The three of them sat on the floor of the deserted house, watching the rain shimmering on the big window glass as light from a passing car beamed by, the only vehicle they had seen in days. Paulie and Sue had laid claim to this room first, laying out their sleeping bags next to the wall. Then Samson had appeared.
Samson was tall and very tan, burned by the sun and sandblasted by the wind. He wore his grey hair in a twisted, ropy crown of dreadlocks and looked to Paulie like someone from long ago. When Paulie first saw him, he flashed on an image of Samson walking through a barren canyon carrying a basket of crows on his back. That was the way Paulie was, though, burned out from the peyote and vodka, nuts enough to believe that the image meant something. Really big. Enormous. Earthshaking.
Samson had asked if he could stay a few days. He was on his way to Mexico. Paulie looked at Sue and tried to smile. His lips quivered. He wanted Samson to stay but first he needed to get Sue’s approval.
He took Sue aside and told her of his vision. “There is something about him. I feel his power and it is good, and has to be channeled,” he said.
“I don’t have a problem with his staying, but he’s gotta do something for us, pay us. We own this place now.”
That was Sue, Paulie thought. Always wanting from people. Like the universe owed her.
They talked with Samson and agreed to allow him to stay the night; they cared about people, Paulie said, and they wouldn’t want to send him back into the rain. Paulie looked at Samson’s boots and saw the sole of one was held together with duct tape and all. He decided right then that the silver tape was a sign. A sign of something good, but Paulie didn’t know what it was, yet.
How they happened to be in the desert still amazed Paulie. It was the thing he talked about the most. They loved the space and the open sky and the dryness, and when the rain came they loved that more. But it was old truck who took them where it wanted, it was like that. Truck was what got them everywhere and they gave it rein. When truck needed gas, they stopped for a while. When truck decided to take a break and blow a tire, they’d stop again for a while. It was here in the desert on a lonely road near the old shack of a farmhouse that truck wanted to stop, and Paulie and Sue knew it was another sign. Like when Samson appeared.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Nuts - John Fetto
When Hawley got out the psych unit in 75, it seemed that everyone knew he had been nuts. If he saw two people talking on a street corner, waiting for a trolley, they were talking about how nuts he was. If he saw an old woman avert her eyes in a laundromat, she was looking away because he was nuts. If the saleslady stared too long after handing him change for a pack of cigarettes, it was because he was nuts. Even cats scurried away because they could tell, dogs barked especially sensing that precarious balance of his brain, teetering on the edge. All he could do was keep his head down, and keep working. He hauled trash, he dug ditches, he worked where he could, saved money, and bought his truck.
It was an old Chevy pick up. 1968, the truck he admired brand new when he was drafted. Now eight years old, a lot of rattles, loose muffle, leaking oil, terrible shape, like Hawley. He replaced the engine gasket, all the houses, new sparkles and tightened the muffle with a new bracket, and tightened it down. It ran like new once you got all the parts fixed, but Hawley didn’t stop there. He put a cb, and short band radio on top of it, with small spike antennas on the roof, and one large flexible antenna tied to the back of the cabin, so he could swing it low over the bed, and up, when he drove up above the knoll of the marina, and from there he could relay all around the world. He learned to talk to people that way at a distance. And up there he got the plan about the boat. He saw them in the marina below. Why pay all this rent to a landlady who goes through his stuff whenever he went out the door. Hawley was sure she did, looking for drugs, weapons, something to throw him out. So one day he went down the marina and offered himself for work.
An old guy hired him to do some carpentry in a cabin, and then work on the hull after it got lifted out in dry dock. He worked cheap, practically for nothing, just to learn. He liked old wooden boats, not the fiberglass ones, though he could work on both. No matter how beat up the old ones were, you could sand them down and find a clean surface that was clean and fresh. It wasn’t like you just patched over something broken, you cut out the rot, finding the freshness underneath. The wood appreciated the work as if they sighed to have the old rot removed and said, thank you, yes that’s me fresh and beautiful underneath. He sanded off years, and the old boats were light and limber, better than new.
A year and a half after that, Hawley was working and living on his own boat, with no land lady around to wonder what he was hiding and talk about how nuts he was.
