and then it dropped it, as if it was too heavy to hold, for even that millisecond it had before. At that point the old man knew it was curtains, the show was over, he was to slow, too late, too old, for that was the death signal, and he knew death had no favorites, and it did not wait, and that it had a continuing digesting stomach, it was always hungry, and wanted to be feed.

Suddenly, involuntary, almost in a state of disassociation, he opened the screen-door, made a short abrupt leap into the cold, cold snow, quickly and gently he grabbed the sparrow and away he went back into the house, with a growing preposterous smile— (as if he had eaten a chocolate covered cherry).
He took the sparrow and laid it down in front of a large space heater in the living room inside of one of his soft slippers, so the heat would not scorch it, and just starred at the ragged bird, as he sat in a nearby sofa chair, giving it an ominous silent look, said, “There isn’t anybody here except me,” he was talking to the sparrow, his hands in the prayer mode…

The Wing

He looked at the sparrow one last time, as if he was worn out himself, and ready to fall to sleep from the stress, and enduring ordeal—a mental strain, anxiety, then he thought he saw a wing move, said to himself out loud, “It must be a winter dream, they vary…,” then looked closer. He took off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes, put them back on, leaned over to touch the sparrow, its body no loner stiff, “A precarious adventure we are having little one,” he said, “time to wake up!” A tear came from his right eye, as the bird wobbled about inside the slipper, its feet stretched out, and its wings helped it get back onto them somewhat steadily, and it fell over the slipper, onto the floor. Now the wings were both operational, and it stumbled over to the old man, and with a last spurt of energy, it lay down on his bare foot, to rest, and it and the old man, took a nap, after their triumph.

Note: written 11-18-2008, after lunch at the café, La Mia Mamma, Huancayo, Peru. Inspired by actual events, although in a different realm, during the author’s twenties … (which was with a fish brought back to life after frozen from the Minnesota cold, a small fish for an aquarium brought home frozen, after being left in a car.)

2008-11-16T12:48:00.000-08:00

English Version

Two Pigeons Kissing

Two pigeons in the morning—
November sun
sitting on a tree-branch,
kissing outside my window…
(as if no one’s around);
looking here and there!
The blue-headed one, picking
at its wings….

(I’m thinking, staring—:
can life be so simple?)

No: 2516 (11-15-2008), written in:
El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru (a tribute to Juan Parra del Riego)

Spanish Version

Dos Pichones Besándose

¡Dos pichones en la mañana—
en el sol de noviembre
sentados en una rama del árbol,
están besándose afuera de mi ventana…
(como si nadie estuviera alrededor);
mirando aquí y allá!
El de la cabeza azul, picoteándose
sus alas…

(Mirando fijamente, estoy pensando—:
¿Puede la vida ser tan simple?)

Nro. 2516 (15-Noviembre-2008), escrito en:
El Tambo, Huancayo, Perú (un homenaje a Juan Parra del Riego)

Fargo’s Mid-day Sun

2008-11-03T10:39:00.000-08:00

(North Dakota-1983)

The mid-day sun beat down upon Shawn and me, looking over the empty fields of Fargo, in the summer of 1983. He was eleven-years old; you’d think he was fourteen, he was tall and thin, and had a bubbly personality. Whoever met him loved him, if indeed he was willing to share his personality.
The empty field, seemed to have given-up the struggle of growing things, it was all weedy (sometimes likened to my life). We were riding bikes down this long blank road; the dizzying heat seemed to be bouncing off our bikes onto us. Shawn was thinly clothed. I was out of the Army now going on two and half years, and going with a girl named Sharon, she had lived in West Fargo, and had relatives, whom we were visiting, she was ten-years younger than me.
We stopped our bikes, and headed back to Sharon’s relative’s home, and there Shawn played some basketball in the driveway, a basketball hoop was fastened onto the garage, he played with me, fainter and smaller my energy went, in comparisons to his, as he squirmed and twisted around with that basketball, as if he was a pro. Then we ate our lunch.
Shawn seemed to have been wrapped in a mist and whirling cloud, a storm of delight, he was always excited to be with me—back then. Somehow, somewhere he seemed always to be clinging, if not climbing, striving, and looking for immortality, where there was no hope.
My long line of thoughts—for it seemed I was always thinking—twisted towards the sky, it was a thrill to be with Shawn, but it always seemed I was trying to put my life back together in those days (if only we could start off in the middle of our lives, and forget the long and enduring path to the summit), it is funny, when I say that ‘…back together,’ because this was my earth, my time, but I needed a shock in the head to get me out of a long gaze.
Plainly, I was working at a bank, not making much money, and needed to go back to school, needed to stop drinking. And I was looking you might say, for that trail, the boys were better off with their mother, for I was divorced at the time, and drinking did not favor a winsome life style had I taken them, and they wanted me to (it would be in 1984, when I’d stop drinking completely, the boys, my twins would be twelve).
That year, 1984, I bought a duplex, and was going to move my two boys in it, and I think they shouted with joy, it would although be embarrassing, the house burnt down, the folks in the lower apartment, the place I was going to live in with the boys, were the culprits, in that they were the issue at hand. Funny I thought at the time, here I stop drinking, and the husband of the lower apartment, was drunk, and fell to sleep, and up with the house, eleven people living in the house and no one got hurt.
It was miserable for both me and the kids, — a home without a roof, dreams shattered. I kind of knew how they were thinking—being brought up for four years on a foster farm—I knew how it felt: deserted, abandoned, and surely they felt similar emotions.
At this point of my life, there was no way to relaunch the boat that is to say, I could not rebuild or replace the house; it was 90% destroyed. Oh, I don’t know, maybe I could have, but it didn’t seem so at the time. Thus, grimly I told the kids what happened, and the glittering candle that once was in their eyes, was put out, now a sputtering candle indeed.

In conclusion to this chapter, Fargo was a hot place back in the summer of 1983, and Shawn was in a most joyful mood, high spirits on that short trip from Minnesota to North Dakota. And that long bicycle ride, down that long empty road, with its blank like fields, was but one moment in life, a time before he could protest life. And by the time he would have seasoned heavily with life, rising to full manhood, balancing his life or trying to, as I had to do mine, he would learn as I did, some of life was salt, other parts black paper, a spicy stream indeed is life, and I’ve enjoyed most every minute, and grabbed most opportunities, as I did with that long bike ride in the countryside, and am most grateful for do so.

11-3-2008

Ode to the Panama Canal

2008-10-29T12:11:00.000-07:00

(Part One and Two)

Ode to the Panama Canal
((Lift up your brows) (Part One))

Left up your heavy brows, your locks
your waters from North to South;
lift up your heavy locks that empty
your waters into the great seas:
the Atlantic and Pacific.
Lift up your brows, and allow
the ships of the world come and go;
to cross the mighty opened winds!
You are America’s engineering feat
the greatest of the 20th Century;
You are the Panama Canal…!

Written: 5/22/06 #1351/Built between 1904-1914; the city of Panama dates to 1519 AD, a World Heritage Site; written two days before I went to the Canal; reedited 10-28-2008

The Big Ditch
((The Panama Canal, 2006)(Part Two))

An engineering wonder of the world,
equal to 6000-warships;
six pyramids by the Gaza strip.
With all its tunnels, and locks:
dams, lakes, buildings, mess halls,
bridges—structures, spillways—
bulldozers, trains, and much more,
fifty-one miles of it, and ten-years.

Excavations, constructions—
like: digging a big ditch, through
mountains, valleys, lakes and all:
and all I can say, is immense—with
its tons of cement and steel,
between silt and mud; and two
oceans between, noting, I say
nothing was an obstacle!
Yet they came, one after another—
yellow fever, heat and disease…!

The Suez Canal is but a glimpse
of this immense task, the Panama;
unequal in everyway, to its grandeur.

Written in Panama, at the Canal, 5/24/06; #1360/Built at a cost of $675-million dollars, by 62,000 workers: today that price tag would be seven-billion, reedited, 10-28-2008

Four Poems: two Odes, a Dramatic Poem and One Elegy

2008-10-29T12:07:00.000-07:00

Cancer, Mother, Man and War

By Dennis L. Siluk

Ode to Cancer

I sensed the cancer
in her bones
in her bone marrow.
I know
it
will never cease; believe me,
the pain
reeks,
the cancer throbs, and stalks
in her bones
it pulsates
through her body, smothered
by pain.
She cries in those deep
moments
when she feels
the legs
of
the cancer creeping,
in its desolate tract,
seeping deeper
into her bones.
Here in her home
the entire
cancer phantom
speaks:
it has a
gasping
voice
a song of doom
and grief.

The tiniest
wave of the cancer
brings waves of pain to her
not only to her bone’s whiteness
but the inner floor of her
never-ending
once vigorous light.
Now the cancer phantom
has found routes
like rivers to the sea
her whole body:
thus, the smallest,
morsel, by each wave
has infected her
infinitely …!

No: 2507 10-28-2008; written in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru
Dedicated to Florcita (Arnold’s Mother) by dlsiluk©2008

Ode to Mother

Mother brought me
this sole single life
which she knitted herself
with the help of Christ.
She knitted
with threads a
butterfly’s
cocoon,
out of
cotton and wool
and synthetic
materials;
with alpaca
she knitted
two arms so soft
like rabbits feet—
with them
she sawed
into two
wings—
that when I
arrived
feet first
these
heavenly wings
(feet and arms
and all such things)
they were
so handsome
I, I felt so
unworthy.

Nevertheless
the sharp temptation
to fly
was in my eyes,
so I saved these
wings
as schoolboys
keep
worms and bees,
grasshoppers
and so many
sacred things
until I got old,
put them into
a golden rimmed
bowel
and traveled the world.

I tried to resist
the mad impulse
to put it off
like retired explorers
in the jungles
and deserts
I’ve read in so
many old books
(now sitting idle on wooden
shelves…)—
but I never could
stop
traveling or reading,
I just spread it out
like pages
in those old book
still sitting on those
old wooden shelves.

The moral
of this ode is this:
the mother has
twice the beauty
when she knits.

No: 2508 10-29-2008; written in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru by dlsiluk©2008
Dedicated to Mothers who knit dlsiluk©2008 Dedicated to E. T. Siluk

The Man Fish
(a Dramatic Poem)

“What is he waiting for?” she asked me.
“For time, simply for time,” I replied.
“I studied him like an ocean lobster,” she cried,
“until I grew algae in my eyes!”
And I replied, “I know this,” and added,
“I tell you, he is waiting for time.”
“He is like a thread in the water of
a deep lagoon!” she sighed.
And I replied, “The depth of man is
deeper than sand, and if you look deep
you will find, he is full of light, human
eyes, but dead in the darkness, if given
a dilemma, or worthless sigh!”
And she questioned, “I don’t understand,
how can this be, I’ve been so unpleased?”
And I replied once more, “In your net
one night, like a fish trapped,
you caught him, by your whim,
and thought you could change him.”

No: 2508 10-29-2008 by dlsiluk©2008

The Heartless:
An Elegy for the American Soldier
At War

The heart grew white with
patriotism, dark with anxiety
for war: yet he went even so.
“Oh death be mine for
liberty,” he cried as the
white clouds grew gray
with blood and disease
and dust and dirt in an
evening under small
arms fire, and rockets:
a slaughterhouse of rotten
meat, and guts lying here
and there, everywhere;
a horrible day for freedom.

The white dove of the morning
brought forgiveness for the
living, who did the killing.
So dark was the clergy, with
a voice of trumpets, and a soaked
flag with dark red blood.

Here and there, and everywhere,
soldiers smoking in wild despair,
all their days of goodness, and
decency, dignity, and nobility
now in dark shaped halls— of
pale moons, and nightly storms
in their minds: there somewhere,
is a steep ladder they now must climb:
oh where is the heart, for the heartless
for our snowy cold leaders, in soft
linen beds, in Washington?

No: 2508, 10-29-2008 by dlsiluk©2008
Dedicated to the American Soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq

Shadow of the Crater

2008-10-28T16:43:00.000-07:00

(“The Demonic Forces of Planet Mercury”)

((Planet Mercury and Asteroid m76) (A story previous unpublished
From’ the Cadaverous Plants,’ series))

…by, Three Time Poeta Laureado,
Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D

Part Index

Part One
Planet Mercury and Asteroid m76
(And it’s Demonic Forces)

Chapter one: Mercury
Chapter Two: The Moirommalit People
Chapter Three: The Ways of the Moirommalit
Chapter Four: Asteroid m76

Part Two
Hot Face of the Sun
(And the Minds of Saturn)

Chapter Five: The First Great War
Chapter Six: the Feast of Saturn’s Henchman
Chapter Seven: the Second Great War
Chapter Eight: Obliteration
Chapter Nine: Mercury’s Demise

Part Three
The Mole People of Mercury

Chapter Ten: The Little People of Mercury
Chapter Eleven: Along the Carter of Moiromma
Chapter Twelve: The Armistice

Part Four
Siege of the Giant Spiders of Mercury
(And the Curse to the Underworld)

Chapter Thirteen: Bigger Than an Ox
Chapter Fourteen: The Death of King Luhtc
Chapter Fifteen: Amelia-Az Quest
Chapter Sixteen: The Tor Rat

Part Five
The Ancient Cat Demons
(Return of the Minds of Saturn)

Chapter Seventeen: The Ancient Cat Demons
Chapter Eighteen: In Search for the Golden Leafs

Part Six
The Machine
(Thirty- miles deep in the Mercury’s crust)

Chapter Nineteen: The Machine

Back of Book

Index of Names of Characters and Locations
Notes on Writing the Stories (or parts and chapters)

Drawings, Illustrations by the Author
(In chronological order)

Cover: Overview of the Shadow Crater
and its surrounding area

Inside the Book

Map of Earth’s and Moiromma´s Solar System
Asteroid Hit [Planet Mercury]
The Cold Platitude of Cibara
Moiromma´s Food
The Giant Locust Demon of Mercury
Zoov ‘al’s epitaph: Leader of the Minds of Saturn
King Luhtc of the Moirommalits, of Mercury
Siren the Great, of Moiromma
Malsi, High Priest of Cibara
Overview of the Shadow and Crater on Mercury
The King Spider, Black Mandible
The Inner World of Mercury
Amelia-Az (Princess of the Moirommalits)
Luhtco the Elder, the Moirommalit
The Tor Rat, of the Underworld
Phoebe, Saturn’s Large Moon
The Great Cats of the 4th Era of Earth
Augusto of Lemuria, Philosopher and Historian
Gr, Zoov’al’s second in command of the Minds of Saturn
Luhtco-Az (third brother to Amelia-Az)

Sometimes we’re in the mouth of the whale—and still at other times we are running from the lion, in the jungle: seldom do we find ourselves in some tranquil canyon undisturbed; thus, when it comes about, we must grab the moment…save, we lose the goat and the rope…!

Dlsiluk 2006

Part One

Planet Mercury and Asteroid m76
(And it’s Demonic Forces)

Chapter One
Mercury

Hidden on the surface by the polar-craters, hidden by the shadows is a hydrogen-based water supply emitting its way upward, ascending from the floor and sides of the crater, up towards the top and out of the crater somewhat, as most of it falls back down into and onto the crater itself, it then cools off the walls and surface and floor of this solar heated desert like area; the planet being some ten-times hotter than earth, and closer to the sun, Mercury.
There on it’s surface and within it’s crater, lives an ancient species, se can perhaps call it a race, right from the planet Moiromma: yes, they appeared there many years ago, from this so called cold planet, outside of earth’s solar system; this race of beings, have the power to die and resurrect itself on another planet, a conversion process, unknown to another species in the universe; other then that, its life expectancy, is between 500 to 900 years, and it can have up to 100-conersions within this time period—Moirommalits are what they are called.
During there existence on Mercury, many of them going on a second or third or fifth or even tenth life conversion (or reeducation), the settlement that at this moment of time in space, originated from the Dark Ages of planet earth [around 1000 AD]; on Moiromma, it would be called an extended clan, or horde, for few times in its history did they united to call it a kingdom, or of such a sort.
This location, this so called Volcano, its interior, happened to be the only place on the planet Mercury, where the Moirommalits could have survived, where it was the coolest area on the planet; again that being the polar craters of which there were two by one another (on Moiromma, it is a climate likened to earth’s artic, and their blood can clump up in the heat, and thus, die, and as you now well know, resurrect itself on some other far off planet)—in any case, the larger one of the two craters, that had upper walls smaller but similar to a volcano, was the area where they settled. Under the shadow of the craters you might say, facing away from the sun, is where—if ever they walked, they walked, other than inside the crater itself, and along its inner walls, likened to a 1000-foot trench, with ripples, or steps circling the crater.
If one looked at this community, and its home base from bird’s eye view, it would seem to them, the Moirommalits were somewhat hemmed in. But as the Moirommalits had discovered in there multi life cycles, each planet had its own dilemmas, danger areas, and very few planets were as handsome and rich as earth, yet to earth they would be freaks, giants of eight feet all, with scabby bodies, they would be hunted as if they were the missing link, or Big Foot. So again I repeat, even earth had an unsettling dilemma for them.

