No Forest for the Wicked - Chapters 16 - 20

Chapter 16

“No,” Ardo cried out, what he was hoping was that his words would be carried over the crowd. “We cannot go to war. There is a bigger picture. Listen to me.”

“Ardo?” Chief Bushy Tail looked down from the podium at the small gray figure making its way through the mass by the part it was forcing. “My condolences for your father.”

“Chief, please hear me out,” Ardo shouted panting. “The birds could not possibly be responsible. They do not have the intelligence, nor do they have the drive to follow through. They are a species of hunting, eating, and mating. They care nothing of making a statement, and what happened with my father was a statement of grandeur.”

“Ardo,” Chief Bushy Tail shook his head slowly from side to side, his hears twitching slightly with each pass. “We all understand the hardships that are before you, and none of us can truly feel what you are feeling, but we need to strike back to show we are not merely a low link of the food chain. If we look weak in front of the forest, than we are in for a world of hurt. We cannot let them all walk, or rather soar all over us.”

“Listen to reason,’ Ardo screamed at the top of his rodent lungs. “This is irrational and hasty. Please.” Ardo knew that part of this war was personal for the Chief, but he did not dare bring it up at this juncture. Ardo knew that the Chief’s father lost his tail while narrowly escaping the talons of a sky hunter, but to declare war on all of the birds in the forest was just insane, not to mention suicide for all those involved. Ardo wanted to choose his next words very carefully, but what happened next drew all the words from his mouth leaving him speechless. Horror pumped through his veins at the source of his continually breaking heart as he knew what was going to happen and all he could do was watch it in what felt like an eternity; the Big Oak was starting to sway at the trunk. 

Chapter 17

Scribbles stood on the outskirts of the crowd, first hearing the loud chatter of panic, and then seeing hundreds of fleeing squirrels bounding his way. At first he could not tell what was the cause of the commotion; had someone attacked the Chief? An assassination attempt in such an open forum was never attempted before? Who would have the gall? Was there a threat of some kind? Some new news of Hem, some horrific news capable of disbanding a crowd?

The reporter and writer in Scribbles pushed him to step forward rather than turn tail and flee like the rest, but what he witnessed, he wished he had not chosen to be brave for the first time in his life. 

Chapter 18

Toby was still pushing around others when it began, and once he realized exactly what was happening he had one thought and one thought only; where was his family?

Were they to meet in the field for the picnic, or at his office? Remember you fool, Toby scolded himself. Field or office. Park or tree? Remember, you damn fool, remember.

Deep down in his heart he knew where they were, but he did not want to accept the truth. No, they must have come to hear the speech. Tress was very patriotic and would not miss the speech for anything. Come on Tress, please have come out for the speech. 

Chapter 19

Chief Bushy Tail turned his attention from the grief stricken recently fatherless squirrel and faced the Big Oak. A beacon of hope, a staple of home, and the center of their economic prosperity, even if the stock of acorns had been suffering unbeknownst to most. They needed this tree, but it was obvious to all what was conspiring. The Chief watched in horror as the tree began to teeter at its base and after a number of sways countable on one paw, the pivot point gave way and the massive and impressive natural column rapidly traversed from vertical to horizontal with decreasingly fast angles. 

Chapter 20

Chief Bushy Tail dove from his branch and was immediately caught mid air by those squirrels who have sworn to protect him through thick and thin; this event falling under the classification of thick, whereas a struggle keeping afloat in a pool might be lumped into thin. Ardo watched through panicked eyes as the commanding unit of the Dreys was pulled to safety while he himself was anywhere but. He tried to turn and start a retreat after he factored that the falling tree would demolish everything hundreds of feet from the crash zone, and this crash zone happened to be right where he was standing. Ardo’s attempt at finding an egress was foiled by the wall of gray backs he now faced, who were too confused and frightened to do anything in an orderly manner. The rear line made effortless attempts to climb over those in front of them, every squirrel for themselves, in what looked like rolling waves of fur amid a dreary hurricane. 

