Twentieth Century's Greatest Read (s)

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)

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)

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))

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))

((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)

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.

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

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.

Lost Souls in the Canyon of Pain (poetic Prose)

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)

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

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

Sapphire writes: (a poem on a decaying world)

Sapphire
writes:

“…What’s happening to the world?
Why are people being so
mean and ungrateful?”

Perhaps Sapphire, they
have a hole in their hearts
where God is suppose to be.
Or possibly the world was
always like this, and we were
too blind to see (that I don’t
want to believe). Whatever,
when we were young, or at
least me, the world you
talk about, seemed more
pleasant, less surreal;
now all I can say,
Sapphire is, welcome,
to the reptile
family).


#2305 3-3-2008 Sapphire, was is a person whom asked
me a questionBy writing a comment to me in July, 2007,
I believe the date is correct, and this is my response.

"However Strange" ((The Complete short supernatural story)(Chapters 1 thru 6))

However Strange
(In the Mist of the Beast)

Part I


Chapter One

A Call for Aid

Life has its way of making a person dizzy, or perhaps it is the people in one’s life; nonetheless, life and its happenings is not always a logical expected, episode, be it good or evil, ill or ailing that takes place, wisdom or foolishness that surrounds him, pleasure or pain he or she endures. I do hope memory serve me well, if so, this account will be better-sweet, as life really is, on its most trotted paths.
I walked up to my library in Miraflores, Lima, Peru, turned on the light in the haunting January night heat, into the somewhat of a cool library, its fan already on, --I stood still in the quiet center of the library, it was a tinge past midnight. The purple drapes, swayed a bit with the fans rotation, resilience, I loved the library, its ceiling was like a canopy over my head, the rugs, a number of them, one Persian, another from Afghanistan, and still another from Pakistan, and the center one, Peruvian, all of high quality engulfed me. I sat in my big sofa chair, there was two in the library, and another wooden onet sat drowsily next to the other sofa chair, the whole library merging into my corner; there in my corner, the sufficing world, its whole environment all the words man has developed, created in the past, merged blissfully to my side, as I sat in solitude, as I opened up a book of Longfellow’s.
Young Dona Florencia Wilder called me on the phone, I set the book aside, the phone being to my left, answered it, her voice was dreamy, in a restless way. And with an undertone of unhappiness, she commenced to tell me how she felt estranged in her big home, it was hard to give her sympathy, she was rich, so I just gave her my ear without comment, perhaps my chivalry was in full manhood.
Minutes flew by, that became hours, and I found myself wanting to fall to sleep, the gates of my mind were closing, as was my eyes. I heard noises next door, in this neighborhood it is not unusual to hear such at 2:00 AM, but it became a ceaseless sound, and between Dona Florencia and the knocking, it became a little stressful. As I asked Dona Florencia to call back, I went to the downstairs widow in the parlor, looked out it to see who was doing the knocking. It was a young bruit of a man (broad, short in figure, perhaps five foot five inches in height) robust, shirt off, muscles glowing from the reflections produced by an arch light several feet away from him.
I opened my door, said (with inquisitiveness):
“They’re probably sleeping, why not try back in the morning, you are waking everyone up, or at lese me for the time being!” It was more a statement than a question. I then switched my outside electric light on, over my doorsteps.
The brute came to me, looked me in the eyes (not a bit of fear in his bones I told myself), and had a note in his hands, he gave it to me, almost as if it didn’t matter what house he was really at, or whom got the note, only that he gave it to a living and breathing, and reasoning creature, I took it and started to read it (as he walked away):
“Whomever you are, I need your help, please attempt to help me after you read this note, and if you do not, give it to someone that will, my mother has just been murdered, you can call me at 4550882? The person whom gave you this letter is a little slow, his name is Carlos, and was instructed to leave as soon as he a person accepted the note.”