The craters both had their smooth and rough areas, terrain, that is to say, their battered areas showing its age—by way of the shifting winds, solar storms and other outer space debris seeping into its orbit, and crashing into its land surface. Another perspective being, this desert planet was also covered with rich iron and magnesium, volcanic rocks: therefore, outside the shadows of the craters, were Mercury’s dunes—another civilization lived there, mostly underground, a smaller mole like people, short in life for the most part.

To repeat myself, some two-hundred Moirommalits inhabited the planet Mercury now, and Siren, born of the blood of Cibara, a planet nearby Moiromma, and known to have been taken over decades prior to her birth by demonic forces, her mother was of Moiromma, and thus, Siren carried the blood of her mother likewise, she now had been in earth’s Hell, had left its gulf ((see ‘The Cadaverous Planets,’ for background into Siren)(prior, going aimlessly back and forth trying to find an entrance out with a group of followers, whom had gotten fed up with going in circles, thus, Siren jumped into the mucky water—to commit suicide, and did quite well in that area, and now ended up on Mercury, thinking it was possible she’d end up on Moiromma, but with no such luck.))

Chapter Two
The Moirommalit People

Although the Moirommalit, united on Mercury as a people, they are quite opposite on Moiromma, for on Moiromma they were, and still are a people apart: on Mercury at this time in space, they adhered to their own language and while of necessity learned the language of other species or at least a way to communicate with them, thus, many spoke several languages before their last eternal breath had taken place, not of course willingly, but because of the ruthless, wild and rude races they encountered, and therefore had to learn, and in the process became redoubtable, and great warriors, but as allies, this was quite the opposite, they were quite questionable in the alliances.
For the most part, they excelled in crater warfare, yet well trained; they did not fight beyond the shadows of the crater, lest they be wishful of a clouted heart, and die another death.

Chapter Three
The Ways of the Moirommalit

Their customs were of ancient times for the most part, perhaps in a small comparison to the jungle people of the Amazon of earth, in the 1600s, or the Mountain Folk, of the Andes, prior to the Inca invasion, and then the Spanish Conquistadors.
They were like dogs in the sense, they could eat almost anything, even rats, and did so on Moiromma, ice rats, where food was scarce, and ate ice worms, along with other and other such creatures. And when starving (and they were like camels, in that they needed not to eat for days on days: thus storing their food, intestinally), they’d eat flesh (cannibalism) when necessarily.

They were a tall and broad strain, from their neck down; the vast majority had rustic scale like skin, to protect them from the cold on Moiromma. They had heavy buttocks, thick lips, long torso, wide face, thick eyebrows—long limps, almost touching the ground like apes. Slow movements, but mobile, and brutal. The mixed races were of course of a less striking appearance, less unmistakable. Seldom if ever did they smile. Their woman, were similar, but Siren, although broad, tall and almost without rustic looking scales, was a beauty to say the least, as her mother was. Whom was of both stock, Cibara and Moiromma, whereas, Siren was born in the crypts of Hell, where her mother had died, hence, Siren, had what one may call, a passport to three, if not four (if you counted earth and hell separately) citizenships.
Moirommalits were among the human race on earth, and when discovered—alias!—were often admitted into the ranks of the Neanderthal, Big Food, or the Missing Link!
To be frank, in their earlier days they had been of no great service to their own kind, to those among whom they dwelt, perhaps that is why the Great God of the universe felt a need to give them resurrections, and long life, to find if possible, a righteous path back to Him. Like hounds they hunted the weaker, boasted of their victories, a brutal race indeed.
On the other hand, we see creative knowledge; they had a thousand years to weave their resourceful weapons on Mercury as they had thousands of years on Moiromma. It is fare to say, although there was plenty of iron, and other metals on Mercury, they had to work with what they could get to, get a hold of, and that made metal weapons scarce, if not priceless.
The civilization underground, had better resources of course, like the Amuc of the Andes. The Moiromma of Mercury, saw them in tunnels, as they would come to the surface to check things out, but they were more legend than reality to most Moirommalits, and such information was handed down, less seen during prior to Asteroid m76, hitting Mercury.
And in closing this chapter, let me bring up a sentence or two on grief and loss of this brutal race. By and large, grief and loss appeared to be hidden in the shadows of their minds: in a like manner, as was pleasure or thought, and we can add love to that. That is not to say, they did not have these attributes of emotions, I mean even trust was questionable, but they did not display them as humans do. There was a stillness about them with these attributes, an unbolted gaze, unseen by the human minds, that the Moiromma displayed, And before any warning their passion could turn into violent rage; rape was not common, but when it happened it was brutal, almost animalistic.

Chapter Four
Asteroid m76

When Siren appeared, she was met by none other than King Luhtc [from the house of Uhluhtc, of Moiromma]. It was a pleasant meeting as far as first meetings and confrontations with Moirommalits go; that is to say, no death chanting or spell binding black magic took place, nor fighting for kingship, or death squads sent into action. Yet it was not to last, for with in seventy-six minutes of her introduction into this new society on the planet Mercury, devastation was sneering in the not too far distance.

(And so it was written on this day and time, and put into the Great Halls of the Great Crater Library on Mercury, that a giant, asteroid, by the name of “mAsteroid 76,” hit Mercury, killing all the Moirommalit inhabitants but two.)

Part Two

Hot Face of the Sun
(and the Minds of Saturn)

Chapter Five
The First Great War
and the Minds of Saturn

There were two wars in the history of Moiromma´s existence on Mercury, the first being, 1035 AD, the second 1910 AD, the Commanding General Cyr Augusto (Peruvian Commander, once in high ranks of the Inca Empire, now six-hundred years old), had lived through the second Great War, he commanded it, Between the Locust Demon of Mercury, and the Moiromma. The first war was between the Locust Demon and the Minds of Saturn, ancient legendary warriors.
The Locust Demon were wingless beings, who crawled on all four limbs, could see in the night, as well as in the day, jagged creatures to say the least, perhaps the weight of a small horse, and almost its same speed.

What took place in the first Great War was as follows: the Minds—, as they were called, were a mere remnant of a low degraded horde of demonic-angelic beings—aborigines, one might say—whom comb the utter darkness of outer space for brute-hood, and thus, found Mercury’s inhabitants by chance, residing within an ancient giant crater, another race of demons, locust demons, the other breed was called (they never did discover the Moirommalits). Thus, here is the story of a vanishing race that takes place: of which Zoov ‘al the leader, led seven and twenty, Saturn Minds, his followers into the escalade.
The Minds brought with them their favorite foods and wines, light-white flowery solar wine, made from space worms, and faded, dried and burnt bear-rat, high in protean, and for meat, other such creatures they sought and found in the deep underground, half frozen pools of water underneath the polar cap of Mars; as for Saturn, their home base, they found only insects in the hollow lava caves, once occupied by their ancestors.
They wore rodent-pelts over their shoulders, taken from earth—; these demonic beings, cast out of their once homeland, earth, to wonder the galaxy, were deemed by most, the most dangerous of all demonic invaders—well armed and accoutered with: ropes and chains, knifes and swords, hooks and nails, crossbows and boards—; all warriors wore human fleece; all warriors had studded-saber teeth, and their leader was Zoov’al Epitaph, as he was known.

All the warriors stood stone-still, silent on the great volcanic rim of Mercury’s — black lava Crater, where the Locust Demon lived (two hours by foot from where the Moirommalits were, whom had just arrived on Mercury some thirty-years prior, and were for the most part, unknown); the Minds of Saturn had been looking for the infamous Locust Demon for eons, in the cold and dark zenith that surrounded their cloudless and frozen habitat, environment, now they had them within their sights.
It was on their second day on Mercury, when the sun rose high overhead that the ancient legendaries swore countless blasphemies to the Godhead, saying:
“Above—below—God is no more!”
In a sightless ritual, they hurled blocks— blocks of disdain inside their chest to the heavens, as they danced, danced in glory to have found their lost tribe—as they called it, born of the same seeds, and same location, a hundred-thousand years prior.
Then came the battle cry, it was Zoov ‘el, half angelic, half human, and demonic in form, arousing a battle cry: saying:
“…where there is no God, there is only evil; where there is no light, only darkness, the same, and where there is no cold, there is only heat. And here God has left this planet for evil to triumph.”
And thereafter the First Great War, started.
Like the flaming furnace in the sky— the demons had waited— with raging eyes, for this day and now within the crater’s deep this demonic horde of two- hundred, hungry voices, invaders crept with tapered feet upon the sleeping—wine –filled—souls of Mercury….
“Lo!—“cried Zoov’el, “Once we are done, and their home becomes a grave—alas!—we shall feast upon their flesh.”
(For being born on earth, and sent into another dimension, once on a physical planet, they turned back into flesh, once in space, they formed back into spirit structure.)
As they crept into their abode, they killed at will all the Locust Demon, they saw creeping up, over, onto, unto the sleeping victims of Mercury, likened to snakes—this was their very day. And then came, the Feast of Saturn’s Henchman.

Chapter Six
The Feast of Saturn’s Henchman

The Minds of Saturn had won the war, and a feast was about to begin, of the five hundred or so, Locust Demon, four hundred were killed, fifty were found alive, and fifty were missing, hiding in the tunnels of the Mole People, undiscovered, these would be the fifty to restart the race, the dead, whom never really died, were cast out into space as residue shadows, to wander aimlessly in the dark, until the judgment day of God.

But of what took place at the Great Feast of the Minds—these demonic beings from Saturn, of a primal time, was this: the vile eating habits of the demon commenced: compulsively draining marrow of their victims, drinking liquefied bones, pulling out their pale-dry teeth and chewing on them as if they were delicious rock candy, sucked out flushed-lungs; ripping out flesh and eyes, ribs and thighs.
Thereafter, after the feast had settled down, they built dark volcanic alters, on the and floor of the crater, clapped and danced to the great henchman of hell, their once leader of darkness, Agaliarept, and the Ten-Winged Serpent of Hell, they bowed their brows, as Zoov’el bellowed like a grasping lizard, tongue hanging out, throwing rocks onto skulls, screaming,
“I am the God of Mercury,” at which time the rim of the volcano trembled, mysteriously trembled, and unrepentant, smoke started coming out of the tunnel holes, as if they were going to be entombed; even boulders from the rim of the crater started rolling down its sides, lava gases appeared from where the boulders parted…they were all deep in the pit of the crater, and a big eruption came, likened to Pompeii, and the blaze of the gas, the queer-colored gas, multiplied and ran like small streams of veins to the floor of the crater, sealing all that lived, into a crusty like form, as if they were statues, and frozen within side of their stone covered surface. All were enclosed, even Zoov’el; and consequently, the fifty remaining Locust Demon, reappeared on the surface of Mercury, by way of the Mole People, into a new crater, where they started their new civilization.

Chapter Seven
The Second Great War

The Second Great War of Mercury was between the Locust Demon, now 100-hundred strong, and the Moirommalits, two-hundred strong. This war would bring both races ankle-deep into blood, within the crater of the Moirommalits. And in the hot face of Mercury’s sun many would vanish. The Great Peruvian Moirommalit General, Cyr Augusto, commanded this war, with the overseeing of King Luhtc.
Many a man was baked alive along the edge of the crater’s shadow. The Locust Demon were breed from some far off race of demonic beings who once walked the ground of earth, and had fled some great upheaval that took place, identical almost in the history of the Minds of Saturn, in that one day they appeared, and as a result, the living history of Mercury was started: other than the Mole People, they were the first to their knowledge, the first surface inhabitants of Mercury. They, similar to the Moirommalits, took refuge in a crater, and as we all know now, lost the First Great War.
They were not all that far from the Moirommalits, actually they had discovered their presence about 1070 AD, some forty years after the First Great War. There was so few of them, they dare not have even thought of starting a war, but now, at one-hundred, they felt equal if not the better warrior of the two hordes.
Mercury’s horizon was likened to brass and scarlet—with a blazing ongoing, unending heat wave, they harnessed it though, paradoxical and bizarrely to their liking when they could search the galaxy for another, and better planet to live on, yet they adapted to the harsh life of Mercury (and it is fare to say, why a demon does what he does, is beyond this writer’s mind), but they were in essence, waiting for their second chance to take over Mercury, of course the First Great War, was to survive it and not be cast into utter darkness, the Second Great War would be to rule it.

They fought on the cliffs for the timeless crater, home to Moirommalits for nine-hundred years, dressed in rat skins and the flesh of their own kind.
They, the Locust, and the Moirommalit, did communicate during these final days, prior to war, they had meetings galore, the main dispute was this: the Locust, wanted to be allowed to build settlements within the shadow of the Moirommalit Crater, feeling they were the first surface inhabitants, they had this right. The shadow of the crater was the largest shadow of any of the craters on Mercury, perhaps because several smaller craters protected it front the scorching and boiling rays of the sun, like earth’s large moon protects earth, from its ultraviolet rays.
But of course, this was not to the liking of General Cyr Augusto, who told King Luhtc, “How can we protect ourselves, if we are surrounded by the enemy?”
Of course, the Locust henchman, king of the demonic force, Azaz’el the II, as he was called, proclaimed it accordingly, saying “We are of no threat to you, whom have iron weapons, and can die a hundred times and resurrect on another planet.”
But as far as war goes, and the nature of war, such is always fought over self-interests, not those of the other party’s interest, no indeed, it is self-interest, perhaps the evilest of evils, even stronger than Satan’s pursuit. Henceforward, the war begins, as I had previously stated….

It took only one long afternoon, when light and air was thick, in a tumult almost, with little to no sound came the reverberating voices and footsteps of the Locust, down and around the rim of the crater. It would be a brittle battle to say the least. There were endless minuscule tasks for foe and prey to do, which caused the pulse of the Moirommalits to beat faster and fight harder, thus, quivering faintly, the drive of the Locust, but onward both fought.
It was—for the most part—two races beating up one another, to no avail, to no end, no benefit, therefore, came an truce between the two, where war would stop, but peace would not be restored, only in actions until one or the other decided the other was stronger again, and self-interests, become high again on their agenda.

Chapter Eight
Obliteration

Commander Cyr Augusto, saw the appearance of m76 (a giant asteroid) coming straight in line to hit their side of Mercury. He called it “The Death Saber,” for the attack of the asteroid would be likened to an attack of the great saber tooth tiger, so he told his king, Luhtc.
Strangle, this forth coming doom, Siren and King Luhtc, along with Cyr Augusto, announced the bad news to his people, what they observed. Luhtc and Siren, both of high concentration of Moiromma blood, knew they’d have a resurrection should they die in the forthcoming doom, but Cyr’s blood being of two mixtures, that of Peruvian and Moiromma, the Peruvian perhaps dominating, would die, and there would be no second chances for him. He was—it was said, Cyr Augusto was between 600 and 400 years old, closer to the 600, than the four-hundred I do believe. Thus he was of Wanka and Inca stock, and therefore, performed a death rite, relinquishing his life on Mercury. He knew they were mostly all condemned, if not too pure death, to parting Mercury. Nevertheless, he would die in honor and respect of his fellow men.

Inflexible was the Asteroid, when it finished its job, striking Mercury like a hundred atomic bombs going off at once, thus, lying about were body parts of the Locust, as well as for the Moirommalit, and even many of the Mole People. It took seventy-six minutes to hit Mercury, upon the arrival of Siren, and Commander Cyr Augusto kept to the last second his integrity. The only two living was the King and Siren; both had hid in the deep tunnels of the Mole Caves.

Chapter Nine
Mercury’s Demise
And Conclusion to Part Two

Mercury, as it has always been, an awful living, sightless planet of darkness and heat, in the not so far distance, a great asteroid had hit the planet, thus, the sun no longer gave it a hellish omen, its demise was at hand. Now a candles orb, with eyes filled with dust, residing next to the sun, where once life lived within the volcanic craters of Mercury, now but misbegotten species’, the Locust Demon and the Moirommalits had disappeared, all but for Siren and the king, Luhtc, and the Mole People thus, were left, but in short supply.

Part Three

The Mole People of Mercury

Chapter Ten
The Little People of Mercury

As we all know, Siren was still alive on Mercury, as was the King of the Moirommalits, Jokaneen, was Siren’s mother, she had died in the vaults of hell, giving birth to Siren, and part of her dying residue was submerged into the back chambers of her mind, kept alive, and she often spoke to her mother—via, telepathy, except for the time she was being courted by the royal house, on Planet SSARG´s moon (for more information on this see “The Cadaverous Planets”). And so we find much information given to Siren by way of Jokaneen, and Jokaneen was a student of Tfarcevol, Moiromma´s most renowned philosopher, equal to perhaps Plato, or Socrates, or even Aristotle. And so we see she was a wise leader in her former and later years. And now with the young king, she had a new mission in life, not only to survive the planet, but to restore its Moirommalit inhabitants back onto the planet, while perhaps discovering the Mole People in the process.