Ardo did not want to resort to pushing and shoving, but as the tree wobbled and finally snapped from its base, there was no other option than to join the masses. Ardo jumped up onto the heads of his tribe, knowing that most of the faces he now saw would not wake to feel the rays of the sun tomorrow, but he himself did not want to be lumped into the masses; in general he usually strived to go against the grain.

No Forest for the Wicked - Chapters 11 - 15

Chapter 11

 

Ardo’s athletic build, tight and strenuous, allowed him to cruise many strides ahead of the rest of the pack. The rest of the pack which followed was bumbling and running towards their commune, or the Dreys as it was commonly and properly named. The wind rushed by the thick of his ears, which he held back to improve his aerodynamic shape. His jacket flopped open as he moved, which increased drag, but he did not have the time to zip it up, and although he could have easily discarded it in a second, his mind was elsewhere, thus the garment remained clutching to him for dear life like a fly catching a ride on a trotting mare. He took each bound intently; time being of the utmost importance so that he could warn his tribe, but when he reached the outskirts of the Dreys, it appeared like news had traveled faster than he was able to run.

The Sciurini village was an explosion of chaos and nonstop motion as gray fur blurred in every direction. Chattering, chittering, and commotion reigned; any elderly squirrel assisted by a hearing aid could have switched them off to conserve battery life and not had to worry about missing a thing. Ardo skidded to a stop and his eyes darted back and forth, at first trying to identify if evidence of an attack on his tribe was present and once he concluded that all was safe, he tried to spot the best individual to clue him in.

“Rose,” Ardo screamed over the deafening babble, but his words went unnoticed before he turned it up a notch. “Rose, Rose.”

“Ardo,” Rose turned, her eyes waterfalls, as she frantically dodged the heavy foot traffic to join her lifelong friend. “We heard. Ardo, I am so sorry.”

“Thanks,” Ardo was pushed back into the reality of loosing his father, which he temporarily and unfairly forced to the recesses of his mind. “Did whoever deliver the news explain that this was an attack on our tribe?”

“Yes,” Rose nodded. “The Chief called a tribe meeting by the Big Oak. Do you think he is going to declare war on the birds?”

“He can’t declare war,” Ardo shook his head in the disappointment that he had not previously considered that war was an option. “The birds aren’t smart enough to pull this off by themselves. They are always pawns, we can’t attack them unjustly.”

“But, Hemlock,’ Rose cried, obviously seeing more violence as proper retribution.

“Rose,” Ardo cooed so that he could keep the situation calm. “The birds are hired guns, they always have been. Name a swan you know that would not peck his own mother for a nibble of bread? This whole thing is a lark, and we are falling right into place. There has to be a bigger picture somewhere and let’s just hope that Bushy Tail knows this. Rose, let’s quit jumping to conclusion and make our way to the Big Oak.” 

Chapter 12

Toby finished up using the fur dyer, unplugged it, and placed it back into its drawer. He pulled on his green plaid shirt, and decided that for this picnic he would put on a tie; you can never look too good when you are with your family.

Toby Furrows grabbed his keys, pulled his front door open and looked back into his home; a loving family was all he ever wanted and his life was perfect by all measures of squirrel scales. He flicked the lights off, pulled the door closed and locked up; remembering vaguely of a time when using a deadbolt on a nest was just unheard of, but now the threat of chipmunks and shrews was always at the back of everyone’s mind.

Toby scurried down the trunk of the tree neighborhood he was part of; it was not the biggest tree in the forest, nor was it the most laden with leaves, but it was perfect for his family, and the girls had plenty of friends to frolic with. Once he had touched down on the leaves that acted as the vestibule to the shared living space, he took off running. As he ran and breathed the sweet forest air through his nose he let his mind wander to work related issues. Thirty percent less acorns this year than the previous year, and that year was twenty percent less than the year before that. Toby did a quick computation in his head, factoring in the exponential growth of the tribe population as of late and he knew that their time of prosperity was quickly coming to an end unless they found more plentiful trees. Toby was always a planner and he was trying to figure the best way to hedge his resources so that his family would not fall on hard times, but the future held too many uncertainties.