Chapter Two

The Investigation


Doña Florencia Wilder, opened the door quietly for Denis Medina; Sergeant Ricardo Leoncio and and his boss, the Inspector Silvestre were already sorting out the affairs of the murder, trying anyhow to understand it. Dr. Gomez was present, and the maid, Maria.
“I came at once, miss, the moment I got your note, but it seems you got everything under control, where you lack confidence, you have wisdom, and coordination abilities I see.” Then without hesitation, or a word said, she grabbed my hand, pulled me completely into the hallway, the Sergeant threw some swift glances her way, as he was paced from one room, through the hallway to the next room, where the deceased, widow, Mrs. Wilder, Florencia’s mother lay dead on a sofa coach. Here, the Detective started a conversation with a person, unseen; it was Inspector Silvestre, whom he was explaining the situation to:
“Senseless,” was his word.
Here, Doña Florencia whispered, “Under you, I hope to find out the truth sir. Right now the doctor is writing out a full report, he will give it to the Sergeant, whom is in charge, and the inspector, he said he will leave all the matters of this case in his hands. You and I can work together.”
“Alas!” I said, wondering what I had gotten myself into. “Ma’am,” I said, “You must be content with the officials, and their examination, I am not needed here.”
“Oh, but indeed you are sir, you see the door was locked, and the murderer could not have gotten in another way, except for him or her being here when I got here, so he must be here now. I cannot stay here tonight by myself; I will pay you well, if we can get to the bottom of this matter. The officials are simply going to investigate this half interrogatively, then leave and throw the case into the bust basket.
“True,” I said, adding passively, “I am only a writer of short fiction and poetry, what can I do?”
“I had Carlos knock on your neighbor’s door, thinking it was you, I have read a lot about you, a man of details, a great gift, to see things others do not. Most folks need a magnifying-glass to see the simplest of things, avoiding, if not overlooking the real things. I shall ask my maid, Maria to show you my mother’s blood stained coach, her skin had been pierced by what looks like deep scratches from teeth or long nails.”

I was about to look at Mrs. Wilder, now in the room with the Sergeant and Inspector, along with the maid, and Florencia, I was about to interpret what I saw, but suspended it for a moment, when Florencia shook her head ‘no’, and cleverly whispered, “Wait a moment, the inspector will leave with the sergeant,” and she had the maid offer them coffee and doughnuts, in the kitchen as they talked over the case, along with the doctor.
“Now, Mr. Medina, you were about to say?”
“She was attacked, and frightened to death, so it would seem.”
“Attacked by whom, and frightened to death you say…”
I then looked over the sofa coach again, carefully, and asked, “Who has touched her since you discovered her, besides the doctor?”
“No one to my knowledge,” said Miss Wilder, “at least not by me, or the maid, I only had Carlos, our gardener run to find you, after he discovered her, and told me, and I told the maid, and the maid called the police, and I sent for you.”
I had gotten down on my knees to see her wrists; they were cut, bleeding drops of blood into an already made pool on the floor. With a motion of my hands I had Miss Florencia walk around the sofa as to not leave a shadow in my way, so I could see closer, and clearer. Inch by inch I went over her body, legs, arms, neck, scratch marks here and there, it went for a radius of her whole body, I did it in a casual way as not to alarm anyone, the doctor had suggested the culprit, the murderer had simply scratched her to death, and left it at that, and with a sharp instrument. Myself, I suggested the victim was somehow under hypnotic influence, she did not struggle through her ordeal, or so it seemed, and there were blood-marks over blood-marks, as if they were specifically gone over willingly, and not in a besieged manner.. The doors I suggested were opened by her, for her assailant, again there really as nothing out of place. Next, I suggested she had used her fingernail file, after finding blood on it, in her jewelrykbox; she had even put it back into its place, after she had her panic attack—or whatever, it all made more sense than the argument the doctor and two detectives conjured up, so I thought, as well as for Miss Florencia.