The Mole People, were an indigestible people (whom lived arguments, stubborn, and very talkative, rude and selfish), I say, hard to digest people, of the Solar System, and King Luhtc, with the help of Siren and her mother Jokaneen, who had talked to the spirit of Cyr the Great General, found out these pygmy like people, just didn’t appear out of nowhere, they had a history, one Cyr kept from the king, lest they be hunted and killed by his kind. They were a bread of two inhabitants, the Amuc of the Andes of Peru, and pygmies of Cibara, a hybrid form of demon, I should say half demon, like an imp, who lived once in the catacombs of Cibara, in the dreadful underground passages, under the high priest of Cibara, Malsi, henceforward called, Cibaranites, they were originally brought from earth, via, angelic renegades, by Crick’el and Amasras, once, both being archangels, now cast under tons of stone and locked in chains by Ura’el, the bright one of the God of the Universe.
This demonic force cohabitated with the Amuc of the Andes, and were cast out, and brought to the Planetoid, and then onto Mercury. Malsi the 10th, was the leader of the Mole People of Mercury, and I shall describe them slightly:

These asteroid pygmies had membrane nostrils, for a nose—that is to say, just a film over the area where a nose would go, and six holes in that vicinity: the reason being, the asteroid had thin air, and it was at times hard for breathing and was suited for underground life, as now they were in the tunnels and cavities of Mercury.
They also had a thin twig like neck, and white-ivory hair: small slanting eyes, like a snake, no ears per se, some wore iron wings on them, as if they once wore them and they were taken off, as if they could once fly and no longer could: perhaps a remembrance of far-off days.
In addition, they had deep, rooted eyes and rose-color skin, again I repeat pigmentation that is, was white or red usually. The tallest perhaps as 18-inches in height; they ate roots and mushrooms they had planted and harvested deep in the bowls of the asteroid here on Mercury, it was different, they ate ice and rock rats, and mud worms, brought over by the early settles of Moiromma eons ago, and which descended into the plates of the planet. For them, the process was: search, seek, or kill, and eat. They had poisoned some of the Locust Moirommalits in previous days, but they were the only one left, thus, down from 1500-inhabidents, to 500, for much of there underground kingdom had sunk to the core of the Mercury, and desolated in its head. They had lived on this planet for three-thousand years.

It was inevitable now, the Mole People, would have to seek a new life, and much of it would have to be above ground, with a portion underground, in what was left of their tunnels, and dugouts, which were used for homes. And so, Malsi the 10th, showed his head, along the shadow of what was left, and called, the Carter of Moiromma.

Chapter Eleven
Along the Carter of Moiromma

The Majority of the Mole People, desiring ever so much the shadow of the Crater, more to live above ground, in what was now called the Shadow Lands, to walk on its solid surface he, the High Priest, known as Malsi the Tenth, leader of the Mole People, gave leave for each family to depart from the underworld they had lived in for thousands of years, to build settlements, long denied, saying:
“Go then, if you will, though it is against my wisdom, for I fear ill will prevail on the surface, as always it has, while—in the mean time, my Royal Guards, will assist me,” of which were fifty of the five-hundred Mole people now living, of which 450 were to live above ground.
The High Priest felt they would return in time, perhaps more swiftly than expected, and he could rule through a form of government, on the surface—during this period, consisting of five regions around the shadow of the crater, and of the five, sections each would have one-hundred inhabitants, except for the fifth one, which would have but fifty. In turn, the Governors would come to the central government, which would be his, in the Hidden Underground Kingdom.
Nogrut, the brother to Malsi, was chosen as the chief Governor of all five provinces, whom would report directly to the Chief High Priest.
“And be wary,” said Malsi, to his brother, Nogrut, “that you do not get hemmed in by the other four, and depart from me, I have my Royal Guards, if need be to recapture any breakaway provinces from the Central Government,” and Nogrut, took heed.

At this point and time, between the Hidden Kingdom and the Shadow Settlements, a dangerous road was being built if not a haunting one between the two regions, the underground kingdom and the surface settlements, both wanting the power of the other, both enmeshed in evil thoughts.
In actuality, the union of the five provinces grew strong and united, and was in a short time called, The Union, and the lower kingdom was fearful in trying to dominate them, lest they lose hold of them completely, and they had five times the amount of people, but only perhaps equal to fifty good warriors, as the High Priest had.

Chapter Twelve
The Armistice

Siren, fearless and hardy of heart, having sought the friendship of both kingdoms, only the Shadow Settlements, along with their rulers took her in as friend, and not foe, the last, or Fifth Province was always wary of her though, as was the lower Kingdom.
It was at this time, both King Luhtc and Siren built a rock adobe home—more liken to a small fortress, within the Shadow Lands, and lived among the Mole People, with kind of an alliance, should they get attacked, they’d help under certain circumstances. The High Priest of the Hidden Kingdom remained at odds with this, feeling they did not need such a powerful alliance with Siren and King Luhtc; it was what he had feared from the start, autonomy. But again, he did not want war, at the point anyhow, in fear of losing it, and gaining nothing, but bitter he remained.

Therefore, for a long while anyway, all were content, the Union of Five, the Hidden Kingdom, and Siren and her King, that is, until there was a dispute with the Fifth Province, wanting its own independence from the four. This now was a subject of debate for months, until Nogrut, took 100-soldiers from the four provinces and attacked the fifth province, and killing ten of its fifty inhabitants, or 20% of its population. Each life was quite valuable on Mercury, and hard to replace.
This did not set well with the High Priest Malsi, who demanded his brother be taken off from his position and hung and all the Union Soldiers leave the Fifth Province: and I repeat, the High Priest, was quite angered by what the attack had caused in death total, or at least this is what the proclaimed to the invaders, and his Royal Guards. But no one dared to lift a finger against Nogrut, and thus, Malsi sent in all his fifty Royal Guards to recover the province, and proclaim it to have self rule (of course under his protection), this caused a war with the Union, those soldiers still guarding the province, and when the Royal Guards came into the city, of the Fifty Province, they killed seventy-five of the soldiers of the Union who remained there, losing only ten of their own. Thus, a retreat was called for by the Union.
This did not set well with Nogrut, whom now demanded King Luhtc and Siren, to help him regain the breakaway province, but she refused, saying,
“Create an Armistice, lest you all want to parish.” She knew deep inside, if Nogrut was given a chance to take over Malsi’s underground kingdom he would, as Malsi would destroy the Union if he could, and thus, felt, a good balance was now created; that being, the Union was a counter balance to Malsi, as the Fifth Province, united with Malsi, was a good counter balance to the Union.

Within a short time thereafter, Siren gave birth to a daughter of Luhtc, and she committed suicide, and was resurrected on her home planet, Moiromma. King Luhtc, was left behind to create another Moirommalit race on Mercury, and the Armistice remained in place—at lest for the time being.

Part Four

Siege of the Giant Spiders of Mercury
(And the Curse to the Underworld)

Chapter thirteen
Bigger than an Ox

The sun rose over the top of the shadow of the crater, pouring down a tide of brilliant, gleaming sunlight: involuntary motions, deliriums, which all riddled the puzzled inhabitants of the Shadow Lands that surrounded the crater, the Mole People.
Up, up, then over and down, and around the rim of the crater came these giant spiders—who had lived deep in the old roots of the underground world, disturbed by the asteroid that hit the planet, a few years back, they came through the underground mud, tributaries—they were slow in digging their way out, filled with obscure dimness, somber whispers to one another, said its leading spider to its 2,000-followers, bigger and wider than an ox, and of a demonic origin, and short memory, perhaps seven hundred pounds each.
“Death is painted dark and thick; we are the death spiders of the haunting underworld of Mercury.”

The Mole People, looked at the mass of thickness emerging with agility over the rim of the crater to their base, they could see the glimmered yellowish pair of eyes in each of the subterranean creatures, with eight legs; the Mole People yelled with the fury of devils, to one another about these surprising and unknown creatures, awful screams rose from all directions, the monsters were creeping onward, they had monster like jaws, and they knew they would crush the Mole People, then eat them, moving with the swiftness characteristic of its smaller breed, an appalling quickness and ferocity. Within an instant, the first of the five provinces of the Shadow Lands, were a shambles, the inhabits were all dead, heads taken off by with one bite of the creatures, all hungry, starving, and with a clamor and fiendish yells, they ate the rest of the 100-bodies they found at the first site, and soon they were closing in on the second province.
Fascinated was the High Priest, as he saw them coming, and ran and hid in his underground kingdom. They were black and bulky, and crouching into the shadow of the crater. Among the victims of the first province, none lived, not even Nogrut.
There was nothing they could do, the Mole People against the claws and fangs, and venom of the spiders, and Black Mandible the leader, knew it was futile for them.
Henceforward, the hairy legs of the spiders crept into the second province, and again under the pinning, staggering , dragging legs and eyes, and weight of the hellishly proud spiders, they crushed with horror the ghastly mass of little people, that stood in their way, entrails and blood, of the Mole People littered the Shadow Lands.

During this time, the three other provinces, raced to the underground kingdom of the High Priest, Malsi, seeking his wisdom and leadership.
They clutched around his throne room, in silence and mystery; no word had passed between them, only ghoulish fear.
Said the High Priest,
“You see, on the surface we are helpless, crushed by throb of fear creatures bring to us to their knees, beasts of the planet eating us at will.”
There now was three hundred left of the Mole people, said the High Priest,
“As soon as you feel up to it, we will put distanced between them and us,” and he jerked the head of his Royal Chief Guard,
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “nothing is going to harm us,” and he could feel the heart of his Chief, resuming its normal beat, for he knew what the High Priest said, was always forthright, except for his dominating his followers, about now they all didn’t mine his domination though.
There was an old ruins, under the bellow of the Kingdom’s floor, one he saw, and told no one about, in his youth, he muttered to his Chief Guard,
“These spiders are devils, some even with dog heads, they will swarm over our kingdom soon (instead of answering, the Chief Guard simply nodded his head yes).”
The High Priest clinched his fist, and moodily, touched, timidly, a lever, and all were speechless, as an ungrounded door, with steps lead to old ruins, a kingdom unknown to all but the High Priest.

At this very moment, the beasts on the surface shared one another’s uneasiness, trying to find the entrance to the underground kingdom, fitfully moving and looking the entire underground kingdom over once found, clear and calm, hot and with out calculation, many got lost in its tunnels. But none could find the doorway to the ruins they, the Mole People had escaped to, and never would, nor would they ever surface again.

Chapter Fourteen
The Death of King Luhtc

King Luhtc had survived the siege of Mercury, of the Giant Spiders, he had went down into the bellow of the Crater, when they were climbing up, and you might say, into their nest he went, which had wide tunnels everywhichway. Thereafter he and his new born daughter, Princess Amelia-Za, now two years old, sought refuge from the demonic forces of Mercury, the new ones, for the Minds of Saturn were gone, and for the most part, so was the Locust Demon, unless some remained elsewhere on the plant, and the spiders were on the surface now, and he hoped they’d remain there, and the Mole People, they disappeared. Thus, he was free for the time being of all those hideous beasts, and he walked along the narrow rocky cliffs of the inner world of the crater, looking for shelter, away from the brute forces of Mercury, away from the massive jaws of the giant spiders.
If only he thought, he could have the momentum of the Bat-Condors flying body. It lived, like most bats, in the inner caves of Mercury, and within the dark shadows of the craters crevices. They could swoop down in a moment’s time and clutch onto something, and devour it like several perinea. They were a species of bats, with teeth like a wolf’s, and a wing spread of perhaps four feet, and often would hit the solid wall of rocks in the underground tunnels and be unconscious, laying about in the wider parts of the caves, the smaller ones were of course took less impact in this manner.

And so it was, King Luhtc and Princess Amelia-Za, found a home inside the caves, and water, and there he build his home, along with several other huts, as if it was a farm. He’d now and then go to the surface, looked about some, and escaped back to his farm for a moment of rest, and recuperation, it was really a hunt, for a giant spider, whom might be dying from the painful rays of the sun, he’d kill it and take his carcass to his farm, and eat the meat, and use the hide for rugs and clothing.
He watched them for a long time, wandering about like lost dogs, but he was weakening rapidly from the lack of sun, and fresh air, it was evident his bodily organisms were injured badly from this state of survival.

For fifty-years he lived in the underground world, having now twenty-sons and ten daughters, but making little headway as far as creating a new civilization, as he and Siren had talked about, but now there were thirty-one of them, Moirommalits.
On the other hand, He felt as if he was one of those men, who do things—in contradistinction to those who think much and do nothing. He did a lot in building thirty connecting houses to his farm, a little fortress you might say, and finding wells of water for everyone, but his body was likened to an old man, and his daughter now, 31-years old, was to become Queen.
It was prior to her being crowned Queen, the old king fell and went under into the deep water of the well, several of his sons tried to grab him, by the neck, and though he weighed much at this time, no one managed to drag him to the surface before he died, from the open well that looked more like a pond, in the center of the fortress.
When they did discover his body, his legs were broken—the crash against the well cliff walls, under the water must have done it.
By this time, the fight was out for whom would take his place, and be king, along the side of Princess Amelia-Za, soon to be queen. But Amelia-Za knew, as soon as she became queen, and a brother was selected as king—the eldest son that is, he probably would turn upon her and attempt to devour her, kill her on a pile of rocks as a sacrifice to his forth coming works, for all males carried stone-knives. Who would protect her in this bottled up underworld, she felt as her father had felt, she was behind prison bars.
As she looked about she—for the first time noticed her father had build his inerrable farm, among unscalable cliffs. There was no escape, lest she wanted to supply her body to the giant spiders, or walk the tunnels alone waiting for the bat-condors to find and eat her, and challenging her brothers for kingship was questionable, she might even be used for food if defeated; they often subsisted upon their own kind as now they would eat their father, cannibalism was normal for them.
And so, for more thought, she hobbled off towards the cliffs. Thrice, she traversed the entire extent of the inner chamber of the cave, the length of the farm plus some, seeking a way to this dilemma, trying to imagine, find a loop-hole for survival or escape, finding none she returned in the direction she started, sniffed the clay of the cliff walls, and lay down against a large rock—in a form of impulsive mercy.
Her father once said to her and she now remembered it, word for ward,
“Our kind, and earth’s kind, are similar in some characteristics, one being, gratitude is rare, and only occasionally traceable to unselfish acts of man, and Moirommalits, but don’t look for it, it is a force, for the evil nature of us will not be put off very long, and only bring great physical discomfort for those who wait for it, and sometimes we must give way to such demands, and sink into a profound slumber (or let the enemy believe we are) then attack, with wide open-eyes, the enemy will struggle to rise, not knowing what hit them. You are no weakling daughter, never have been, turn your talons to steel; and I add to this, another quality to warfare, Amelia-Az, —is silence.”

Chapter Fifteen
Amelia-Az’s Quest

The battle for kingship of the clan was short. In the silence of night, Amelia-Az had pulled down the elder brother, Luhtco, the one seeking to be king: with a single shake, terrier like, had broken his neck, while he slept. Then she was upon another. In her efforts to defeat the wild-dog brothers, one by one, giving an instant to snatch a rock knife by the loin of the second brother’s side, for the first had fallen dead, almost simultaneously, the others woke up—she was at this point ready to crush the skull of the second brother, and with a single bite, ripped off his ear, and spit it out for all to see (hearing legends of the Great Fighting Siren), and she said unto her brothers,
“Unless you beasts consider me the Queen, and sole ruler, I will bring death forward and devour your corpses one by one,” she looked fearsome.
Upon the faces of the brothers, one might have felt they looked handicapped, with such a devouring exceedingly untried ruler to be. Her act of force was as intelligible as any words might bring.
She stood up, her joints were stiff, slowly and gently she rubbed her thighs, as the next eldest brother put a crown of red stones encased in a thin iron rimed circle, with white skeleton shellfish dangling from sections, the one her father was going to give her—he put it on her head, and proclaimed her to be the one and only ruler, for he was next in line, and thus, gave it up for her. He was called thereafter, The Foist.