Toby continued running, trying to come up with the best way to care for his family while the leaves of low bushes caressed his face, and then in a clearing the Big Oak sprung up like the mightiest tree in a forest, which is just happened to be. The Big Oak was the cornerstone of the Sciurini Tribe, acting not only as its village square, but the headquarters for the governing bodies, and the storehouse for all the acorns that were harvested. The Sciurini Tribe was set up around the notion that if each family donated certain portions of their harvest supply to be used in times of emergency, or to otherwise enhance the tribe that they would all be better off, and for the past few years that had been the case. The stockpile was nested deep in the recesses of the Big Oak, and there were very few squirrels that knew of the dwindling supply, and those few were sworn to secrecy until a solution was worked out; unfortunately Toby was one of these few.

Toby slowed his shuffling when he noticed the large crowd gathered around the large tree almost as if eagerly awaiting something of great importance. Each eye in the crowd was fixed, and the tension in the air was thicker than the produce of a maple.

“What’s going on,” Toby called back to a vaguely familiar face as he continued to try to push through to avoid being late reuniting with his family.

“Hem Rudolph was run flat,” the crowd member shouted after Toby with concern in her voice.

Hem finally met his maker; Toby shook his head in severe sorrow. Although Toby and Hem rarely had the chance to sit down and talk, Toby was quite aware of the great things Hemlock brought to the tribe, and he was grateful of the inspiration that he blessed the others with. I will send a fruit basket to his two sons, Toby nodded to himself and then stopped in his tracks as Chief Bushy Tail stepped out onto the pedestal branch of the Big Oak and a hushed silence fell over the tribe. 

Chapter 13

“My fellow squirrels,’ Chief Bushy Tail called out to his public before turning to his assistant and motioning for him to turn up the volume on the speakers. “It is with great sorrow that I deliver the news of Hemlock Rudolph.”

The Chief held for a moment to allow a moment to mourn, and to allow for those in the crowd who were not informed yet to be filled in by their neighbors. When the murmuring died down, the Chief continued.

“Some of you may think that Hemlock lived a life of adventure with no regard for safety and that his death was nothing short of expected,” the Chief looked over from above and studied the faces and expression of those receiving his message. “While this may be partially true, we must not discount the fact that what he did was for the benefit of the tribe, and that his life was nothing less than a gift to those who knew him. It is also with the heaviest heart that I inform you that his death was in no way an accident.”

The shocking breaths inhaled about the furry mob, the cries of pain exploded amongst the scruffy sorrowed, and the befuddled looks throughout the crowd let Bushy Tail know that to many this information was not properly relayed and that he should appropriately explain. All the greats know how to feed the public, and this particular Chief was nothing short of one to be considered up there with them.

“Just as my father before me, who served the Sciurini Tribe as Chief with all his heart, and I like him, give the tribe nothing but all my love and dedication, and not just to the tribe, but to each of its individual squirrels. I loved Hemlock, not just as the symbol he stood for, but for the loving father of two, Boro and Ardo, that he was, and for the plentiful acorns he contributed for the stock over his cherished lifespan, but most of all, because he was part of our family. Just as each of you hear me now, know that I love each of you, and when I learned that a winged beast of terror soared down and interfered with Hem’s greatest day, it tore me apart. My family, there was interference and this was undoubtedly premeditated.”

The Chief paused his speach temporarily again, not to study his delivery this time, but because of a peculiar sound that he heard grinding away subtly. Were others hearing this as well? Was it just feedback from the speakers? Perhaps he should have the tribe invest in a better announcement system. Their last systems upgrade was two, maybe three years ago, what was the functional life of a sound system?

“We all know the times we live in are, for lack of a better word, troubled, and we also know that the birds are not to be trusted. Always hunting us from above. They prey of us, as we pray to remain unseen, but to take it to this new and unthinkable level and to strike not for food related reasons, but just to kill for killings sake; I don’t even think I have the appropriate words to relay what we are all feeling. Now I know we are all woodland creatures and are quite familiar with the bushes, so I will stop beating around it. The birds have gone too far this time, and I am officially declaring that we will not stand for it. If we do nothing then the savage assaults will continue and our numbers will dwindle down to extinction. I will not allow that, for my love for each of you is far too strong. We will use of bravest warriors and hunt out these cowardly birds and put an end to their tyranny once and for all. If they cannot coexist in these woods, then there is no place for them in it. There is no forest for the wicked.” 