It was an old Chevy pick up. 1968, the truck he admired brand new when he was drafted. Now eight years old, a lot of rattles, loose muffle, leaking oil, terrible shape, like Hawley. He replaced the engine gasket, all the houses, new sparkles and tightened the muffle with a new bracket, and tightened it down. It ran like new once you got all the parts fixed, but Hawley didn’t stop there. He put a cb, and short band radio on top of it, with small spike antennas on the roof, and one large flexible antenna tied to the back of the cabin, so he could swing it low over the bed, and up, when he drove up above the knoll of the marina, and from there he could relay all around the world. He learned to talk to people that way at a distance. And up there he got the plan about the boat. He saw them in the marina below. Why pay all this rent to a landlady who goes through his stuff whenever he went out the door. Hawley was sure she did, looking for drugs, weapons, something to throw him out. So one day he went down the marina and offered himself for work.
An old guy hired him to do some carpentry in a cabin, and then work on the hull after it got lifted out in dry dock. He worked cheap, practically for nothing, just to learn. He liked old wooden boats, not the fiberglass ones, though he could work on both. No matter how beat up the old ones were, you could sand them down and find a clean surface that was clean and fresh. It wasn’t like you just patched over something broken, you cut out the rot, finding the freshness underneath. The wood appreciated the work as if they sighed to have the old rot removed and said, thank you, yes that’s me fresh and beautiful underneath. He sanded off years, and the old boats were light and limber, better than new.
A year and a half after that, Hawley was working and living on his own boat, with no land lady around to wonder what he was hiding and talk about how nuts he was.
Nuts - Marigrace Bannon
There’s no shortage of nuts in my family, from either side, although, truth be told my mother’s family has more than my fathers. Aunt Lizzie was a schizophrenic, in and out of mental hospital’s some public some private from her 20’s until she died of lung cancer in her 60’s. Pall Malls. My Uncle Jimmie was a Chiropodist, something just below the heel of a Podiatrist and I don’t think the profession is recognized anymore. Well he’d come down from Hoboken w/ my grandmother, Aunt Lizzie and my Uncle Billy and he was a fix it guy so my mother would have him fix our bikes, which he would take apart, chains, tires, steering wheels and lay the parts on our gravel driveway until he figured out the mechanical problem. We’d run over to fetch our fixed bike and then he’d kick us in the pants really hard and laugh a disturbing, sardonic laugh, and the kick really hurt a 7 or 8 or even an 11 year old butt and we didn’t know what to do, but put our bony butt on the seat of our bike and ride down the driveway. It was hard to tell if we were grateful or not. And then there’s my mother, the oldest of her 9 siblings and histrionic doesn’t come close in a description of her antics and erratic behavior. After my sister Elizabeth was born the 7th of the 8th of us, my mother came home from the hospital with a wild and blank stare, which turned out to be post partum depression and that gave way to electric shock therapy. I was 9 and the oldest so I had duties to attend to.
Nuts - Melody Cryns
What’s nuts is to be massively late for work, knowing that I must be there promptly at 9am to work on two huge projects that are sitting at my desk right now – short week this week due to Thanksgiving, so everything must get done. I had promised Floyd and Claire I would have some semblance of an outline done tonight, but is it done? No, of course not. That’s because I had to finish reading The Kite Runner, a wonderful book I’d read a couple of years ago, for the class I’m a TA in. I mean, I can’t walk into this class not having read what the rest of the class has read and then some. It was actually a pleasure to go back to reading that book because I was reminded of how much I liked the book. Next week I’m supposed to talk about the book, and I’m still trying to figure out what. There’s a lot to say, that’s for sure…but oh I don’t know. I digress. So I go to start writing creative caffeine, only the sun is shining so brightly through the window that I can’t even see the screen, so I’ve gotta unplug the computer and come out here to the living room to sit down with the laptop on my lap. What prompt could there be for today? Oh it says, “Nuts!” ha! That’s a great one! I think sometimes that I’m nuts! I’m always running here and there, and well…you know what I mean.