Chapter Sixteen
The Tor Rat

The Tor Rat lived in mounds, inside the underworld, and caves, and out side it. They lived in mounds like the Amazon ants that build their small heap some two feet high in a pyramid like style.
The Tor Rat was likened to wild dogs, and as big as a small dog, they could be captured for hunting purposes, and even domesticated, and were eatable. The taming of a Tor Rat, were done in herds, by the Mole People, long before there were any surface inhabitants. They were strong, and could be ferocious beasts at times, could walk on all fours or two legs, upright, yet a little bent.
They lived in small dugouts in mounds, protruding a foot usually to sense the enemy oncoming, evidently having some kind of sensory perception in them. Ajar, were there dugouts, were, the foot could be seen, promptly offered the Moirommalits an opportunity for food, if not a pet.
It was one afternoon, when Queen Amelia-Az, and Foist, her younger brother walked rapidly down toward one of those dugouts, the brother slunk silently after her, both most delighted they saw the foot extended. The brother pushed the foot out of the way, and pushed himself into the dugout, plunged on top of the beast, grasped his neck, and there was a considerable struggle, the Queen vigorously squatted down to see the fight, as it emerged, when after a time, the Queen saw in a distance, in what looked like a clearing, not so friendly, several Tor Rats, and they were starting to spread out and corner the Queen, and the entrance to the dugout.
At this point, it was too late to consider a friendly welcome, and she knew there was to be an undertaking on this event, provided of course, her brother could help, and he was busy fighting with the Tor Rat, a large one, that had been sleeping.
The several Tor Rats attacked the Queen, dragged her to a pile of rocks, hiding her within the structure, as to return for the brother, fierce eyes moving restlessly from side to side—the head of the Moirommalit came off, as the eight Tor Rats paced about looking at the careless Moirommalit’s carcass, his red tongue laying outside of his moth, like a bulls.

As they paced, they grinned, whined somewhat, as if they were communicating who would feast first on the two bodies, and like all creatures, wanderers, savage dog like creatures, allowed the larger Tor Rat, the one that was sleeping in the dugout to bite and rip into Foist’s flesh first. Thus, rudely the spell of rebuilding the lost kingdom of Moiromma on Mercury seemed to have had taken a turn at this point, by the somewhat, unfeared Tor Rat. Yet it was legendary, but the Moirommalit did not know it, not to corner the beasts, or not to become unnumbered without taming them first.

Part Five

The Ancient Cat Demons
(Return of the Minds of Saturn)

Chapter Seventeen
The Ancient Cat Demons

It was a long time since the Minds of Saturn had return to Mercury, once conquering it some 950- years prior, what had they been up to? Well in a nutshell, I shall let you know, but first, let me reintroduce you to the Minds of Saturn—a hair bristled stiff demonic force in the earth’s solar system, a savage growl to their stone like faces, with yellowish green eyes. Their ancestors once roamed the earth with the Great Cats, and ruled it, about 26,500 BC. The Great Cats (of the 4th Era of Earth) of that era were possessed by these ancient ancestors, who were forbidden to rule in the flesh, and so tried to in the bodies of the cats, this so called demonic force, being driven from their first abode.

Perhaps all this paranormal, or mystic activity, was thought to have been able to subdue the world, but instead their quest was crushed, but not before, near genocide had taken place on earth, with only 2000-humans living on earth, left to repopulate it.
The question had come up,
“Whatever happened to that ancient demonic force, for not even the most ruthless force in the Galaxy, knew this (the Minds of Saturn), and if they had, it was erased from their memories. As far as the earthmen went, his memories were also erased from this once world crisis, perhaps the most horrid crisis other than the Great Flood, and thereafter, man, seeing the world around him, untrained to see this paranormal world, thought nothing of it.
But Ura’el, the archangel, was called upon once again by the Great God of the Universe to put an end to this era, as he has been called from time to time.
Augusto, a mammoth creature from the ancient land of Lemuria, known to have been a philosopher, and historian, with four hands, and a head similar to a horses, large feet, and thick behind, knew the secrets of that time, he wrote them down, for they were handed down to him, and he and placed them in a library in the South Pacific, kept by the Bird People, those with long ears and similar to him in figure and tradition, although with only two arms, not four.

In those far-off days, the angelic forces, along with their giant sons, all ate flesh, and those they killed, their souls cried to the heavens until God heard their voices and sent Ura’el. Other angelic beings that came with Ura’el were Suru’el, Raphael and Raquel, and many of the angelic beings were sent by force, put in chains, and brought to the Prison House of Angels, deep in space.
Zoov’al (also known as Zoov’al- Epitaph), had sought for years his ancestors whereabouts, often racing homeward to Saturn to find clues and so forth, and even to Mercury and earth to its South Pacific Islands, and studying the culture of the Bird People, and thus he found a link, it read, and I shall translated it in better English for the readers,
“It was a rude time for the Cat Demons, the demonic force that found an open gate to try and rule the world, and in the process assembled a great concourse of warrior cats, and ate the human children, the heads of women, and man himself. They grew to enormous sizes, some eighty or a hundred feet tall, most were slender, and heads were forty feet from the ground, rapidly they ate mankind from earth, and when the four angels came from heaven, they captured them, took out there essence from the cats and poured gold over them, gold leafs, for gold can contain a demonic force, a demon, let it be known, evil in the form of demons, you don’t kill them, you contain them, and this was one of their prison. Thus, they put these leafs into a box, chained it, and dropped it into a well, six miles deep on, Phoebe, Saturn’s Large Moon; their children were left on Saturn. I, like them, am a creature from the other side, but I did not lose my soul, as they did. And so now it has been documented for posterity’s sake.” Augusto 13,500 BC.

Zoov’al, now on Phoebe, warriors about him, would no longer need to search Saturn, Earth or Mercury for his answers pertaining to his ancestors were completed, he would free them, and then return to Mercury, to see if any more life forms had developed. And so he ordered his followers, some one-hundred to search for the well, doubtless, everyone knew him—Zoov’al was the chieftain, but once he freed his ancestors, would they affirmatively allow him to be the head, according to calculations, there were five-hundred of these Cat Demon cast into these so called gold binding leafs. A question he felt would be answered later, but for now it was a search he often thought to be empty, now quite the opposite.

Chapter Eighteen
In Search for the Golden Leafs

I think, Zoov’al’s followers sense his antagonism, for he kept tugging at their wills to find this well, he even carried a leash and growled at them ominously. He was obsessed with this new quest. No one could completely comprehend why it was such a pursuit, that this savage brute did not turn and simply say, “It’s all a squander of time.”
This all made his followers, his warriors who sought blood and victory, now searching for the dead, disheartened; for here was a considerable force trying to rescue a dead force, that would only bring havoc to his future campaigns, and in the process, his army was dog-tired.
The area they now searched appeared more open and seemed to have been at one time a coastal area. Thus, Zoov’al quickly anticipated this was the mainland. Farther back there was a range of low rocky hills, visible, with flat-topped masses of rock, small mountains dotting the landscape, in fact, he found an underground stream, by searching out a cave, winding down from among the rocks as if draining into well. His conviction was to follow its flow, and the result was his imagination came to reality, his eyes cast upon the long curious well, I cannot explain his sensation, it was not casual observation though, he jumped into it, and instantly sank to its bottom, and he gazed fixedly at the primitive box, where his ancestors were kept. Instincts froze him completely, He gasped, firmly held the box, and slung it over his shoulder and tossed it up through the water like a javelin to the surface, where he peered over it, not opening it, as twenty of his solders stood next to the damp walls, filled in his silence, his speech-gap with whispers and fear, yes, fear in their throats, voices, and legs and weighing bodies. Fear of the unknown, for the bearer of the box could open up Pandora’s Box, and open up Heaven knows what. Like bugs upon a wall, unscalable, they clung, cluster, jabbering and attempting to calm themselves down, to hide their curiosity, and the longer they waited, the less of a desire they had to open the box.
Gr, the second in command, said, “Wait,” and all the eyes went on him, even Zoov’al’s. And Gr left for several minutes, and when he came back, he noticed Zoov’al was hairless; he had been pulling out his hair dancing about the box, making a startling appearance for all to see. Gr had something in his hands, and he whispered to his demonic force, then his hands became hot likened to fire, and he grabbed Zoov’al with the help of twenty, and threw boiling hot liquid gold into his eyes and ears, and Zoov’al’s sockets became solid and his ears plugged from any sound, and he was brought to a fire, and in the fire was a tub of gold—liquefied, and they throw him into it, and he sank, and when he came out, he was flat and melted into a leaf like form, no bigger than a horses ear.
Next, Gr and his now commanding army, threw back the box, into the well, and tied the one single leaf of gold under one of the chains wrapped around the box, and it sank to the bottom. Thereafter, said Gr, yelled,
“Now we go to Mercury, and have fun,” and the great brute force did just that.

Part Six

The Machine
(Thirty- miles deep in the Mercury’s crust)

Chapter Nineteen
The Machine

The depth, at which the Moirommalits had made their settlement within the crust of planet Mercury, was thirty-miles deep, they had built what they called ‘The Machine,’ in fear someday what had suddenly happened, would happen, a movement within the surface of Mercury’s crust, it moved resetting the geographical poles of Mercury by four hundred miles. The third eldest brother to—now dead Queen Amelia-Az—had taken the kingship of the Moirommalits, Luhtco-Az (third brother to Amelia-Az), thus making him the commanding officer of the Giant Machine, and the settlement inhabitants.
As it was calculated among the officers of the ship, or Machine, the temperature within the inner chambers would increase by one degree each mile upward the machine dug its way out through the crust of Mercury to the center of the Great Crater, the Shadow Creator, where they had lived previously.
It was now 107 degrees, and the blood of the Moirommalits were starting to lump, at 137-degrees, which the chambers in the Machine would be at by the time they reached the floor of the crater, all would be dead or near dead. The supply of cool air would be exhausted, for some unaccountable reasons the mechanics did not know, they only knew they could not fix or produce stationary temperatures from start to finish of the trip. Their abilities were not to that level of any scientific hypotheses, yet it was better than staying at the settlement where they figured the temperatures would rise to over 160-degrees, even more rapidly perhaps.
The Giant Spiders on the surface would be another task they’d have to endure, fight, or figure out how to live with once they got there, if they got there, but that would be embraced at a later date should they make it to the surface, but it did cross their minds, for the second thought on the matter was to commit suicide, and be resurrected on some other planet, but they’d all be separated.

From there on, the machine dug hour after hour uncomfortable in the unbearable heat of the machine’s chambers. At the seventh hour, ten-Moirommalits had died: three women, five children, and two males. At this rate, the commander figured they’d be no need to figure out an outcome with the Giant Spiders.
Slowly the machine rose up closer and closer to the surface, nearing it each hour, it was the fifteenth hour, and another five people perished, bringing the once 90-inhabidents to 75.
The internal heat was now at 121-degreets, the legs and limbs of the Moirommalits were lumped with blood clouts, and their hearts were beating, pounding for better circulation, as was their head dizzy, and necks lumped with blood clouts, and spinal cords were bent, and caused more pain, spasms and for forth. With fourteen more miles yet to go, or thereabouts, the Commander figured in fourteen hours, whoever wasn’t dead would wish they were. The more solid the ground the slower the machine went, and at times the machine went even slower than slow, it came to a standstill, and at times the machine went faster, but not as fast as one would wish to make up for loses, thus the thirty-hours they thought it might take to break surface ground, could be extended to thirty-three or four.
Feverishly, most all the Moirommalits watched the thermometer, and the temperature it showed, as the heat rose, and listened to the generator as it pumped out cool air, only to be overwhelmed by the heat of the 75-bodies laying about in the machine and the heat of the machine and the heat around the body out the outer skin of the machine, seeping inward: the air almost unbreathable, suffocating its inhabitants hour by hour. The strain seemed to be causing some skin rashes, even an unknown neurological disease, diarrhea, the shakes, most tried to sit erect, but fell back to the floor dizzy like. Their minds were affected, as well as their bodies, and many lost consciousness, as they struggled against the inevitable.

What had caused the crust movement on the surface of Mercury (and on into the lower depths of Mercury’s crust, and beyond that), no one knew? Perhaps an quake, for a trembling took place, several of them, for it also opened up a fissure, to where the Commander saw it, and like a loose screw, allowed the machine to enter it, and find its way into the upper part of it, thus mechanically speaking, a sudden surge in speed of the machine came to being, it was a hollow, and like a drill the machine cut through the dirt rapidly, running more loose as in air almost, and flashed by the sides of the fissure, the long point of the machine not needed to drill even, passing through strata like butter, and on the twenty-fifth hour, it hit the surface, with only two more dead, making the remaining inhabitants at seventy-three.
Now an intake pipe was opened to the machine, which allowed the thin air of the surface to enter, which was equal to Moiromma´s air in fineness. As for the Commander, this all left him in a state of disintegration, but as the doors opened to the machine, he along with his citizens, felt the flood of fresh air pouring into the machine, and consciousness returning to the many.

(Conclusion) The following day, the soldiers of the clan, along with the Commander, scaled the rim of the crater, saw the giant spiders below, in the Shadow Lands, saw many of their carcasses, about, they had died from the suffocating heat rays of the sun, and dehydration, burning and so forth that had come about by exposure, and then the Commander with his elite solders, saw coming out of the sky, down to the surface, towards the shadow of the crater, the Minds of Saturn, they were legendary for destruction, they were pouring in like locust. Thought the Commander, watching all this, ‘…what next!” meaning, the Spiders vs. the Minds of Saturn. He thought about this, then ordered his men back into the crater’s lower levels, as to be unseen, and he along with a few others watched to see the outcome, hoping they’d kill each other off, but the Commander figured, the Minds would destroy the spiders for fun, and should they find them, there would be a Third Great War, and if not seen, perchance, they’d leave like they did per near, a thousand years ago, when they fought the Locust Demon.

The End

Index of Character Names, and Locations

Luhtco-Az (third brother to Amelia-Az)
Gr, Zoov’al’s second in command
Zoov’al ((Epitaph) (leader of the Minds of Saturn))
Augusto of Lemuria (Philosopher, and Historian)
Raphael, Raquel, and Suru’el (angelic beings)
The Cat Demons (of Phoebe)
Prison house of Angels
Agaliarept, Satan’s Henchman in Hell
The Tor Rat (the cave rat)
The Foist (second eldest brother to Queen Amelia -Za
Bat-Condor (inner cave flying rodents)
Princess Amelia-Za
Luhtco, the elder brother to Princess Amelia-Za
King Luhtc (of the House of Uhluhtc, of Moiromma)
Malsi 1st (Demonic Pigmy of Cibara)
Malsi 10th (Demonic Pigmy of Mercury)
Siren the Great of Moiromma
Cyr, the Commander (Peruvian)
King Luhtc (of Mercury and Moiromma)
Jokaneen (of Cibara and Moiromma)
Royal Guards of Malsi the Tenth
Nogrut (brother to Malsi, ruler of the five regions of the Shadow lands)
Tfarcevol, Philosopher of Moiromma
Locust henchman, king of the demonic force, Azaz’el the II
Crick’el and Amasras, once, both being archangels
Ura’el, the bright and holy one the God of the Universe.
The King Spider, Black Mandible
Royal Chief Guard of the Mole People

Notes on Writing these Stories

Part One, written 7-3-2006/revised and reedited 10-24-25, 2008 ((Chapter two added, 10-25-2008) (originally written in Lima, Peru, and revised and reedited in Huancayo, Peru.)) Part Two was written 4-2004, called “The Locus Demon of Mercury,” renamed “Hot Face of the Sun,” it originally was a poetic tale, taken out of its original form and added into “The Continuing Sage of Mercury’s Demise” (Written in St. Paul, Minnesota); Chapter six, was in part, written 1-2005 (in St. Paul, Minnesota) revised in October, of 2008. Chapter Seven, “The Second Great War,” was written 10-25-2008, in Huancayo, Peru. Chapter eight and nine, “Obliteration,” and “Mercy’s Demise” written 10-25-2008,” at “La Mia Mamma,” Café, under an umbrella under the sun in, El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru. Parts of Chapter Ten, mostly description, taken from notes of “The Cadaverous Planets,” written in 3-2004; and rewritten for “The Mole People of Mercury,” 10-26-2008; the following chapters of the Mole People, written thereafter in the month of October, 2008; “Along the Carter of Moiromma,” Chapter 11, and “The Armistice,” both chapters written on 10-26-2008, at “La Mia Mamma,” Café; chapter 13 “The Giant Spiders of Mercury,” written in the night, 11:46 PM, completed 10-26-2008; chapter 14 and 15, The “Death of King Luhtc,” and “Amelia-Az’s Quest,” written in the morning of 10-27-2008; chapter 16, written forenoon “The Tor Rat.” Part 5, “The Ancient Cat Demons,” Chapters 17 & 18, competed the evening of the 27th of October, 2008. Part Six, Chapter Nineteen, “The Machine,” written 10-28-2008.