Chapter Three

However Strange

I found a letter under Florencia’s mothers’ elbow, it must had fallen as she was attacked, odd though—I thought—it had fallen in such a place, almost as if it was tucked and kept hidden until someone like me came along and found it, would have found it no matter what, found it sooner or later. I couldn’t find the red ink pen though. The paper was thin rice paper, the letter read:

“If I am taken ill or even look dead, a simple judgement calls that in either case, or if I cannot speak for myself, you must speak for me, Florencia, for I am simply unconscious, even if the doctor says otherwise. Guard me well, night and day until I come to my senses again. Denis Medina, Ph.D., is a sensible man, seeks him out for advice. Do not in any way, try to bury me, god for bid, I should wake up in a grave, I don’t like the dark all that well. Now go and be a good girl and do as I have told you.” (Signed) Sophia Maria Wielder

At that moment, Carlos came back into the house, and brought a nurse, in all white clothing, Nurse Sara Palma into the living room. Florencia looked dumbfounded that Carlos seemed to know something she didn’t, simply by bringing the nurse was enough information to convince her of that. Her eyes seemed suffused with some kind of haunting hope that her mother might rejoin the living now. An afterthought perhaps, she then commented:
“You must allow me hope Mr. Medina, especially now after reading the letter, and Carlos bringing in the nurse.”
“Indeed I expect some hope is rushing right now into her bloodstream, hoping she does not wake up in a grave, I do wish to follow this case to its bitter-sweet end, in truth, Miss Florencia, I’d not trade places with the president at this curious moment.”

Dona Florencia Wielder, a young woman, fine featured, of good looks, good Peruvian stock, velvet dark hair, eyes a mysterious deep brown, slanted somewhat, as if she had mixed blood, Asian and Peruvian, not wide at all. As I found myself, time and again staring into those deep eyes, they almost put me into a trance, above those were lavishing eyebrows, and behind, long black wavy hair down to her shoulders as it overlapped. Her architecture was curvy, right where it belonged, balanced as if on top of a pin. Her white teeth gleamed when she smiled, you couldn’t miss them, somehow her hands moved without her wrist, her fingers without her hands—unless I was under an illusion, and her charm was mixed with her beauty, and movements.
The nurse was more on the wide side of the scale. A tall German looking gal, youthful and strong with broad shoulders and a ski type nose.

Chapter Four

Hypnotic Sleep and the Cat

Physically she was inured badly—or so it looked with all its bleeding, yet all her vital organs seemed unimpaired, deep, and internally that is, as Nurse Sara Palma carefully searched her body for bruises, deep puncture marks and so forth, which there were none to speak of.
Then suddenly, just like nothing, her breathing started back up again, it was almost shocking, as the nurse fell backwards, turning pale, dry throat, her daughter put her hand over her mouth as if to scream, and I, I just stood in amazement. This made Florencia double-think, ‘Was Denis right, and was she in some hypnotic sleep…?’
As to her wounds, Sara Palma had placed some bandages on them, hoping to stop some of the bleeding, and that was to some degree successful.
I scanned my mind, looking about, something had caught my eye—during this dramatic happening, at this point I asked the host, “Did your mother, or does she have any pets?” I had not seen any, so I refrained from digging into this question, and Florencia simply shook her head ‘no,’ as she continued to watch her mother’s chest go up and down again (slowly she crept up to the side of her mother, as if to hug her, but she stood stone still, short of that, and just watched her intake of air.