But I remember a time when I certifiably thought I was going nuts – like when all four of my kids were young and there were times I really felt as if I was losing it. I’d get this feeling of dread, or I’d open the yellow pages of the phone book to those ‘crisis center pages” and stare at them for a long time. I’d ignore bills that weren’t supposed to be ignored and sometimes I wouldn’t even face what I needed to face having to do with a whole gang of teenagers crammed into a bedroom. It’s so hard to explain…I would grab little Megan and take off for the coffee shop to “escape” from the teenagers. Was I losing my mind? Where had things gone wrong? Why couldn’t we be like a “normal” family? Sometimes I felt as if me and the kids were like a group of people attempting to survive in a stormy, menacing world – in which the sun poured through sometimes, but when it rained, it rained hard and long and the mud was very slippery and we had to be careful not to fall down. Or I pictured us all on a boat at sea, me and the kids, with my mother holding up the rear of the boat. We’d sail around, sometimes into very rough waters and sometimes more calm waters…but my mother slipped and fell off the boat. I tried to throw a lifesaver out to save her and reel her in…cancer riddled her body and she succumbed, my mother, leaving no one to pull up the rear, just me and the kids slipping and hanging on for dear life…so I took the boat with all of us down here to California, back to San Francisco where all of my childhood memories reside…and I can grab them, hold on to them and make them mine.
Okay, call me nuts – but as yet another Thanksigivng approaches and my kids are texting me with remarks such as, “Make sure you get a GIANT turkey Mom!” from Stevie and, “See you soon Mom, Luv you, Jerm xoxoxoxo” and “I’d love to come over for Thanksgiving but I may need a ride back to San Francisco later” from Melissa, and Megan takes out the turkey – this time we are determined to remember to allow the turkey thaw for the right amount of time – that’s when I realize that I wouldn’t have my life any other way. On Thursday, all of my kids and the girlfriends will arrive, and Jerm’s two dogs and a couple of my friends that I’ve invited – and it’ll be fun and crazy and loud…
But I remember a time when I certifiably thought I was going nuts – like when all four of my kids were young and there were times I really felt as if I was losing it. I’d get this feeling of dread, or I’d open the yellow pages of the phone book to those ‘crisis center pages” and stare at them for a long time. I’d ignore bills that weren’t supposed to be ignored and sometimes I wouldn’t even face what I needed to face having to do with a whole gang of teenagers crammed into a bedroom. It’s so hard to explain…I would grab little Megan and take off for the coffee shop to “escape” from the teenagers. Was I losing my mind? Where had things gone wrong? Why couldn’t we be like a “normal” family? Sometimes I felt as if me and the kids were like a group of people attempting to survive in a stormy, menacing world – in which the sun poured through sometimes, but when it rained, it rained hard and long and the mud was very slippery and we had to be careful not to fall down. Or I pictured us all on a boat at sea, me and the kids, with my mother holding up the rear of the boat. We’d sail around, sometimes into very rough waters and sometimes more calm waters…but my mother slipped and fell off the boat. I tried to throw a lifesaver out to save her and reel her in…cancer riddled her body and she succumbed, my mother, leaving no one to pull up the rear, just me and the kids slipping and hanging on for dear life…so I took the boat with all of us down here to California, back to San Francisco where all of my childhood memories reside…and I can grab them, hold on to them and make them mine.
Okay, call me nuts – but as yet another Thanksigivng approaches and my kids are texting me with remarks such as, “Make sure you get a GIANT turkey Mom!” from Stevie and, “See you soon Mom, Luv you, Jerm xoxoxoxo” and “I’d love to come over for Thanksgiving but I may need a ride back to San Francisco later” from Melissa, and Megan takes out the turkey – this time we are determined to remember to allow the turkey thaw for the right amount of time – that’s when I realize that I wouldn’t have my life any other way. On Thursday, all of my kids and the girlfriends will arrive, and Jerm’s two dogs and a couple of my friends that I’ve invited – and it’ll be fun and crazy and loud…
He Would Have Done It Differently - Randy Wong
Clara Gordon thought she had seen it all. Working airport security at LAX, she had seen her share of weirdness. Indeed, when it comes to creative methods of smuggling illegal goods, people will go to extreme lengths to get what they want. People have tried hiding fruit in their socks, drugs in their shoes, and smaller objects that can fit … well, that can fit in one or two small places on the body.