Chapter 14

Tress looked out of the window of Toby’s office and tears welled in her eyes and she listened to Chief Bushy Tail deliver his speech. “How could he?” Tress said to herself, but as most parents learn early on, nothing said in the earshot of a child ever goes unheard, especially when it was intended to be kept to oneself.

“Mommy, how could he what?” Sam looked up, and her two sisters, Sally and Ren, reformed the trio at her side. Six wide eyes focused; all intently devoted to knowing how it was that he could. 

“Well um,” Tress stammered, but then decided that the original intentions of parenting that her and Toby wanted to raise the girls with was that truth was always the best. “The Chief has declared war on the birds.”

“Why?”  Ren asked with a shrug, not grasping the implications in her innocence.

“Because one of them killed Hemlock Rudolph,” Tress answered.

“But birds eat us all the time,” Sally chimed in. “That’s just the way things are, aren’t they?” Simple, factual, and hard to argue against.

Tress had to fight back gasping out in a cry; her girls seemed so grown up all of a sudden. “Yes, but this was different. Hemlock was killed not for food, but for something else.”

“Like homicide?” Sam’s eyes filled with the wonder of a child.

“Yes homicide,” Tress nodded. “And no more crime dramas for you; you should not know of such words at your age. You should be thinking of leaves and jumping, and playing, and tag.”

“But if one bird killed one of us, why would we attack all the birds?” Ren looked confused. “Aren’t most of them innocent?”

“I,” Tress stopped. There it was again; the Big Oak appeared to be rumbling. Toby’s stapler tumbled to the floor and little tiny C’s sprinkled everywhere as it sprung open. Were the heating ducts in need of repair? What was going on? 

Chapter 15

“Everything went according to plan.”

“Excellent.”

“The athlete will be the first of many. They have had their time in the woodlands, now it is our time to put things back to the way they were intended.”

“Indeed. What of the bird?”

“He went up in a fiery inferno.”

“Good, he is looking down upon us from paradise now. What of phase two?”

“Phase two is in motion. They immediately called their meeting, wasted no time as expected, so it is only a matter of minutes now.”

“Excellent, those damn squirrels need to learn to keep their twitching noses in their own damn affairs, and if all goes well, this forest will be rid of the furry gray nuisances once and for all.”

No Forest for the Wicked - Chapters 6 - 10

Chapter 6

Eagle eyed, he saw the racing red car and this roadside watcher make their move. Also a strong believer in perfection through timing and counting, the numbers rolled through his head in rapid succession and sequence. One, two three, one. One, two, three, two. How great this was that it was him who was chosen for such an honor. One, two, three, three. How great that he would achieve the ultimate gift. One, two, three, go.

He spread his wide wings and stepped off of the branch causing a swift and well telegraphed descent. Soaring down at incredible speeds towards the two primate kids behind the wheel, he kept his keen eyes on his target scurrying about. He admired the spirit that the little guy possessed, but he loathed everything that same spirit stood for. It was not only an honor to be part of this cause; it was an honor to oppose such a worthy adversary.

Squawking as he adjusted his wings to slow his flight, and extended his talons in front of him, more for intimidation and show rather than functionality at this point. He could read the fear in each of the humans faces; mission accomplished. He watched with pleasure as neither one in the vehicle knew what to do, the male wobbled the steering wheel and then slammed on the break causing the car to skid and hiss, but it was all too fast. The massive bird collided with the windshield resulting in a glass shattering cave in and a feathery explosion like a raspberry pillow fight gone awry. The car spun out of control and careened off of the road and into a tree, but not before successfully smearing the target across the black top with brilliant contrast, like a painter’s first gleaming stroke on a fresh and pure canvas. 