"The Dead Pushing the Dead"

2008-10-28T16:41:00.000-07:00

((Part two, to: “In a Birdless Sky) (After the French, Trenches, 1914
a Soldier of the Great War: WWI))

Chapter One
Corporal Anton

They were still huddled at the cemetery (several family members) when the sun had barely set, the cold face of the moon showing, it was winter in the Midwest of the United States, the year 1914: the old man, Corporal Anton’s father, inside his head, he heard bugles, they rang and then ceased, the sounds of guns reverberated, then ceased, as if bouncing from one lob to the other inside his skull. He, like his son, had been in war; his was the Civil War, unlike WWI, where they had to live in trenches throughout the war: it had almost faded from his memory, now brought back by the funeral.
Tomorrow there would be a parade for the deceased solders of the Great War, of the county. No one did a thing but become more still, as the coffin was lowered, even the dogs that chased one another across the graveyard meadows, stood at attention for a moment, curious.
The old man, sixty-four in October of the previous year, now it was January of the next, stood still in the half frozen drizzling rain (in old, Oakland Cemetery). The silence was unbearable, a pitched silence that the human ear was not used to, a dead silence, with eyes closed, and mouth shut (a tongueless, eyeless silence): on the hard frozen grass—no motion at all, thus, came a gigantic uproar, like the blast of a volcano, hitting his heart, likened to a wave-crashing all around his sides, tides’ overflowing his heart valves; a windless flame dried up his mouth. He held an unknown glare in his eyes, as if they had received an electric shock, immobility prevailed, and here and there eyes looked at him. His face revealing—death!

Chapter Two
The Light

He knew perhaps—at this juncture—tomorrow’s parade was out of the question, he’d most likely miss it, but it didn’t matter. Then the old man tumbled to his knees, akin to an old factory building, dropping to the ground.
The people around him faded, completely faded into a dusty dark night (one eternal night to be): he could only see shapes and a mass of huddled shadows, he knew now he’d miss tomorrow’s parade for sure. Next, he saw a lighted window, and the motionless silhouette of his son, he was standing clean and decorous, in his infantry uniform, the one he died in. Then the old man began to push forward to get a better look (the dead pushing the dead); his previous life, was like a dim lit bulb, now turned off, for within a blink of an eye, a new and gratifying sensation had filled him, completely…

Written 10-22-2008, inv Huancayo, Peru, at the Mia Mamma Café, in El Tambo: somewhat inspirited by my Grandfather, who was in WWI, Anton Siluk, born 1891, died, 1974, dedicated to his memory, and his war. The story was originally called, “The Cold Face of the Moon.”

Clark A. Smith’s Lost Poem

2008-10-28T16:40:00.000-07:00

(Meerschaum)

Unbecoming it read, the dead poet’s poem, the one found on October 7, 2008, found on the back of a sketch he did, called “Nightmare,” this, once famous horror writer for the magazine “Weird Tales,” friend of George Sterling, Lovecraft, and Jack London, the poem called, “Meerschaum.”
Not an ingenious or even bold poem, for the most part, more prose than poetic (free verse for the most part, with stanza form and a slight rhyme schema), more nightmarish than reality, a poem—quite honestly, by a personage who wished it to be discovered, after his death: and so it was.
After reading it, the discoverer placed it safely in a bank vault, his safe deposit that is, not because it was priceless, no, rather simply because it was the only one of its kind, and a lost poem found, perhaps the last to be brought into being, I presume.
Here was a poem of a man not wanting to escape the depths of hell, but more fascinated with what he saw, when he visited it for a moment in time; and perhaps it wasn’t really Hell he visited but a room above the infamous resort itself, or somewhere near by.
I know for a fact, the reader had first read it, in an ordinary manner, to speak of, and then reread it for its content and imagery, its originality. It had none of his older style to it, nor was even its intensity of imagery, rendering the complexities of those far-off days (thus, the reader proposed it was written prior to his death, hastily perchance); but what it did have was his desire to re-examine the nature and function of his most basic assumption, unequivocally to his second world: that hell was hell, and a home to be (in a way, he was chasing, a longing, if not yearning, and got a glimpse of it, or perhaps he got a glimpse of the more boring, if not better part of that world).
Perhaps the poem was taken while in a trance, or taken from a dream, or else a vision, an illusion will even do, conceivably, a nightmare, one where the walls burned and the cellar was like a furnace, as one might expect from him, but it wasn’t like that, it was that he found himself in private company, this was the foundation of his poem, and perhaps after he wrote it, puff, puff, he was gone, employed by the counsel of Hell itself, or deceived by it, and brought to those so called burning walls and allied furnace, I just mentioned.
But enough of this guessing, I shall now provide the poem (and let me add to this brief, I assume it is his poem, since it was written on the back of his sketch, and faded it was, and I shall bring it to life as I see it, and the sketch is beyond dispute, that he was the artist—and the owner of the sketch—oh well, we shall leave that to posterity to unwind):

Meerschaum

They sleep at a distance of the Master’s bed,
realism made drunk: the great in power, the rightful owner of the dead, the first of the three— personages, Satan.

They sleep at a distance of the Master’s bed,
renegades, henchmen, the attentive dead,
clay tobacco pipe in hand, as if, to keep occupied—as Satan rests!

He, the Ten Winged Beast, inspects, even anticipates—I saw him, and witnessed no
disturbances, nor did I fail to detect it.
Yes, oh yes, Satan does rest!

Written 10-24-2008, inv Huancayo, Peru: inspirited by Clark A. Smith (No: 2507); the story is a fictional story. by dlsiluk©2008

Afternoon at the Garden Cafe & Beau ti Box (two poems, in English and Spanish)

2008-10-22T13:57:00.000-07:00

English Version

Afternoon at the Garden Café,
“La Mia Mamma”

I look upon the flowers
in the Garden Café
“La Mia Mamma,”
in Old Huancayo, Peru;
in the hot calm afternoon.
Words of tranquility hum
(buzz) in my head…
I remain tired with age.
That is why I’m slower
in my steps nowadays—,
and in all, my emotions
knot-up, within my soul.
Here, under the thin umbrella,
with coffee and coke,
(pen in hand) I pull back
the reins to my mysterious
restlessness…

Spanish Version
Una Tarde en el Café Jardín
“La Mía Mamma”

Observo las flores
en el jardín del Café
“La Mia Mamma,”
en Antiguo Huancayo, Perú;
en la tarde tranquila y calurosa.
Palabras de tranquilidad tararean
(zumban) en mi cabeza…
Permanezco cansado de vejez
Es por eso que soy más lento
en mi caminar hoy en día—,
y encima, mis emociones
se anudan, dentro de mi alma.
Aquí, debajo de la sombrilla delgada,
con café y soda,
(lapicero en la mano) detengo
las riendas a mi misteriosa
inquietud…

No: 2500 /10-20-2008 (3:15 p.m.) written at the Café
“La Mía Mamma” By Dlsiluk©2008

The Beau ti Box

When beauty was my theme in life
so was my youth, ideals as well.
Now I have exquisite tastes—aged,
with an ugly brow, no doubt:
…enduring graces, intelligence
(to share and spread about).

However, aged inquisitiveness
returned to me, to no settled point
at all— my next step, the old pine box
(that one we never talk about).

Half in breath, I keep going back
to when beauty was my theme,
when youth intertwined with ideals,
but now, its all in dreams it seems,
exquisite tastes and ugly brows!

No: 2499©10-16-2008 written at “La Mia Mamma,”
in the Garden Café, in the afternoon, in Huancayo, Peru.

Voyage of the Confucius Priest (Short Story, Revised)

2008-10-08T12:57:00.000-07:00

Voyage
Of the Confucius Priest
(A Short History of the Augusto Peñaloza family)

The Voyage

An hour after dark, when the seven young men, no older than 19-years of age (including the young Confucius, temple priest, Yang, whom was broad at the shoulders, narrow eyes, perhaps five-foot eight inches all, one-hundred and forty-pounds, short dark hair, deep dark colored eyes, flat at the stomach, and short neck, rounded chin, straight nose, his skin more bronze than fair to pale) squatting down, each carrying a light blanket, Yang with a lit lantern in addition. (It was Saturday night. They just said their prayers in the temple, heard the foot-steps of the night watchman go by, and watched him from the temple window climb up the ladder, as he checked the rooftops of the houses, then they didn’t see him anymore, thus, the other six poured themselves some rice wine, drank it down hurriedly, to settle their nerves, Yang, pulled out a coin from his pocket, the wooden floor below his feet made a cracking sound as he moved them, interrupted the other six young men, “Three minutes,” a voice said, “and the guard will take his ten-minute break,” a break he was allowed to use for eating, “we’ll go then,” continued the voice.
As a result, all seven were compelled to wait, as they silently, disclaimed China’s ownership of them, then up some stairs they went, to a trap door that led out onto the roof of the temple, climbed along its edge, descended beyond the fortress walls, squatting against the wall and with no sound save the steady movement of feet, they made their way to the Yangtze River. There inside the boat called a ‘Junk’, they sailed, and ten hours later—suddenly—the first appearance since the seven had vanished, the captain of the boat, threw water on the stinking seven, to clean them, several buckets of cold November water. The owner of the boat just looked at them, like he had never seen them before, it was more than that, and it was like he never wanted to remember them once they were gone.
They had no money to speak of (especially for passage), and so payment would be, to allow the owner to sell them into slavery.
From the belly of the Junk below, the men themselves could not hear or listen to what was happening on the upper level, the only other level of the vessel, hence, everything remained unchanged within the bowels of the Junk, dirtier than a fox’s hole, and as dark, though not as demanding and punishing as their previous lives would have seen. The cheap imitation of freedom, bagged up in the jackets of the appointed men in charge of the providence, the fortress, the temple, life could be no worse as a slave.
Squatting on the ship’s floor, beneath the galley above (this was 1869, Yang now 19-years old, an odd year, all the young men had been defeated and forgotten, what would be the difference—so they felt—to belong to the lowest bidder in Argentina, Buenos Aires (by way of Ushuaia), where the next ship would take them, merely a like candidate for freedom someday, which was all that they hoped for, a chance, outside of a dotting country of dictators, away from fences they could not go behind, and bridges they could not cross, and flanks they were forbidden to go near, they were just fading leaves on tress—to be incriminated at any time by the wealthy, empowered, given warnings: with no head to their pleas and cries.)

There they were, just squatting (thinking about their servitude to be, the voyage, what they had gone through, the escape itself came back to their minds, the bequeath of freedom, Yang gave to them, handed down to them, something they’d all forget in a moment time for a long, very long time, but for some it would resurface), not doing nothing, not a thing but thinking, nobody bothering them, until the ship stopped, and they boarded the second ship, and then, there they were near a month at sea, and another benediction: whereupon they were awoken from their sleep, from the straw thick floor, used as their living quarters, where they ate, and drank out of water buckets, had one blanket each, and had one lantern between them, it was Sunday morning—and all their dreaming and all their thinking faded.

To the Bequeathed
(Remember while on the Ship, and about to disembark)

Before the night watchmen had finished with his evening meal, Yang and his followers, comrades were gone, yet quick as they left that morning, so affected the whole temple site, as well as the nearby village, most knew by mid-afternoon, all knew by sundown—every inlet and penniless village, the region knew the young priest, the king-priest to be, disappeared, was out of sight.
The officials had only to wait (so they thought), and he’d return, hence, to bide until that delivery moment, so they claimed. He had been running away mainly because of being unveiled as a heretic, that what he preached was not the true side of religion that his building was full of sacrilegious figures, and therefore he feared for his life.

It was asked among his followers, “What did he see, as he stood gazing so many nights out his temple windows…?”
It was said he saw the future, the near future, that a vision appeared to him, of soldiers coming breaking down the temple, the idols, ripping down the tapestry, he saw a new China on the rise, and he knew he would have to escape, lest he be tortured and killed (so he re-dreamed as he sat on the floor of the vessel, dreamed on his trip down the Yangtze River, toward Shanghai, to board another ship, that would take them out of China, into the waters of the Pacific).
Looking out that temple window, he heard a voice; it even seemed to smile as it wept: “Do not put your trust into man, but let him trust you, he is inconsistent, as the waves you will be on soon, a fugitive of God, he remains, this is the course of most men, the cling to wealth, squeeze out the life sap of the seeker—be him poet, priest, or philosopher—the sap of the soul, like a juicy plant, and they leave it rot once its life substance is gone.
“The good rulers do not war against nor punish his country men, as if they were the common enemy, who punishes for lack of opportunity: he, the bad ruler is responsible and thus, sets the trap for his people.”

(So many things he thought in those hours and days at sea.) It was in those days in China, he saw tourists flock into its country from India and Europe, Buddhist Monks arrived in great numbers, and had its share of Missionaries preaching Zoroastrianism, Christianity, yet, Yang remained as an Confucian. And along with his followers, Li, Ming, Ho, and the others, gazed out the windows of the temple, gazed at the Great White Star (Venus), and in the evenings, under candle light, read the books of Confucius.
And he wrote on the temple wall before he left, “How many times must China die and reborn before she finds order and peace, for now all she offers is chaos and balances herself with dictatorships.”

Counting the Cost
Argentina and the Farm

(In 1870, Yang was sold the Peñaloza Family, Buenos Aires, whereupon he inherited their name, and was given a first name, according to Latin American soundings, now called Manuel Peñaloza--the year being 1870. Because of trouble and strife, and the Peñaloza family, being in politics, and the son being killed for his beliefs, the head of the household of the Peñaloza family, being superstitious, and feeling Manuel gave them bad luck, he was set free, in 1888: thereafter marrying Nieves, in 1889)

The two folks, Yang (now Manuel Peñaloza) and his wife Nieves, could hardly support themselves, working on a farm outside of the city, likely not getting much more than their board and lodging, the family that was trying to live on the farm were also poor folks, thus, a childless couple, one of middle age, two of misfortune, drawn together as if by some mutual last resort, here they lived in a one room cabin, more like a kind of shed, clinging onto life, on a farm with a straggling one-hundred acres of corn, incredible to say the least, with its heart-breaking labor, this he come to acknowledge this life would not reward his sweat he was giving, but merely eat away at his flesh, a man who at one time was called the young king-priest, of the temple, a hero to his followers who for so long, walked in solitary and alone, yet he still shed a magnificent giant shadow.

But here they lived nonetheless, for near two years, splitting firewood, hoeing the hard and tilted ground, planting the corn resting on Sunday afternoons, in his clean but faded trousers; and to that they gave thanks for the strong heart they were give by God. This was the time he learned about Christianity, having checked the doctrine out, read the gospels, memorized the ten-commandments, he had learned during his bondage, the Spanish language, perhaps better than the average college bound Argentinean. And consequently, watched the people preach the word of God, and then violate them, then he was gone, it was 1891.

Killing Man’s Meat

(Manuel’s wife, gave birth to a male child in 1891, naming him Fidel) (The boy growing several inches shorter than his father, and growing a thin goatee at a young age. He took up carpentry, and in 1915, they all moved to Lima, Peru whereupon he married Juana, in 1919 (whom he met in Huancayo, Peru, where he bought lands and would stay for a lengthily period before moving back to Lima).

And so it was, Manuel and his wife, took their grown boy, Fidel, in the year, 1915, to Lima, Peru, had said a prayer for them the night before, and told Nieves: this was the last journey, now being, sixty-five years of age, for each journey was unto itself a battle.
“What,” his wife said, once in Lima, he had mumbled something to himself,
“It took me sixty-five years to get to where I might find freedom, I still have my Confucius roots, and now Christianity, it will be Christmas soon, we walked a long way, time to stop and find a job,” but what he didn’t say and wanted to say, perhaps was: I really know nothing but how to preach, although he had done several other things along his life’s journey, he’d ended up doing no trade, and there wasn’t any money except just what he needed to feed his family, to save ones meat from rotting, he went after ideals, and found words, and only a single coin in his pocket at the end of it, but he fed the family. When he was young he thought different, his aim was different, but not long after the voyage that all changed, now in Lima, a long journey he had learned only what was right and wrong, what was sin, the very things he knew before he left China, the very things he taught his son, the very things he went over and over and over, how man kills his own meat.

(In 1921, Augusto Peñaloza was born to Fidel, and in 1923, had a daughter, Christina. Fidel died in 1971. In 1957, Augusto’s wife, Maria, gave birth to Minerva and Rosa (Maria died in 2001); in 1959; Minerva, giving birth to Ximena, in 1993, and in 2007, the family found out, they were partly ChineseJ)

Notes: Taken from actual events. Names and dates are as close to the truth as the author can fix; some parts historical fiction; written from notes taken over a conversation between author and Augusto Peñaloza, 10-4-2008, at the café ‘Mia Mamma,’ in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru. Copyright©2008, by Dennis L. Siluk

The Voyage, and Proceeding History, written, 10-4-2008; The Escape, The Vision, the Interlude, written 10-6-2008; Farming, Farming II, and Christ, Killing Man’s Meet, written, the morning of October 8, 2008.