Clara watched the next person in line for the security check with a heightened awareness. After doing this job for many years, she developed a sixth sense about certain people. The young man approaching the check point triggered something. His face appeared relaxed but his eyes were darting back and forth every so often. He also couldn’t look Clara in the eye – his eyes were locked onto a spot on the floor in front of him.
She looked over to the soldiers on duty. They would arrive the second she raised the alarm. Her assistants were going through the man’s luggage. Clara saw the man’s body suddenly convulse, and he let out a muffled grunt. It seemed to her that he was doing his best not to yell, but it was also obvious that he was in some sort of pain based on the wide eyed expression on his face.
“May I see your identification, sir?”
The young man seemed startled that Clara was addressing him directly. He motionless for a moment then proceeded to retrieve his ID from his wallet. The identification belonged to a Mr. Ken Ibsen of Los Angeles, California. No prior record and no red flags. Clara re-read the fact sheet and while she did not doubt the information she was reading, there was something about Mr. Ibsen that rubbed her the wrong way. Just as she finishing that last thought, Mr. Ibsen convulsed again, but this time he could not muffle his yelp.
“Oh!”
Clara had enough of this. “Security!”
Several soldiers ran to her station and took positions around Ibsen. If Ibsen looked pained and scared before, he looked at least ten times terrified right now.
Captain Norris ordered Ibsen to put his hands behind his head. Still scared out of his wits, Norris had to order him again before he complied. When he raised his arms, Clara noticed something odd about his shirt. The cotton tee had suddenly developed a wet spot near the area of the chest. It was crimson. It only took a moment for Clara to realize that it was blood.
“Sir? Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
Ibsen took a moment to gather his wits. He shook his head.
Clara pointed a finger at the blood stain spreading on his chest. “Sir, you appear to be bleeding.”
Ibsen glanced down with a shocked look on his face. “No. It’s from earlier. I cut myself shaving.”
Clara shook her head. “Sir, it appears that you are bleeding profusely from your chest.”
Ibsen raised his eye brows. “I was shaving my chest. I’m quite hairy,” he stammered.
It was Clara’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “What? That’s ridiculous.”
Ibsen decided to run with it. “No. No, really. Um, I’m worse than Robin Williams.”
Clara was about to ask Captain Norris to escort Mr. Ibsen into the secured area when she noticed something else about his shirt. Either Mr. Ibsen was hyperventilating, or the cotton tee-shirt had a life of its own. She could have sworn it actually moved. In fact, it appeared to Clara the shirt was rising and falling at different rates at different areas of the shirt.
“Mr. Ibsen, please remove your shirt.”
The blood spot on Ibsen’s shirt was now soaking through to his skin. What surprised Clara the most was that the wet spot had taken on a strange shape as though the shirt was now clinging to something. It looked like a head of some animal! Clara was even more surprised when the head moved.
“Oh my god!” she exclaimed.
Captain Norris took a step forward. “Remove your shirt right now!”
Ibsen hesitated but stared at the numerous weapons pointing at him. With a sigh, he removed his cotton tee-shirt, slowly and carefully pulling it over his head.
Everyone with a view gasped at what they were now looking at: several lizards attached to some type of harness. From what Clara was able to tell, there were several species of lizards attached to Ibsen’s body. Unfortunately, the harness was made of a thin and sheer material to better stay hidden underneath his shirt, and the lizards had started to claw through the harness and cut into his skin.
Exposed and caught, Ibsen’s mood changed. He visibly straightened, and he smiled a crooked smile. “Well, I guess you caught me.”
Clara noticed Ibsen’s change of attitude, and that angered her. Who the hell does he think he is, she wondered.
“Sir, do you have a permit to bring these lizards into the US?”
Ibsen laughed. “A permit? You mean that silly piece of paper that allows me to rescue these rare beautiful creatures from that awful sanctuary in Australia? Yes, I have a permit. I’m just carrying them on my body so I won’t get charged for extra carry on.”