Chapter 7

There are few moments in a forest, with all of the busy woodland inhabitants, where silence reigns; this was one of those times. The rustling of wind through leaves on the tree halted and breaths staled with it. Chirping and chatter seized, and scurrying and scampering stopped. What had just happened? Could it be as it seemed? Premeditated, no, right? The same thoughts raced through all the minds who witnessed, and confusion and horror ranked highest amongst what was being felt, then one voice rang out amid the still.

“No,” Boro screamed as he processed that his father had become permanently bonded with the road. His face twinged and his stomach hurdled this way and that; he was going to be sick and he knew it. He could feel the tears immediately welling in his eyes and he made no attempt to hold them back. The fur of his face was soon matted and messed as his brother embraced him and held him tightly almost as if to prevent him from running out into the open.

“Boro,” his brother whimpered, and from the strain in his voice in was apparent that his insides were also performing some acrobatics.  Ardo was feeling the pain himself, but he knew better than to act rash, and he knew they could not run to their father’s sides. “It is not safe, you know that.”

“But, father,” Boro turned with the look of his brother’s betrayal smeared all over his face. “He might still be,” Boro started but was unable to put the words at the end of his sentence, but his brother knew what he was unable to say.

“It is impossible,” Ardo spoke softly, turning his head away at the disgust of the sight before him. “He is nothing more than a streak.”

“Was that, a bird?” Boro asked with his blank expression remaining.

“I think it may have been,” Ardo answered and then turned to the rest of the stunned audience who moments before were excited about seeing history made before their eyes. “Was that a bird who interfered?”

For a short while the crowd remained silent and solemn and scared, but finally a young squirrel, who was the local librarian and a well respected citizen, which shocked some given her age, voiced her words confidently and courageously. 

“There was a bird. This was no accident; Hemlock Rudolph was murdered.” 

Chapter 8

Toby Furrows leaned his head out of the window of his modest nest and perked his ears to enhance his listening potential. He was quite certain that he had heard something resembling an explosion or a crash, but now all that was audible after a brief nothing was the normal sounds of the woodlands. He was almost certain, but then again his week at the office had been very stressful and his mind needed a break.

Toby returned into his den and sunk back into his couch to continue watching his mind numbing television in spite of what he really wanted to do which was sink into a crime novel, but his eyes were not up to it. Toby was not usually one to pass the time with reruns, but his work as an acorntant at the Big Oak during the fall’s fall was always stressful and would have surely turned him prematurely gray had he not been a squirrel. He would have loved to be employed as any of the more relaxing professions such as forager, or crossing guard, but Toby was a gifted mind amongst the Sciurini Tribe and they relied heavily on him to keep proper counts of the acorns to ensure that all mouths were fed during the winter months. At least he had solace in knowing he could always rely on his family to help him escape to peace when reruns where not up to task.

Toby let out a sigh and closed his eyes for some relaxation, but his peace was short lived as his three vivacious daughters bounded into the room and hopped on their pop; so much for the peace they brought, but he would not change them for the world. Toby let out a howl of laughter as his girls relentlessly tickled him from every angle, and his wife, Tress trotted in smiling fondly.

“Three daddy’s girls, we have,” Tress Furrows shook her head. “I wish we had a litter of boys so that you could know how it feels to be left out for a change.”

“Perhaps next spring we could give it a shot,” Toby smiled up from the nonstop barrage of tiny claws. “And it was not me who forces their paws, they just like to tickle and I am much more ticklish than you. Blame nature, who made me this way, and made you a rock under the tender touch.”

“Mommy we love you too,” Sally turned and with wide loving eyes assured her mother that she and her sisters, Ren and Sam, loved their parents equally as much.

“Sorry to interrupt your shows,” Tress went on. “I know you need your rest, so I was going to take the girls out for a picnic so that you can rest in peace, wait, I don’t like the sound of that.”

“How about just rest in quiet?” Toby said. 

“But you know what; I think I have had enough of the old boob tube, why don’t I join you?”

“Really?” Shouted the three excitedly shrill voices in unison.

“Yes, I just want to take a quick shower so why don’t you go to the Big Oak and pick up some food and I will meet you there,” Toby said.