Lost Souls in the Canyon of Pain (poetic Prose)

2008-10-07T14:14:00.000-07:00

The Lost Souls, In the Canyon of Pain (Poetic Prose)

Uri’el, the archangel woke me up, within a dream, said “We’re going on a journey, to the see the lost souls, in the Canyon of Pain; and when we arrived I beheld a great fire, in this long canyon of sorts, that extended from sea to sea, where great rods of fire forced its way to and fro, burning with flames consuming all (all but Uri’el and me); it poured like lava:
there I met many long forgotten dictators and kings of my time, killers and traders of their own countries, such as Hugo Chavez, whom was with Fidel Castro, chumming along the ledge of some tall cliffs, with scores, open scabs pus bleeding from all four limbs, they tried to stop me, asking me if they’d been forgotten on earth, as if they were loved by their kind; sad to say, but they were ink blots, in old books, on old shelves, in old libraries, forgotten the day they died.
Then further down the canyon Uri’el flew me, hand in hand, straight as an arrow, until we came to the dryer part and sunken branch where there I beheld quicksand, and vipers who searched the top, to fight among the bobbing heads, and there was Ollanta Humala, Peru’s vulgar tongue. There they were will boils from the vipers’ bits, all over their heads.
Then further down, I saw the warlords of the near past, Pol Pot leading the lot, Sodom Hussein, from Iraq, Bin Laden, from Arabia, George W. Bush from the U.S.A., playing chess inside a cave, to find out which one got to smash the other’s head in, as a circle of rotting flesh, laid about them (and in that flesh, was a thousand names from the past: like Stalin, Hitler, kings and contemporary presidents of Africa, China, Georgia, and Russia, too many to mention).
Then I saw the rich and famous, burning like fall leaves in an iron barrow, large was the barrow, and scorched were they all; Julie Roberts was among them, and so was Sean Penn, and Madonna, each reaching out for the others hands; and there were a thousand more, singers and musicians, and among the most was the Great Pretenders, the actors, the menacing bunch: Leonardo DiCaprio, Demi Moore, Morgan Freeman, Nicole Kidman, Sean Connery, Tim Robbins, Tom Cruise, Will Smith, Russell Crowe, Randolph Scott, Jack Nicholson Ashley Judd and Pacino (to mention a few, all scorched souls, ruined by money and fame).
Then I woke up, and looked about, and in a vision I saw the heroes of the land, the sports arenas of the world as they appeared one by one, and children running to shake the hero’s hand, but all the sportsmen and woman were standing in a line, yelling and screaming, as the children stood by (they had no interest in portraying good sportsmanship, or immolating proper behavior for the new generation), and Pluto, the giant demon of hell, pulled them one by one into his grips, holding a hundred in two hands and then he dropped them into the canyon pit—then reached for another hundred or more, and the children screamed for their heroes now gone, and Pluto simply said, “I’m be waiting for you-all.”

Note: No: 2493 (written, 9-4-2008)

A Perfect Day, in the Countryside

2008-09-15T11:50:00.000-07:00

It was early afternoon, they, Joseito, his eleven year old son, Lee and his wife Rosa, they arrived in a taxi, to the old dirt, and dusty road that led down a shadowy lane to Jose’s mother’s adobe premises: along this walk were tall adobe thick walls used for fences, and inside these walls were folks getting ready to plant for the season, and would harvest sometime in April through May, in this rural Peruvian landscape outside of the city of Huancayo, Peru.
Jose like the writer and poet Lee, had quiet drinking, Lee twenty-four years ago, Jose, had about one year of sobriety, but in that short time he had turned his life around most dramatically.

Lee, the elder, or we can call him the old man, was very proud of Joseito. He had befriended him some five years earlier, perhaps one of his first friends in the Mantaro Valley region, Joseito now being forty-years old. He had a radio station when Lee first arrived in the City of Huancayo, and had Lee on the radio a dozen times since concerning his cultural prose poetry, and the over thirty books he had written thus fare, but had given up the radio station since; about the time he stopped drinking. Now he was even doing better, the editor of a regional magazine, also into the Tourist Business, and was buying into an industrial channel on television.
It had appeared to Lee, Jose could see everything sharp and clear since he stopped his drinking, and nothing could stop him in the world of success. Perhaps even becoming mayor of the city, some time back, he had run for public office but did not make it, but chances were, he could next time, as long as he remained clean and sober, and energetic as he always was: he knew everyone in the business area, also in the political arena in Huancayo, and was respected, especially now that he was no longer connected to the bottle. Yes indeed, Lee had felt all the pot holes in his life were being filled with positive cement. And today, he and his wife were invited over to his mother’s hacienda.
He, Jose and his boy lived in an apartment in the city, he had raised his boy on his own you might say, and was concerned he should learn English as a second language, swimming and the computer, and in the taxi he had told the boy so, it was a world now, that without such skills, one might have less a chance in it for success, plus at a young age, one seemed quicker to learn such things. The boy listened.

As I was saying, the taxi stopped, and they were walking down this dusty path of clay and stone, occasionally you could feel underneath the dirt the hard rocks. And then came upon the old adobe walls that surrounded the premises of the Jose’s Mother’s property.
A slight trench had been cut between the walls with the door that lead into the open area of this hacienda type setting, and the field outside, which vegetables were to be planted in this widened area shortly.
Lee, as always wore a hat, so his head would not burn from the sun which seemed to be lower in this high area (some 10,500 feet above sea level), nor his face, he was white as rice, a gringo, they called him, and of course, his wife being of the Wanka stock of this mountainous area, as Jose and his son, were all bronze. Yet, seldom did he see Jose wear a hat, and today was no different. When they had first passed the adobe fence, belonging to Jose’s mother, two fellows were sitting at a table, drinking beer from his mother’s store, they had said their hello’s to Jose, Lee and thereafter, everyone went about their business.

Now inside the adobe walled hacienda, Lee walked about, the sun beating overhead, looking at the gardens here and there, chickens running about, a dog ran and captured one, killed it (someone said: ‘It was a good egg producer, too bad…’; a plum like, or cherry tree was in front of him—a little girl climbing it, red luscious small plums, two huge rabbits in cages, one the mother with its newly born, the other below, the father. Along one side of the property were large and small white pumpkins, and Lee noticed a water pipe had broken alongside a garden.
The electric wires to the premises were overhead. There was a time there was no electricity in this area, back when Jose was a boy, he’d sit under the moon’s light and do his homework: they had owned the property some 37-years. Back then Jose would have to walk a mile for water, and more than that for bread.
Times were changing, and as Jose reintroduced Lee and his wife Rosa to his sister, Elisabeth (a great cook and conscious mother), his mother, brother and the children, he thereafter, pulled out some old stumps, cut from a tree his father had cut down, back in the early 1990s (his father had died in 1992, it all brought a swelling of a smile to his face to mention it), and they sat and talked in the afternoon sun, with a breeze, while Elisabeth, cooked the Ginny Pigs (they had a cage in back of the place, where they raised them).
During this time Elisabeth and her older brother carefully fixed the broken pipe where water was gushing out, and set the table for all to eat. Ginny Pig was cooked with red sauce, and very tender to the lips, along with potatoes and rice. Elisabeth brought a second portion over to Lee, Rosa remained comfortable with her portion, even trying to get her husband to eat some of it, she was not especially found of Ginny Pig, like her husband. And they all laughed, under the wooden porch, as a storm approached, cleaning the dust and dirt of the countryside. And everyone put on their jackets, and sweaters, and continued to drink coffee, coke, eat, laugh and talk.
Jose, again pulled out those old wooden stumps, and they all sat the afternoon away talking under the sun (the little, three-year old for the umpteenth time was climbing that same berry tree), whereupon, Lee spotting a colorful centipede, and the four children—along with the tree climber, surrounded it and tried to play with it, then capture it, and then Elisabeth put a stop to it—the savior you might say for the little creature.
The younger child, the tree climber, Elisabeth’s little girl, came out to Lee’s side by the tree stump, with her colorful school work book, and they went through it page by page. Lee trying to trick her by saying one thing was another and the little girl would say, “No…” and point to the correct image within the book.

Somewhere in-between this afternoon, Jose had left the inner compound of the site, to visit his friends—those drinking beer he had introduced Lee to, he had returned, and after a short while, complained of being sick, thus, all found out he had had a beer with his friends, saying in essence, to his sister, ‘…I had to be polite.’ His sister saying, “Can’t you say no?”
And Lee reinforcing what his sister’s intentions was by saying what was said, “Perhaps this is a good thing that you have gotten sick, teaches you drinking is not for you—the Lord is saying ‘No more!”’ And he smiled at Jose, whom he liked, and was proud of.

It was a tranquil afternoon in the countryside, one with friends, one with sun beam rays upon one’s shoulders, and animals running to and fro, children playing, older folks watching (Lee and Jose’s mother), a storm to clean up the debris and dust, to water the fields, to fill the water holes (or the groundwater), a good and healthy lunch, laughs, it was a rich afternoon, where there was plenty of everything, and Lee wondered, perhaps Jose did likewise (How did the Lord put it all together, and was it just for them), for he, Jose commented on it, saying, “It’s a great day in the countryside,” looking at Lee, and Lee saying, “In twenty-years it will all be gone, it is best we absorb it now,” and they both looked at one another, knowing there was much truth to it. But as I was saying the Lord, Jesus Christ could not have made a more perfect day, and everyone took advantage of it.

Note, written: 9-15-2008 Dedicated to Jose Arrieta

Written by Dr. Dennis L. Siluk © 9/2008

The Major’s Secret

2008-09-13T12:12:00.000-07:00

(Flash Fiction)

Outside the bar it was dark, twilight had come and left, you could see the gibbous moon setting in from the window; it was high in the heavens. The Major leaned heavy on the bar, reflected on his war wounds from Vietnam, it was 1971, and he had been there in 1968 through 1970, now stationed at Fort Rucker, Alabama. He was an instructor within a helicopter unit. His eyes had been badly cut, damaged, now scared, hit from hot flying bits and pieces of metal, during his war years. The scars ran deep, one in the middle of his forehead, the others under his right eye, another along the upper part of his right jaw bone, it had ripped the side of his face off, stitch marks from his nose, around his mouth to his chin.
When he had finished his second drink, he looked to the side of him, saw Corporal Hanson, he was his clerk, a nice looking young boy, eighteen years old, had joined the Army at seventeen, and seemingly got his rank quicker than the average young man in the Army, not having been in a war zone, were most men acquired their rank a little more rapidly.
He said to the young Corporal, “Funny seeing you here, it’s a ways from the base.”
“First time I’ve been in this bar, I was just kind of looking about for a new waterhole.”
And then the young man dug into his coat pocket for some money, pulled out a five dollar bill, and put it on the bar counter, ordered the same kind of beer the Major was drinking, Beck’s.
“Yes, Major,” repeated the young boy, “it’s my first time in this bar,” and he leaned forward to take the beer from the bartender.
The Major lit a cigarette, from the reflection of the light on his face, you could see the scars, the ones lower by his jaw were deeper than the ones under his eye, and the one on his forehead was thin but deep, bone deep, the others with the stitches were visible but smoother.
The boy was white faced, light brown hair. The Major, knocked on the wooden bar, “Give me two more beers here Ralph,” he knew the barkeep quite well, the boy noticed.
“You’re only eighteen years old, right?” asked the Major.
“Yes sir, I’ll be nineteen in October, I mean next month,” replied the boy, looking at the Major’s face, but not staring.
“You ever been in love?” asked the Major.
“I don’t quite understand sir,” said the boy with a modest look, one that seemed almost indifferent, if not arrogant.
“It’s a simple question, in love with a girl?”
“I’ve dated girls if that is what you mean!” said the boy with that indifferent and arrogant tone, and now an almost superior look.
“Listen Corporal, I asked a simple question, doesn’t give me any look of superiority.
“Yes sir, Major,” said the boy soldier head down, looking at his glass of beer, almost afraid to look the Major in the face.
“Are you in love with any of the girls you write now?” asked the Major.
“With one, sir, I write her regularly,” said the boy. But the Major new better, he had read all his letters, and he knew who he wrote: his sister, his mother and one girl he had dated from High School, but never a word of love or marriage, just talk on issues. He didn’t write any men, not even his father.
Now the boy turned his head to the other side of the bar, away from the Major, and the Major looked the boy up and down, and smiled, “No need to pout,” Said the Major, “I just was curious, nothing more.”
But there was more questions to come from the Major, as the boy now turned back to face him.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” said the Major, “the Army is a life of hardship, and one needs to advance, stay alive, and you need to be watchful of your superior looks, be careful that someone doesn’t get you.”
The boy looked deep at the Major, the Major then said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take you, or lay a hand on you, but you simply need to know your chances in war are less than good.”
“What do you want of me, sir,” asked the boy.
“Want,” said the major, “nothing, I don’t want a thing from you, matter of fact, it is best you finish your drink and go-on back to your barracks.”
The Corporal got red in the face, drank down his beer, as the Major turned back to staring at the wall across from him, and leaning on the bar as he had done prior to the Corporal entering his dialogue.
“I am not shady,” said the boy now standing on his feet, about to leave the bar, directing his words to the Major.
“Fine,” said the Major, “just make sure you do not end up in a war, you don’t really want to, just go after your great longing, carefully,” and he leaned back in the chair, smiled, folding his hands as if to feel more guarded, the boy did the same, unconsciously, and turned about walking out of the bar.
Several minutes had passed, the Major heard the door open in back of him, about twenty feet from the bar was the door, he looked across the wooden bar at the wall, into the mirror that hung on the wall, the Corporal had come back in, he mumbled out loud, “The little shady impostor.”

9-13-2008

Murder at: Puno and Real

2008-09-13T12:10:00.000-07:00

The Roads, Puno and Real, passes by the Plaza de Arms in the city of Huancayo, Peru, the streets go back to the days of the Inca’s, now modern with smooth hard concrete, and dusty on this early Saturday morning. Surrounding this city are the Andes, high mountains, green and brown.
At the corners of Puno and Real are two wooden huts, each having a woman proprietor inside them, selling several different newspapers; this Saturday morning, the sun was dropping down over the mountains onto the city, the altitude 10,500 feet above sea level.
Outside the city, in the valley of Mantaro, are several villages, with adobe houses, and hard dirt streets: children and parents, doing their shopping, and so forth. Women on their roofs washing their babies and hanging cloths, dogs on the roofs barking, men on the streets, and in the side empty lots playing ball; some men just sitting on chairs by shops against the building walls, smoking and drinking beer.
Back in Huancayo, at Puno and Real, a garbage truck just stopped, two men run to the local shops, collect trash, some of the trash is sitting out on the sidewalk, near the street. There is a crowd of people in the plaza, gathering up for a wedding in the cathedral. And an old man has come up to the street corner carrying a suitcase, He’s looking about for a place to sit down or so it seems, he looks uncomfortable, and tired.
A kid asks him if he wants a shoeshine.
He handed him his suitcase said, “Look after this.”
“What did you say?” asked the shoeshine boy.
“If you would guard my suitcase while I find a place to wash up and so forth!” said the old man, somewhere in his mid seventies.
“Isn’t that a bit dangerous, I’m a stranger to you, I could run away with it, most kids around here would,” said Johnny, about fifteen years old.

The sun was taking the chill out of the air; it was bright and fresh, with a little breeze.
The old man was looking up the road, when the boy made his statement-question. He looked at the boy out of the side of his right eye. Keeping a view up the street, then he pulled his collar up, and hat down, covering his face somewhat.
“Maybe I’ll get them yet,” the old man mumbled. “They’ll kill us both if they see you with me.”
“Well I don’t know what you’re talking about old man, do you want a shoeshine or not?” said the boy.

The chill in the air was now gone, the old man’s eyes was boiling, looking at the boy annoyingly and suspiciously up the street. He started to grind his teeth. There was a new quiet between the boy and the old man, a kind of bubbling curiosity for the boy,
“Lad,” said the old man, “sorry but it is called self-preservation.”
For a block or two, the road was flat, and then it went down hill, that is when he saw the three men, one after the other, their heads appearing over the hill onto the flat road.
“They’re not going to stop,” he said to the boy.
“Stop it,” said the boy.
The old man grabbed his suitcase back out of the hands of the boy, untied a rope he had tied around it.
“You better go before you get into trouble,” said the old man to the boy, and handed him a dollar bill, but the boy remained standing where he stood.
“What do you want?” asked the old man.
“Nothing,” said the shoeshine boy with a face that said, perhaps the old man is having a walking nightmare.
“Why not?” said the old man, trying to see how close those three men were getting to him, talking to the boy, but not looking at him.
“Not sure why, old man, do I need a better reason?”
“Then thanks for your company, but get on out of here there’s going to be trouble.”
“Well,” said the boy, and stepped back a foot or two.
The old man smiled a beautiful Peruvian smile, holding on to his half opened suitcase, looking at the boy, and then the three men coming towards him.
“Wait,” said the boy, “I’ll talk to those men; tell them not to hurt you.”
“Don’t bother, they came to kill me,” said the old man.
The boy thought, he must had really got mixed up in something bad, awful. He reached inside his suitcase, pulled out a white towel; the three men walking across the street now, twenty feet from the old man. No one said a word, nothing. The boy wondering what the old man did,
The old man looked at the boy, said, “I was trying to get out of town, and I double-crossed those men, it now is them or me, now you know what it is all about.”
They were now all at the same street corner, Puno and Real, and looking at one another.
The boy said to the three men, “He’s just an old man!”
“You better step back boy, before you get hurt,” said the taller man of the three.
The old man dropped the suitcase on the ground,
The short fat man, one of the three, said, “He’s gentle as a lamb,” and they all started laughing. At that moment, the old man pulled out a silver plated 38 revolver, from under the white towel it was wrapped around, said as he started shooting ‘Well, good-night boys’ and within seconds all three men were dead on the ground.
The police were up the street, at the other end, two women directing traffic, one across the street guarding the bank, standing outside of it, leaning on its stone structure, another police man at the far end of the plaza, they all pretended not to have listened to the shots, and continued to do whatever they were doing with out interruption.
The old man then walked into the Plaza area, sat down on a bench, and told the boy, “Ok, now give me a shoeshine.”