Clara tried to stare him down. Instead, Ibsen became more defiant. “Apparently, they allow cows into this country just fine.”
That last comment did it. Clara snapped. She stepped forward and stared at the lizard that was digging into Ibsen’s chest. With a quick but powerful move, he grabbed the lizard with both hands and pulled it off Ibsen’s body. Ibsen screamed and fell to the floor in anguish. A couple of soldiers knelt down to come to his aid. A large chunk of Ibsen’s flesh was exposed on his chest where the lizard had been attached. Clara threw the lizard back at him.
“Oops. You dropped one.”
Clara watched the next person in line for the security check with a heightened awareness. After doing this job for many years, she developed a sixth sense about certain people. The young man approaching the check point triggered something. His face appeared relaxed but his eyes were darting back and forth every so often. He also couldn’t look Clara in the eye – his eyes were locked onto a spot on the floor in front of him.
She looked over to the soldiers on duty. They would arrive the second she raised the alarm. Her assistants were going through the man’s luggage. Clara saw the man’s body suddenly convulse, and he let out a muffled grunt. It seemed to her that he was doing his best not to yell, but it was also obvious that he was in some sort of pain based on the wide eyed expression on his face.
“May I see your identification, sir?”
The young man seemed startled that Clara was addressing him directly. He motionless for a moment then proceeded to retrieve his ID from his wallet. The identification belonged to a Mr. Ken Ibsen of Los Angeles, California. No prior record and no red flags. Clara re-read the fact sheet and while she did not doubt the information she was reading, there was something about Mr. Ibsen that rubbed her the wrong way. Just as she finishing that last thought, Mr. Ibsen convulsed again, but this time he could not muffle his yelp.
“Oh!”
Clara had enough of this. “Security!”
Several soldiers ran to her station and took positions around Ibsen. If Ibsen looked pained and scared before, he looked at least ten times terrified right now.
Captain Norris ordered Ibsen to put his hands behind his head. Still scared out of his wits, Norris had to order him again before he complied. When he raised his arms, Clara noticed something odd about his shirt. The cotton tee had suddenly developed a wet spot near the area of the chest. It was crimson. It only took a moment for Clara to realize that it was blood.
“Sir? Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
Ibsen took a moment to gather his wits. He shook his head.
Clara pointed a finger at the blood stain spreading on his chest. “Sir, you appear to be bleeding.”
Ibsen glanced down with a shocked look on his face. “No. It’s from earlier. I cut myself shaving.”
Clara shook her head. “Sir, it appears that you are bleeding profusely from your chest.”
Ibsen raised his eye brows. “I was shaving my chest. I’m quite hairy,” he stammered.
It was Clara’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “What? That’s ridiculous.”
Ibsen decided to run with it. “No. No, really. Um, I’m worse than Robin Williams.”
Clara was about to ask Captain Norris to escort Mr. Ibsen into the secured area when she noticed something else about his shirt. Either Mr. Ibsen was hyperventilating, or the cotton tee-shirt had a life of its own. She could have sworn it actually moved. In fact, it appeared to Clara the shirt was rising and falling at different rates at different areas of the shirt.
“Mr. Ibsen, please remove your shirt.”
The blood spot on Ibsen’s shirt was now soaking through to his skin. What surprised Clara the most was that the wet spot had taken on a strange shape as though the shirt was now clinging to something. It looked like a head of some animal! Clara was even more surprised when the head moved.
“Oh my god!” she exclaimed.
Captain Norris took a step forward. “Remove your shirt right now!”
Ibsen hesitated but stared at the numerous weapons pointing at him. With a sigh, he removed his cotton tee-shirt, slowly and carefully pulling it over his head.
Everyone with a view gasped at what they were now looking at: several lizards attached to some type of harness. From what Clara was able to tell, there were several species of lizards attached to Ibsen’s body. Unfortunately, the harness was made of a thin and sheer material to better stay hidden underneath his shirt, and the lizards had started to claw through the harness and cut into his skin.
Exposed and caught, Ibsen’s mood changed. He visibly straightened, and he smiled a crooked smile. “Well, I guess you caught me.”