Now I looked about again, wondering what provoked the question in the first place, whereupon I noticed a mummy cat, wildcat that is on the wall, it was killed by her late grandfather, Anton, so I found out. It was a large and seemingly wild and ugly looking thing. The longer I looked at this beast on the wall, a trophy of sorts, the haughtier the creature became, almost submerging its dead personification into me.
“Oivlis,” was its name, said Florencia with a half smile, looking out of the side of her eye, watching me looking at the cat.
I felt the cat purring inside my head; almost instinctively I wanted to talk to the cat, its eyes like razors cutting into mine.
“Eh!” said Florencia, “are you ok?”
I could hear the cat’s heart beating, “Pardon me!” I said to Florencia, adding, “I think I’m daydreaming.”
“My grandfather mounted that cat on the wall, fifty-years ago. Mother liked it, her and I never did share the same feelings on that cat, and she left it in the same spot grandfather put it in—all these years.” ((The nurse was now caring for Mrs. Sophia Maria Wilder.)(You could see the red blood lines through the bandages; the wounds were healing fast, and the bandages were now like blotting paper.)

((Part II/Chapter Five)(conclusion))

Nowhere in Particular


—recovering from my day-dreaming, I heard my name, “Dr. Denis Medina Gomez” my nerves were not quite as they should have been, the door behind me closed automatically, and a white object (thick mist) revealed itself, emanating from the stuffed, wildcat on the wall—it was indescribably streaked murkiness of an unknown sort, and it emerged around me, starting from my face downward. I looked at it closely, tentatively unrecognizable, but it reeked with a death secretion, and muck (sewage). I tried to get the pocket knife out of my hip pocket, a three inch knife, I was at this point in disbelief, and almost frozen in my stance, trying to pull that knife out, as if it was going to be my savior, it dawned on me, in all this effort, what was a knife going to do for me, and here I was losing all my energy in its process.
Florenca was watching, and the old lady (Mrs. Sophia Maria Wilder) lay where we found her, on the sofa, her father (Anton Wilder) had mounted Oivlis, over fifty-years ago on the wall. Cain Wilder, the husband to Sophia Maria wanted to take it done, but Sophia Maria, never would allow it.
As Dr. Denis Medina stood where he was he noticed behind some curtains, several times during his stay in this large room, that looked more like a library, or sportsman’s room, combined, a head peering out from behind the curtain, then vanishing, with its dark-rimmed eyes. It was quick and sudden, and Dr. Gomez thought who could it be, the face even looked familiar. He thought, then visualized the inspector’s face, Silvestre, but no it was a female’s face, maybe Miss Maria Tapi (the maid), but no, it was a more broad face. He looked down at Florencia, then at Sophia Maria Wilder, her mother, it looked familiar, they all looked proverbial, but how could that be, perhaps it was a sister of Florenica’s hiding behind the curtains.
Manual now became numb, slowly becoming more paralyzed as the mist trailed and fell below his shoulders; he even started to choke from its fumes now.

The door opened. The inspector looked through the crack of the door, perhaps a foot wide (he was aware of peculiar things happening in this house, from tales of other officers, and moved with caution), his hair-line stood out, his cheekbones turned white, his eyes bulged from its sockets, highlighting his face, what was he witnessing, his subconscious whispered to his mind’s eye—something dreadfully ominous. His eyelids didn’t even blink, the Medina looked like a fished-out towel ready to drop on the floor, and Florencia stood next to him, calm, yet a tinge bewildered, or perhaps it was a bit intrigued (it was hard for the doctor to make out).
Denis , was aware of what was going on, to a certain degree, trying to hold onto his balance, trying to look behind him and ask for help from the police officer, but the officer quietly shut the door, after saying “I just looked in to say good night!”
The room was turning colder, the longer they remained in it. It occurred to Manual, Florencia was standing idly by, witnessing all this, as he lost the ability for constructive thought, he was feeling like a python was squeezing his head, his body, but it was that haze, vapor. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘she was in the same situation as he,’ but she didn’t look it; then appeared that face again, behind the curtains, caught with a blink of an eye.
In essence, Denis was losing his vital signs for life, dying slowly: his life’s essence being squeezed out of him, inch by inch—as the haze descended.
A voice said, “If you’re not pleased with me tonight, you ought to be.”
Manual wanted to cry for help, but could only mumble, “Florencia, you’ve no idea how it is to try and get out of these hands.”
Manual put out his hands, they extended through the mist, which now was a configuration of the wildcat on the wall: “Pull me out,” he cried to Florencia, “please…” he added.