9-12-2008

Birth of the Devil-goat (the complet five part story)(reedited 3/2008)

2008-03-07T21:07:00.001-08:00

Birth of the Devil-Goat
(A Five Part Story)

Part I
Chapter One: the Birth

It was in a little lot of a farm, a piece of land outside of Cairo, Egypt, in the year 1998 that this happening too place, that a voice of a demon, a figure of a devil appeared through the skin of a goat, upon its birth, the old man shuddered at its appearance, his niece, who farmed the land with him, remained still, paused impressively as the birth took place, the old man demanded she kill the freaked creature quickly if not instantly, crying, "Kill, kill, kill the freak...!"
If one could hear, he would hear inside the tiny head of the creature, its voice humming a death song for the old man, a chant, as it lay in an open shed, next to a large bull; a few cars drove by, a hundred-yards from the open shed, it was first light, the sun just appearing lighting up the small shack next to the shed, in the shack is where the two individuals lived.
The old man's hands stretched up to heaven, and he cried "Allah...!" and he fell to his knees, his niece still in amazement at this extraordinary birth, in this intriguing but not much more than a dirt farm batch.
For the rest of the brief five minutes, they witnessed from this little farm, as they remained in silent, the birth of a devil-goat, so the old man called it inside their minds, in lack of a better name.

Fatima was an orphan taken in by her uncle several years prior, her mother had died earlier because of her delicate health, she died on top of a Cairo bridge, that crosses the Nile River, under a cardboard box she had used for shelter, there Fatima remained until her uncle, Solomon, found her, and took the child to the rented out piece of land he now plowed and planted and harvested. The lonely stony plot spreading to the highway produced vegetable, and for the most part, the owner charged little for it, feeling it better to keep the price reduced and someone, thus, having someone to watch the land, and kill two birds with one stone. It really was just a large patch of land, being farmed, not a farm in the sense of those we have in the Midwest of Minnesota.
The road passed several small farms, and the edge of the lot crossed the road; it was all plateau here, and the great pyramids were not far away, a beautiful sight for the tourist driving by, should he not look at the dirt farm on the other side, a disenchanted side, and in front of the lot, was an old hinged fence, long was the fence and in front of the roadway, and tall was grass along side of it.
The old man's face twitched with his dull and dim dark eyes as he stared at the creation of this suddenly new birth of a creature, a voice that sounded like the beating of an old deep and rustic metal drum came from its frame. It leaped up and onto its hind hoofs, Solomon was saying at the time: "See I told you to kill it...!" (Just how to kill it he’d not mentioned.)
She left him presently, stepped a few feet closer to the creature, "You'll have a chance to live," she mumbled as she looked down upon the creature, the old man clutched his fists now.
The harsh throbbing voice, faint as it was, could somehow understood Fatima, it spoke in a foreign voice, foreign to any other language ever produced on earth, yet she could understand. She had many questions in her mind: such as, where did it come from, or you come from, for she was looking at the creature, and how did it get here, what exactly was it? She didn't ask those questions out loud, she just thought them.

(I can answer all these questions for you though, but she would never know it for herself, not exactly anyway. It was a tragic thing that took place, casual as it seemed in the sense, one day a person’s life is as it always was, and then an abrupt change takes place, but after a moments time, it all seems somewhat normal again, hence, the breath of life entering a young goat, life from another species, horrible looking, and shockingly creating a goat like demon, is not casual, but it seemingly became so in time, in a short period of time for Fatima anyhow. It came from a place called: "The Prison House for Angels", these angelic beings were fallen angels. You've never heard of it you say, well, if not, don't be incongruous, for there is and was a place called that, it was beyond Orion, created by God, long before the earth was created. It was needed more than ever back then, for when the angels rebelled, where would the damned go, God spread out a village for the damned in the dark hidden parts of the universe. Here no one could hear the faint, ghostly cries of the voices behind the invisible wall, like lions in cages they were. All floating in space and quivering in the darkness, dying in their silence from the rest of the universe, this was their abode, showered with streaks of crimson fires far beyond their reach. And then, Azaz'el was released, to be brought down to earth's hell, for what reason I do no know. And somehow he escaped and now he was being reborn in this goat, secretly you could say, for who beyond God Himself would realize such a birth was taking place, surprisingly on the very planet the two angelic beings were to bring Azaz'el, but of course to the lower chambers of the earth.)

Terror had swamped Solomon, yes that is what the goat-devil saw in his eyes, as it stretched out its new body to several feet; now a hoofed beast, with three horns, naked with wet hair from foot to crown. Solomon now showed more poignant terror than anyone could imagine. But the adolescent feared not, actually she started to laugh lugubriously. (The creature lost something in its birth process, something it had when in the "Prison House for Angels," it lost its matured mind, it was now deformed, defected, reduced to a lower capacity; it knew, but didn't know-you could say, it heard the voice of the girl, fragmented, and it stared blankly at her, he called out: 'Mother!' The creature was a child beast, a devil-goat, so it looked. It may have escaped one destiny, only to find a dreary new one.)
It noticed a faint skeptical smile on the girl, heard her humming softly, "You are right, uncle, I should have killed the creature, but I can't." she said.
The uncle tried to brush away her crazy talk, her new obsessed caring for the creature, as the creature now was all of eight feet tall, broad at the shoulders, the Uncle horrible tense, standing by that open shad, the bull uneasy, brooding about the hay.

Chapter Two: The Light

It was early morning, and light starting to stretch out over the land, the struggling birth was over; the goat's mother had died giving birth to the creature. And Fatima was now its new mother, or so the creature thought. Fog was disappearing from the roadway, and the old man was done with his quivering, all sat back against the wooden wall of the shed, seemingly like ghosts. The foreign language of the creature seemed to adjust to Fatima's mind, although to the uncle it seemed to be nothing more than grunts and groans. The ghostly death of the mother goat, in the early silence of the morning was no more than a blur now. The old man had buried the goat, in fear if he ate it, or cut it opened, it might trigger a new development, one he didn't want. Thus, he took the goat behind the shed and buried it. Perhaps that sounds foolish, I know, but I can only tell you how it was, foolish or not. Now flashing lights from the roadway appeared. "Damn it," the old man said as he walked around the shed and the shanty house, looking at the fog lift, the car lights, "Damn it, you can't live with this thing, it's deadly, and it will murder us in the middle of the night." Then as he became visible to the creature and Fatima, he went blank, showing no emotion in his face, as if not to show any signs of complaint, said nothing distinguishable, only mumbles as came out of his mouth as often an old man does. He went over to the two, pushed the dark black huge bull to the side, it moved quickly, then the old man said to Fatima, "You thought you heard a dead mans cry earlier within the birth of this creature, I do believe it was his mind changing, agonizing in the process, it went like a leap, from what it was to a child, look at it, it seems to be bloodthirsty and at the same time, excited over you looking at it, as a child to a mother. It's a real thing for sure, but who owns it, is a different story."

(What was going through his mind perhaps was: could he be so lucky as to try to control this freak of nature, and make money off it in the near future-like 'King Kong'? I mean, was this a chance in a life time, or was this strange creature indeed too dangerous to play such a game with, for the old man said to Fatima: "Strangeness nowadays, people pay to see that!" It was more of a question-statement, but Fatima did not answer, and the creature simply looked at Solomon when he spoke, then looked at Fatima, somehow feeling if she looked decrepit because of his voice or words, he was dead, or soon could be. But she held her facial features, likened to flat. At this point the old man looked confused, an echo went back and forth in his brain; again he stood clutching his fists, almost fearful, but now with more force, and with anger...he shrugged his shoulders, started to walk out of the shed, and with a leap the creature grabbed him by throat, lifted him up above the ground, his feet dangling, Fatima just looked, and looked and looked, and his mouth opened, and its teeth showed and it was hungry, and Fatima looked, and looked and looked again, and the creature's teeth were sharp like the fangs of a huge dogs, and it seemed like he wanted to swallow a good portion of the old man's right limb, it was dangling in front of his eyes, and he was hungry, and his limbs were just dangling helplessly, a rip, a quick rip is all it would take, then the creature smiled as it looked at Fatima, as if awaiting for permission to eat, and he'd be fed, and she smiled...!)

Part Three: The Harm

"Let me go," yelled the old man. But as the Azaz'el looked at Fatima, her face suggested with some bitterness, not to, as she held a cold look, reprovingly saying 'no' and quicker than the sheering of sheep's wool, the creature had in its mouth a limb, the right arm of the old man, and you could hear the crunching of the bones, and in his throat, which was now lumped with the limb (likened to a large snake swallowing a dog whole), the creature tried to swallow...it came to look again upon its mother, Fatima. He dropped the old man to the ground, her eyes widened, "Why," cried the old man, "I took you in as a child, why did you not stop the creature, he is some sort of devil beast and animal?"
The beast crawled now on its knees, rampaging around the shed like a devil-dog. The old man stayed put, not wanting to get near him Then Fatima assured him, that the creature would not harm him again, that it was a example for him, a terrible one yes, but nonetheless a lesson for him not to decide to do her child harm, and the saber tooth creature now clasped her hands, and kissed them.
"Oh Uncle Solomon why? Why do you think such things of Azaz, he is just born and you want to harm him, he came alone into this empty hearted world; this is a warning for you."
She was irritated with him; she glanced at him with a look of pleading almost, yet visibly wilted.
"You mean to tell me," said the old man, bleeding from his shoulder, "a girl like you is the mother of this creature like man, or devil, and it fails me?"
"Certainly I am," she said abruptly.
"Well, I'll be-" said the old man as he began to fall into a bewilderment, drift off to sleep, the pain was too much, and there was no relief, and when he woke up, several hours later, his wound had been attended to, one arm less of courses.

Belphegor, Demon King (Parts 2 and 3)

Part II
Chapter Four: Azaz'el's Thoughts (The Sixth Day)

He had awoke two days later, in the gray cold light of the morning, he felt condemned, his executioner was not far away from him in the shed like house, Fatima was not in the room ... he could hear her voice outside talking to the bull though...

It was the sixth day; the creature sat his back against the outside shanty, a mountain of tall grass around him, the grass slightly wet, his forehead damp, he touches the earth, rumples his shoulders, over lapping his hands (at the same time), one over the other, a few birds sit peeking over the edge of the wooden roof of the shanty (hut) like house. He would like to cry, but he had never done such a thing, he didn't know how, and his feelings were more like thoughts, than emotions. He spots a lizard, it runs, and he finds out his reflexes are faster than the lizards, and Azaz grabs him by the tail, or what seems to be the extended backend of the foot long creature, drops him into his mouth, like a raindrop falling into a bucket, swallows the lizard complete, that was his breakfast.
Along the roadside, dust is raised in spires. He hears thunder, sees water but is having a hard time reasoning the two out, how do they fit together, he comes to the conclusion, thunder is produced when it is close to water.
He has not looked into a mirror but he knows his face is different than his mother’s, I mean his human mother, he has seen in a mud puddle, his face is more like a goat, but goats cannot reason like him, they go to the slaughter, he tells himself, he will not allow that. Yet his mind is not stretched out as far as it should be, but he knows at one time it was, and perhaps in time to come it will again be more knowledgeable.
The old man is feeding the bull now, he, Azaz, can hear him talking to himself, he doesn't like him all that much, but he is his mother's, something or another; his arm was more tasty than the lizard he concludes. Fatima is planting something afar by the roadway. He pulls at his face, trying to figure out if he is inside a disguise, "Where is the practical part of me," he asks himself. The bold grass still is hiding him, his eyes closed, and "Who is this inside of me?" he asks. All rhetorical questions for the most part.

Chapter Five: Twilight (the Fourteenth Day)

Azaz's attention was caught by a movement in the shadows of the grass, he had not seen twilight before either, it was emerging, day and night were closing in on one another, and forming dusk. Something huge was in the tall grass, bulky. He was fascinated with the movement, not scared, but enthralled. He saw yellow eyes in the shadows of the grass. With a shout of brutal yelps, the thing with excessive agility and with speed, and after a moment, plainly showed himself, big as an ox. Azaz, moving swiftly he leaped toward what he figured would be his first victim. The monster raged with ferocity. In an instant both were fighting, and the black hairy beast with horrible looking eyes, almost next to one another (dry blood on its fury like body from a previous kill) crushed Azaz to his knees, but Azaz simply caught his breath, never got tired, he just didn't know how to fight, he tried to rip the torso off is legs of this dark beast, and stuff gushed out of it. But still the beast was not exhausted; it picked him up, and cast him aside like a staggering drunkard.
Now the beast's yellowish eyes glittered hellishly, and came back for a second strike. No word had passed between the two warriors, and when Fatima came out of the shed to see what was happening, she merely fainted on the spot, as she looked at the horror taking place. Uncle Solomon gazed from the window, helplessly, but hoping wherever the beast was from, it would kill Azaz, but it couldn't.
"Don't be afraid," said Azaz, to his mother, his voice sounded strange, but he had picked up a vocabulary in just fourteen days, one that matched her language.
As she tried to get up, her eyes flared with terror, and she cried, and the wild fluttering of her heart could not stop, and somehow it could be felt by Azaz, and thus, resuming his attack on the beast once he knew his mother was safe, but the frightened, thing ran away.
"Are you hurt?" she exclaimed quickly to Azaz.
"Don't worry about these scratches," he answered, though his wounds privately hurt. (The creature like him, had fangs and it seemed they were venomous.)
She stopped her sobs, and dried her eyes with her forearm. They were hungry and although Azaz was somewhat like a cannibal, he simply muttered "Me too..." looking at Solomon looking out of the window as if he would be a good dinner.
"Was that a devil," she asked her uncle, as they sat on the porch eating chicken?
"I did not see it all that clear, it was bigger than a jackal, smaller than a giant bear, perhaps this creature of yours has brought up from the bowels of hell, devils to bring him back where he belongs, I hope we do not get infested with them now."
In stead of answering her Uncle, she clenched her fists as if to say: I will not even let hell have him, he is mine. Her eyes lighted up, "You will not hurt him, right?" she asked her uncle.
The absurdity of the question left him speechless, yet he found the words to say,
"How can I hurt him, his muscles are like knotted iron, and his fists like mallets."

Part III
Chapter Six: The Bear Demon (21st Day)
Belphegor, Demon King

The Bear-demon returned the following week, commanded one of them, from a distance that he, Azaz to relinquish his life to them (inferring it was either now or later, and if it was later there would be a lot of suffering on his part for eons). Should he do so now as he was told or being asked, he would place him in the heartland of the lower world and in charge of several legions?
"I am called, who brings me tidings in the skins of bears?" asked Azaz'el.
One of the two great bears answered, "I am Agaliarept, the Henchman of Hell, who asks for thee, and my assistant is Gusoyn, a great guard of the towers over Hades, the great sea of the Netherworld. And we were sent by the King of Demons, no other than Belphegor, whom takes orders from the Ten-winged Archangel, known as Lucifer-thus we must and will deliver you to the lower world."
-Now standing side be side, and Azaz'el standing by the shed all within a swings distance, the two great bear-demon, as they are disguised, stand erect and firm, sternness in their faces, as Azaz grips an axe resting against the side of the abode, raises it and with the swiftness of an eagle a blow with the blade severs through the naked neck of Agaliarept, the blade sinks clean through, and his head falls to the ground, rolls off his shoulder like a egg, as Azaz kicks it with his heal, blood bursts from the cavity of the body of Agaliarept, dark blood, yet the bear figure remains strong on his shanks; Gusoyn, reaches down picks up the head, gives it back to Agaliarept, as it turns about on its own, eyes staring at Azaz. The head then rests on Agaliarept’s forearm, and against his chest.
It would seem to an on looker he was unharmed that only a mishap too place; his gruesome trunk continues to bleed like a waterfalls, and his head mumbles as they part, it twists to see Azaz's eyelids looking wide open, and unblinking, brooding at him.

Agaliarept, Satan's Henchman

Agaliarept's voice echoed back to Azaz, "See that you get ready, you will go as Hell has demanded, this is a promise, for I charge thee with assault unto your brethren."
A rude roar came from Azaz'el, as Fatima and Solomon, became almost breathless, and hiding beyond the arch of the doorway, halfway inside the abode, letting out a sigh of relief, unbelievable liberation from a world they know little about.