Clara noticed Ibsen’s change of attitude, and that angered her. Who the hell does he think he is, she wondered.
“Sir, do you have a permit to bring these lizards into the US?”
Ibsen laughed. “A permit? You mean that silly piece of paper that allows me to rescue these rare beautiful creatures from that awful sanctuary in Australia? Yes, I have a permit. I’m just carrying them on my body so I won’t get charged for extra carry on.”
Clara tried to stare him down. Instead, Ibsen became more defiant. “Apparently, they allow cows into this country just fine.”
That last comment did it. Clara snapped. She stepped forward and stared at the lizard that was digging into Ibsen’s chest. With a quick but powerful move, he grabbed the lizard with both hands and pulled it off Ibsen’s body. Ibsen screamed and fell to the floor in anguish. A couple of soldiers knelt down to come to his aid. A large chunk of Ibsen’s flesh was exposed on his chest where the lizard had been attached. Clara threw the lizard back at him.
“Oops. You dropped one.”
Last Night I Dreamed - Carol Arnold
Last night I dreamed that Horace was flying around outside my bedroom window. He had no head, but I knew it was him by his overalls being covered with cow shit. I screamed at him, something like, “You’re an ugly dog turd and the whole world hates your guts,” but the one thing I couldn’t say was, “Leave me alone.” I don’t know why I couldn’t say that.
This time last year was when Horace and me arrived on Mr. A’s ranch. People were probably saying we were friends, but we weren’t really. It’s just that he was the only thing left from home, other than Kiki’s ring, and he still is.
After that day with Horace though, everything changed. Secretly, I collected pieces of hair from Horace’s beard. I’d sneak into his room in the barn and pick them up off his pillow. I don’t really know if they were from his beard or head really, but they were his hair, that was for sure. They had that greasy look. It almost made me throw up to touch them.
I put the hairs in a little cloth sack I made special for that. Bernice taught me about that, that if you save something from somebody’s body you can put it in a little cloth sack and stick pins in it like you’re killing it.
Everything I’ve been through, Pop driving the Ford into the river, Kiki never coming back from summer camp, Delores lying on the couch all day, me taking the bus to Bakersfield, all of it was hard, I’ll tell you that, but this Thing that Happened with Horace, was like I died. Before that, at least I had Bernice, Sally, the blue birds. Now I had nothing.
Now, I don’t even care that Bernice is giving me the evil eye. I know it’s probably because I called her Aunt Jimima. Before, I would have said I was sorry. I would have said I was just a mean old thing and she should pay me no mind. But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.
Sally, she won’t even look at me when I come in the barn. I don’t look at her either. She saw everything, me lying there in the hay half naked with cow shit all over my blouse, Horace standing over me like he’d just won a thousand dollars. What do I care? She’s just a has-been race horse.
The blue birds took off yesterday. Those baby birds just flew away. The Mom and Pap hung around in the tree for a while, then they flew away too. I thought I’d be sad, but I wasn’t. I just said “Goodbye, stupid old birds.”
Yesterday, Bernice said something crazy. She said, “You aren’t the same girl, Spidee. A light can go out in the heart, and I’m afraid that’s happened to you.” Who cares about some dumb old light? She’s just talking her Aunt Jimima talk. What does it matter to me?
This time last year was when Horace and me arrived on Mr. A’s ranch. People were probably saying we were friends, but we weren’t really. It’s just that he was the only thing left from home, other than Kiki’s ring, and he still is.
After that day with Horace though, everything changed. Secretly, I collected pieces of hair from Horace’s beard. I’d sneak into his room in the barn and pick them up off his pillow. I don’t really know if they were from his beard or head really, but they were his hair, that was for sure. They had that greasy look. It almost made me throw up to touch them.
I put the hairs in a little cloth sack I made special for that. Bernice taught me about that, that if you save something from somebody’s body you can put it in a little cloth sack and stick pins in it like you’re killing it.