Under the sketchiest pretense, she said, “I was going to try,” (then she hesitated with a casualness), “but the cat has what it wants, why irritate it, and to be honest, I want to be able to breath, this is nothing I had really expected, it is my first observation of death in the making.”
He drew his last swift breath, that priceless, impetuous speech he tried to get out at the last second, never came. Florencia remained silent. For her this was too good to be true; for he now was dead, and she did not want to ponder on the subject any longer, and said, “That’s a relief.”


((Part III/Chapter Six) (conclusion))

Who is watching?


Florencia’s mind felt heavy and dull. She could see, visually see, Dr. Denis Medina, standing in the back of the glass window, looking in from outside it. (This was of course two weeks after his death.) It was dusk, and she quickly went to her mother’s bedroom, sat down on a chair, and they exchanged a few words, they both rattled on, until Florencia said abruptly,
“I kind of was fond of him mother.”
“No,” said Sophia Maria Wilder, “he just kind of messed up your program, he was handsome, and the evening got long, and you got a bit love sick, it happens to us all.”
“Oh, yes—I suppose it’s just bad luck I liked him?” said Florencia.
She was acting a bit treasonous, in her manner of speech, thought her mother, indeed she was trying to avoid her comments, and said with hopes she’d drop the subject, “A silly vision,” then the nurse Sara came in and rolled down her bed.
I suppose Inspector Silvestre will want to know what we did with the body.” commented, the mother, “I shall ring him tomorrow, if his corpse has not been eaten up by the scavengers of the area, I heard some hungry dogs and wild birds out there the past few days, and we only buried him a few feet down in the garden, not much work to dig or brush the soil off him. But the dead don’t really care how they get buried, do they?”
“I’ve never been dead, I don’t know,” answered Florencia, her mind preoccupied with her prior vision of Denis Medina.
As Florencia walked down the steps to the main dinning area, near the library, she noticed Mr. Tipi cleaning up, and ready to go home. The candles lit in the library left a dazzling stretch of light out into the hallway, the moon could be seen through the window. It turned a bit chilly as she walked slowly by the open library door. Her eyes moved into the library, one particular corner, near where the trophy cat was mounted on the wall. She stopped abruptly, wiped her eyes, two thin arms shown. She looked at the cat on the wall again, still and silent, she told herself, ‘it is still and silent.’ Then a voice said, “Pull your…self together (slowly, the words slurred).” She looked back at the cat, behind her, she knew the voice, and it was her grandfather’s.
“Because of you, I now have a voice,” it was her grandfather’s voice talking to her, for sure, she reconfirmed her intuition.
“No, no. Grandpa, grandpa, is it definitely you?” She whispered, knowing it was.
“Well, yes, who else.” He responded. “I can use a dead man’s corpse for a while, his vocal cords, if you know how to manipulate them, and I know his voice pattern by now I heard him grunt enough, do get on with what you were going to say?”
She said nervously, “I’m a bit fretted,” and she ran from the room faster than a cat.


Index of Names

Denis Medina, Ph.D.

Sergeant Ricardo Leoncio (Detective)
Inspector Silvestre

Dr. Manual Gomez

Carlos (the brute)
Miss Maria Tapi (maid)
Dona Florencia Wilder
Sophia Maria Wilder (mother)
Grandpa Anton Wilder
Cain Wielder (father)
Nurse Sara Palma
The Cat: Oivlis

Chapters one and two, written 1-9-2008, at home; Chapters three and four, written at the café, EP, 1-10-2008; written in Lima, Peru. Chapter five was written at Starbucks, in the afternoon, of March 1, 2008, in Circle, Lima, Peru. Part Three, “Who is Watching,” written on the roof under my umbrella, on a hot afternoon in March, 2008, in Lima, Peru.