Interlude

Life with a Surrogate Mother

(About three months into Fatima's surrogating, Azaz'el.) Inside the dwelling were two wooden chairs, a chimney where charcoal was burning, there were many cushions on the floor, an old cloak hung on a nail by one of the two windows in the shack. The wooden floor cracked as you walked from one side to the other. Solomon had sat on those two chairs seemly and noble for many years, but not any longer, his woes were yet to be mended.
On a small table, was a clay basin to wash up with, a water pump outside alongside of the shack.
Solomon always ate double helpings of food at his dinner table, but since Azaz'el had arrived, and grown to a large size, that was for the meantime history. He enjoyed an assortment of fish, but it seemed chicken was cheaper, and so were the vegetables he grew on his farm land.
The table in the center of the shack, stood on trestles, was raised a few inches when Azaz'el sat at it, his knees doing the lifting. They had spoons, forks and knives to eat with, but Fatima had to teach Azaz, as she called him, how to use them. Azaz especially liked baked bread and spices on his food.

During the meals, Azaz watched Fatima and Solomon pray before they ate, but never did he inquire on this matter, only gave weird head movements.
Surrogating was new for Fatima; she had never been a mother of any kind, although she perhaps tried to at times with the bull in the shed. Azaz came to realize Fatima for as young as she was, she was not his real mother; on the other hand he found she was fairer in face than any woman he had thus far put eyes on, smooth flesh to her skin, and her proportions were better than most others he felt. Her complexion was lovely, and had she not been her surrogate mother, who knows what would have taken place.
On the other side of the coin, was Solomon, he was quite thin, with wrinkled cheeks, his throat was also wrinkled, although a beard covered most of it, and his waist was thin, with a sunken in buttocks.
Solomon had come to think these passing days, it was either bad luck or ones lot in life, for him to have met Azaz'el, but during this period of three months, once, and only once, did Azaz'el say "Good-day," to Solomon, and in return gracefully Solomon bowed as if to obey, but Azaz took little head in it, he was perhaps fighting his nature, it took a lot for him to say that.

Chapter Seven: the Young Year
Azaz'el (before Earth Time)

The young year-began, thus Azaz remained watchful for the return of the demonic bears, or whatever new disguise they may have grown into, for he yearned for life on earth more everyday, and everyday was special, and everyday his mind matured ten-times faster than a normal mind would, thus remembering bits and pieces of his long incarceration in "The Prison House for Angels." That is to say, he was now remembering who he was, and what he was, and what he looked like before earth was created, and during and when he was sent to earth to look over ancient man, and from the clouds he did so, but he was one of the Old Ones, that guarded those who took human flesh, and cohabitated with them. His sins were not as severe as those of his brethren, so he recalled, but nonetheless he was sent to the prison house, and he also remembered his time was up, and was to be brought to the lower world, and somewhere in-between, this journey, he found a porthole in space, so it seemed, and escaped, and found himself being cast into an animal, and being of no human origin, he was reborn, but disfigured.
During the early part of the evenings, to late dark, he helped Solomon and Fatima with the small farm work, doing chores, etcetera, that needed to be done, mending of the fences also, and feeding and settling of the bull, and so forth and on...he didn't care to be seen by the public lest he be put into a freak show, and lose his freedom, and consequently be hurtle from, and out of his earthly existence, by what now he considered the enemy, that's why he wanted to grab the moment, it was, he figured, was his only treasure left for him.
Many nights he got drunk, being introduced to the alcoholic spirits of mankind-and as months slipped by quickly, he was merry with even Solomon, whom he had at one time a rather harsh liking for. Perhaps all this counterbalanced what he felt would be his ending. And so again I say, the months past to June, the 6th month of the year, and to the 6th day of the month and to the 6th hour, in the PM, and on this day, all hell broke loose.
-On this little lot of land, this farm blemish in the outskirts of Cairo, Egypt, off the side road, the earth became cold, clouds uplifted, producing harsh hail dropping to the ground, making it hard, as a hundred beings (demonic beasts), a horde from hell, stomped the ground with blows from their feet, shaking the earth, and the abode, and all the structures on the farm. They came out of the long grass, and bushes, and came out of nowhere (so it seemed), dark it was over the farm, as if twilight had been subdued. Two hundred yellow eyes glistening, approaching. A drought filled the throats of Fatima and Solomon.

Chapter Eight: The Sting-tailed Mantic ores
The Sting-tailed Mantic ores and Gusoyn

Sting-tailed Mantic ores, that is what appeared on the premises of Solomon's and Fatima's farm, in demonic form. They had stingers on the ends of their tails, as if to sting the life out of Azaz'el, and bring him willing or unwillingly to the lower world.
Azaz'el knew it was war, and the six months he had on earth, ended up being only yesterdays, as this day was to be his reckoning.
All the beasts stood in a horseshoe fashion kind of formation, in front of the shack that the three inhabitants had lived in, Fatima and Solomon, hiding behind the door, and Azaz'el in front of the shack.
There were no more bears, only mantic ores, and Agaliarept, with Belphegor, who were in their natural skins, Agaliarept with human features from his neck to his feet, which were wide with long nails, and his head was more like a horse. Belphegor, was naked as was Agaliarept, but had wings on, Agaliarept did not. He had a long face; both were of a cunning design. Gusoyn, was also present, and had a crazy look on his face, he was jumping up and down, with a kind of dagger in his hand-crazily jumping, the rest were calmly waiting for someone to give an order, the rest being the Sting-tailed Mantic ores, except for Buer the Savage Eater (which I will explain to you, as well as introduce you to him, in the next chapter).
And there outside, right in front of the shack, a feast began, a kind of royal revelry, before the slaughter you might say. Dancing and singing, provoking Azaz to strike the first blow, yet knowing, when he did, it was all over. (Demons are powerful, yet not as powerful as angelic beings, and arch angels, are even more superior, and this occurred to Azaz'el. Also what came to mind, was Lucifer, he, was watching from the gray and dark clouds above, pacing like a hungry lion; would he come to the rescue if indeed Azaz'el an archangel could subdue these demons. There was no way to win; this is what really circled in his mind.

Light laughter began-.

You do know the quest at hand, that is to say, Hell's quest, and Azaz'el wishing to remain on earth, so I care not to trouble you with the tale of it, save, a miner point, Lucifer was watching from the moon most of the time, up to this evening, now near the clouds he paced, thus, Buer the Savage Eater as he is known, was contemplating to spark the first blow, to get the show on the road, perhaps that is why the King of Demons wished him present. The question at hand also was (and that is perhaps the reason Lucifer kept his distance), why did God allow this to go to this point, when it was ordained Azaz'el be brought to the lower world, brought by angelic beings, to a point in space, the winged demons were to take over, but never hand the chance to, for Azaz'el was said to have escaped, or fell into a hole in space. Oh well, we may never know, and as for God, who knows His reasons.

Part IV
Chapter Nine: Buer the Savage Eater
Buer Demonic Savage Eater

Before man was man, and demons were demons, Buer was among a group of souls, that ruled the earth, with other souls and angelic beings, he was the first to go against the will of God, and join Lucifer in rounding up support by his kind (Lucifer being the leader of his kind at this time), and thus, a trader to God, and to his kind to win the favor of Lucifer, which he did, and now we can call early man, and thus his kind turned into what now is known as the demonic forces of Hell and Earth, but he was turned into a demon eater a beast of a rat, a savage among savages, and he was waiting to eat Azaz'el if indeed he could grab such a moment.
Buer the Savage Eater (so he was know to be), stepped out of the crowed of demonic forces now surrounding Solomon's farm, he was-if anything-unpredictable and shrewd. He was all demonic, and wanted to be of a high command in hell, among demons, "Why should you rule seven legends in hell, when I have myself been waiting for such a promotion (for hell does have its hierarchy, and Azaz’el was to hold such a position, and there was, as we can see, envy growing).”
He was in rat form, which was his real form. He had a wide mouth, dripping slim constantly from it; long thin, limps, and a skeleton tight skinned body, that showed his ribs. He was vicious, if anything, and could, and would, and did eat or bully demons, but to this angelic being, could he do such a thing, he thought so, but it remained questionable. He had been perhaps in hell too long, not knowing the powers of angelic beings, but he was about to find out (for even Agaliarept, Satan's Henchman brought assistance when he sought out Azaz'el, thus, trying to talk, and perhaps subdue him that way, not really wanting an out and out battle with him, and hoping he did not realize his strength.
Thick was the saber teeth of the rat like Buer, Agaliarept went to stop Buer saying, "We are not breed like him, do not overextend yourself."
But Buer just laughed, "He is nothing but a goat, and a tall thin goat at that, and I shall shred him like I have to so many in the pits of hell..." and he leaped on Azaz'el, and his fangs dug deep into his armpits of what he referred to as the devil-goat, and his body folded up like a cocoon, then he fell to his knees; all the demonic warriors unlocked their eyelids, felt Buer was for the moment their hero, he was beating an angelic being (unheard of, and never seen before), but Agaliarept just shook his head, he knew better.
"What is your name rat?" asked Azaz'el "I have never seen eyes like yours, a cold blue flame dances in them, I shall remove them in a moment." And he stood up, as Buer got into some kind of a stance to attack.
"I am one of the Old Ones, have you forgot?" Said Azaz'el to Buer; now the horde of demonic beasts turned their alliance, to bewilderment, and watched and waited the command to attack, for it had to come from either the King of Demons, or Lucifer Himself, not even Agaliarept had that power. Buer was simply out of place.
Buer had primitive passions you could say, violence, traditional for hell, warlike; battle was Buer's custom and contest to life. Primitive and gusty was his temper also, but courage, he may have had, although inferior to Azaz'el, perhaps he could scare him to death or to submission he figured. He did not know him in the old days; as did Semyas or Lucifer- nor did legend follow him as did it for Lucifer.
Azaz'el was no fool, and with a crimson haze of fury, and a glare of battle ready, vengeance, his every muscle seemed to be filled with iron revenge. He tried to warn the rat beast, as he called him; in the old days he would not have done so. Swift and brief he would have made this battle.
Arrogant eyes roved contemptuously over the frame of Azaz'el, with unbearable scorn. With an act of distinctiveness, he attacked Azaz'el again, and with bestial rage Azaz'el sprang up and rushed at Buer, both colliding, both roaring, breast to breast, the rat reckless, Azaz'el, with full strength, clutching this creature like a rag, and throwing him about, a being stronger than he had ever endured. This he, Buer, came to realize quickly, for the impact of his efforts were nothing to Azaz'el, and his crushing embrace, broke all the ribs in Buer's body, and he lay on the ground no longer an antagonist. Still with clenched fists, Azaz'el mauled his way back to the rat beast, several demons tried to hold him back, but could not, and thus, Azaz'el snapped the spine of Buer before he stopped his attack. Lucifer was laughing overhead, and Semyas was gushing with smiles, it was his old friend at his best. Buer tried to get up, with a sagging broken jaw, but fell back down, blood spreading out over the ground: it was fiesta time thought Semyas.

Chapter Ten: The Offering
Lucifer
The Ten-winged Beast

On a pyre Semyas the Seer and astrologer of the ancient renegade angles was on hand to nail Azaz'el (for only another angelic being could hold another in check, thus, two supernatural beings), thus, he drove nails through his palms to the rock, the flat part of the alter and through, and into the granite nailed him at all four points, through all four limbs, as the Ten-winged Beast flew to and from the gate to the pyre then over the shack, over a large treetop then high above all that, as the surrender was taking place.
He was like a camel in heat, as if he was trying to get his high or getting his high at that very moment, but wanting to be safe, or perhaps too arrogant to join the rest of the horde in their appointed task.
Then he, Semyas kissed the hand of Azaz'el, after that he laid a kerchief over his eyes, as if he was subdued and could do nothing, and at this point it looked so. He was a brother to him at one time (that was the kiss); both had walked the earth and were among the leaders of two-hundred other angelic renegades—of five-thousand years ago. But there was no mercy in Semyas' eyes, for he had been buried under tons of rocks for millenniums. Now, seemingly he had either escaped, or was set free, he didn't say, and I don't know, but he was assigned this duty by none other than the Beast, and the kiss and the subduing, along with blinding of the eyes was part of the ritual.

(Ah, one could hear the crickets in the background, the wings of the Beast flopping back and forth as he flew by, the sound of the gate's metal clasps moving back and forth, the wind picking up.)

I intend now to tell you what took place on that pyre, though it may seem strange to the story, but it was as it was.
In everyway, Azaz'el could not escape, the forces were too strong, the winds from the wings of the Beast, and Semyas' nails were made out of some evil force from another sphere, and the demonic forces behind and around the pyre, added to the physical if not mental forces at hand, all restraining.
It is fare to say, I do believe, endless thoughts invaded his being, Azaz'el's brain. He was acknowledged as a gift to hell, from the "Prison House of Angels." And why was he working so hard to defy all the shadowy evils above and below the earth? Perhaps a question everyone was asking, even Solomon and Fatima, save the Beast and his demonic and angelic forces were dumfounded to say the least.
"Here is a fragment of your creed, brethren," said Semyas, "say it after me!" he commanded in a harsh voice: "That ever from the fire, evil's all of my velour, be it gained that to Hell, and all spheres of the Beast I shall be courteous, that I give up all piety of thought, friendliness, chastity and chivalry, and change thy heart for deception, and perfect evil...I shall be close as the demonic forces need me, I shall lead in Hell, that being: without mercy, indifference to human life..."
Semyas carved into his chest a pentangle, and imprinted within that the given name of Satan, 'Lucifer'; next, he was set free, arrayed by all those around him (that was the kiss), good tidings, then Semyas commanded he kill Fatima and Solomon, to show his new devotion; to eat their flesh, as he had done before; to prove to the High Prince of Darkness, his honorable heart.

Part V
Chapter Eleven
Concluding Chapter

So what took place that evening, on the 6th month, 6th day of the month, at the 6th hour, was this: Azaz'el was to be considered the host of the demons, to be a leader in hell, to have several legends at his fingertips. And he was to kill, eat the flesh of his mother, Fatima, to show his honorable heart to the horde, and Lucifer, whom was watching from the edge now, the edge of the top of a tree, and his mind was of this same anticipation.
As he walked toward Fatima, he stopped in front of Solomon, her uncle, feeling he would have the answer (an answer) to a sudden question he was seeking, and he whispered something in his ear, and Solomon whispered something back. And they both stood looking at one another oddly; Fatima confused, and standing by the archway of her door, fearfully tense, and as confused as any of the onlookers. Then out of nowhere, or so it seemed, Azaz said to Fatima, "Climb on my back mother!"
Fatima, unprepared, gladly did, as did Solomon. Next, Azaz'el did another odd thing, like a prince, proudly, and tauntingly, he started walking down the pathway to the front gate of the farm, through the horde of demons; just like that, with almost a luminous hue around him, when he walked to the gate, haughtily strode, many of the demon (fierce looking in all respects) fell flat on their faces on the field, onto and over one another. They all looked dumbfounded at this happening, confused, what he up was up to, and what was happening to them.
At the gate he lowered his huge back, his face was grim, with all the power in his limbs aloft he heaved the two on his back over it, and over the gate so both Fatima and Solomon could roll off, and over his head, and both did, and he told them to stand near the roadway, that this field of land was fated for the moment; and as the horde grabbed him, to take him to the lower world, they could not pull his soul from his body, it was what they were after. They shredded his body like macaroni. And there he died, and the only thing that could be seen was a white mist coming from his inner being, and carried upward by one female angelic being.

The Angel Lailis

"What did he whisper to you?" asked Fatima to Solomon.
"He asked me if there ever was a demonic creature, or angelic being ever forgiven by God—given a second chance? And if so whom? And I said to him, there was perhaps two to my understanding, Gilgamesh of Sumer was a giant and demigod, who on his death bed, accepted the one and only true God, he had found his faith I do believe by listening to Noah. And there was a man called Christopher, whom had the seed of those lost angelic renegades, as Azaz'el has, so I told him, and he was saved, after helping Christ across the river. That is when he turned to you and asked you to get on his back, like St. Christopher would have done, and did do, and thus, he walked us down and through the demonic path, Lucifer and his horde created, but for some reason, perhaps God, shifted their minds for a moment, to save us, and it seems, to save him, even though he was executed, but then, so was Christopher."
Said Fatima, in a light hearted but confused way, "I don't quite see it that way."
"Well," added Solomon, "We got work to do in the morning, some hoeing and some weeding and...oh well, you know."
And the two walked back to their shack, the demonic forces had disappeared, and the body of a goat lay on the ground, where once was, Azaz'el.

From a Dream, Witten in Huancayo, Peru, 10-24 & 26-2007, the author spent time in Egypt (1998), and the farm he is talking about, exists, as do all the folks and animals around this farm, in the story, and even the names are the same, the only thing fiction is this story is the devil-goat, which is the dream part. Reedited 3/2008