Everything I’ve been through, Pop driving the Ford into the river, Kiki never coming back from summer camp, Delores lying on the couch all day, me taking the bus to Bakersfield, all of it was hard, I’ll tell you that, but this Thing that Happened with Horace, was like I died. Before that, at least I had Bernice, Sally, the blue birds. Now I had nothing.
Now, I don’t even care that Bernice is giving me the evil eye. I know it’s probably because I called her Aunt Jimima. Before, I would have said I was sorry. I would have said I was just a mean old thing and she should pay me no mind. But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.
Sally, she won’t even look at me when I come in the barn. I don’t look at her either. She saw everything, me lying there in the hay half naked with cow shit all over my blouse, Horace standing over me like he’d just won a thousand dollars. What do I care? She’s just a has-been race horse.
The blue birds took off yesterday. Those baby birds just flew away. The Mom and Pap hung around in the tree for a while, then they flew away too. I thought I’d be sad, but I wasn’t. I just said “Goodbye, stupid old birds.”
Yesterday, Bernice said something crazy. She said, “You aren’t the same girl, Spidee. A light can go out in the heart, and I’m afraid that’s happened to you.” Who cares about some dumb old light? She’s just talking her Aunt Jimima talk. What does it matter to me?
Grateful - Judy Albietz
I learned about evil when I was 6 weeks old. My sister Sheba and I were sold to the terrible man with the hat. We were some sort of gift for his girlfriend. Some gift. He beat us with anything he could get his hands on in the apartment. Neither of them ever smiled and there was no light in their eyes. They never slept and they were so thin you could see their bones sticking out. Always with that brown hat, the man smelled of smoke and the woman smelled of fear.
When they walked into a room, I saw the shadow, that horrible old spirit which came with them. Sheba was too scared to look at it. I had to explain to her that it was a spirit which fed on cold revenge and blind hatred. It had awakened after being dormant for thousands of years and found a home with the man and woman who had welcomed it into their lives.
I knew we would die soon since they usually forgot to feed us. One day they left and didn’t come back. After the third day without food or water, Sheba and I curled up together in the corner of the filthy kitchen to die. The next thing we knew the landlord was giving us food and water and then some men carried us out to live in a cage at the SPCA. After a few weeks, we were moved from the cage with the sharp medicine smells to another cage. Sheba was taken away a day later. I haven’t seen her since.
You can't even believe how grateful I was when Lindsey showed up on what I heard was my last day. I knew what that meant. When Lindsey smiled at me I must have wagged my entire body so hard I lifted off the ground. I was delirious when I saw Lindsey felt the same way. I’m also grateful in a strange way for my bad experience because it taught me how to recognize a good thing. I hope my sister was able to find her Lindsey. I dream about her with a family of teenagers who take her out to a field to fetch her tennis balls. I see her with a big dog who loves her to pieces. She never quite gets over the bad man with the hat. I know she and her family will have a hard time with that. The big dog helps to keep her calm. I know we will be together again someday.
When they walked into a room, I saw the shadow, that horrible old spirit which came with them. Sheba was too scared to look at it. I had to explain to her that it was a spirit which fed on cold revenge and blind hatred. It had awakened after being dormant for thousands of years and found a home with the man and woman who had welcomed it into their lives.
I knew we would die soon since they usually forgot to feed us. One day they left and didn’t come back. After the third day without food or water, Sheba and I curled up together in the corner of the filthy kitchen to die. The next thing we knew the landlord was giving us food and water and then some men carried us out to live in a cage at the SPCA. After a few weeks, we were moved from the cage with the sharp medicine smells to another cage. Sheba was taken away a day later. I haven’t seen her since.
You can't even believe how grateful I was when Lindsey showed up on what I heard was my last day. I knew what that meant. When Lindsey smiled at me I must have wagged my entire body so hard I lifted off the ground. I was delirious when I saw Lindsey felt the same way. I’m also grateful in a strange way for my bad experience because it taught me how to recognize a good thing. I hope my sister was able to find her Lindsey. I dream about her with a family of teenagers who take her out to a field to fetch her tennis balls. I see her with a big dog who loves her to pieces. She never quite gets over the bad man with the hat. I know she and her family will have a hard time with that. The big dog helps to keep her calm. I know we will be together again someday.
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