“Sure thing love,” Tress leaned in to huddle up the girls and once she had a full load of three, she leaned in and placed a kiss on the gray forehead of her husband. 

Chapter 9

Ardo looked around back at the faces, all of which still bore expressions of shock, including his brother. “We should get back to the Dreys and tell the Chief that father was attacked.” Ardo spoke to Boro, but he chose to speak loud enough as to grab everyone’s attention. Ardo never considered himself a leader, in fact he never considered himself much of anything, but he always knew what to do when a situation arose, and he always wanted what was best for everyone; especially Boro.

“We can’t just leave him there,” Boro whined and made another attempt at crossing into the road; his brain unable to process logic and danger, which was a terrible state to live amid the wild.

“No,” Ardo screamed as he gripped his brother by the shoulders and shook him violently. “He will be picked up by the scavengers. That is the way of life. It is how it is supposed to be. He would have wanted it that way, and anyway we need to get back to our village in case there is another attack. Everyone, it is not safe out here, we must return.”

“We live in troubled times,” came the hysteric cry from amidst the crowd.

“Hem was a hero,” shouted another, which was met with murmurs of agreement.

“My fellow squirrels,” Ardo let go of Boro and stood taller to address the portion of his tribe. “We must make haste and retreat back to the Dreys. We must inform Chief Bushy Tail of what has ensued at what was intended to be a joyous occasion. As you know, Hemlock was my father, and if anyone has the right to take the time to grieve it is Boro and myself, but I implore you to turn tail. This should show the grave severity of the words I speak. We could be in danger. Our tribe could be in danger. Too much innocent blood has spilt already. Please, do not let the Sciurini Tribe be caught off guard.”

With will eyes on him, Ardo’s fellow squirrels nodded and those with children scooped them up and held them tight. Quickly and haphazardly all the little gray creatures were pulling on their cloths and dressing their young and a moment later, they were all scurrying as fast as their paws could carry them; presumably to safety. 

Chapter 10

“Did you hear?” Franklin casually walked up to Scribbles, who was perched on a maple jotting down the latest thoughts of his mind.

“I hear many things,” Scribbles said without tearing his eyes away from his pad. “I am not deaf yet, but when I am, I assure you my answer may change.”

“No, about Hem Rudolph,” Franklin stepped closer, his breath now making an attack on the nape of Scribbles who shuddered ever so slightly at the proximity of the squirrel whose best talent was pushing the limits of the poets nerves.

“He was to set the tribes challenge record in the Games for passing completely through the tires of a vehicle traveling over one hundred miles per hour,” Scribbles said wryly. “I can read the headlines. I was going to interview Hem once he got back and slept off his partying so that I could record the events for the tribe log.”

“You better change your take on the story,” Franklin said, toying with the details of the story just to irk the scrawny squirrel.

“Did he chicken out?” Scribbles looked up, finally finding some interest in the tale, perhaps he could write a prose on how even the bravest know when they are in over their head. Brave Hem dared, brave Hem darted, brave Hem deserted; or something along those lines. He would need silence for this article, silence which did not involve Franklin.

“No,” Franklin said with a smug, self pleasing smile. “He ran.”

“And?” Scribbles put down his pen and looked up with eyes wide.

“He was hit,” Franklin delivered in a hush of a whisper.

“Is he alright?” Scribbles stood briskly, his pad and pen scattering to the leafy ground below the branches.

“He is dead,” Franklin spoke softer, barely audible.

“Then why the hell were you smiling just before,” Scribbles exploded into anger and fear. Hemlock Rudolph was an icon amongst the tribe as the best to ever play the Games. He was a personal hero to Scribbles, because Hemlock symbolized everything Scribbles wanted to be but knew he could never achieve. Hemlock was powerful and brave, while Scribbles was the runt of his tribe and never participated in the Games, let alone anything remotely athletic in nature. Hemlock was loved by all, and Scribbles was an outcast, knowing that the majority of his tribe did not even know that his name was not Scribbles, but Leroy John. Hemlock had charisma, and all Scribbles could do was insight sorrow in others through his self loathing deprecation. The one thing however that Scribbles did do well, and better than his hero, was write. As someone who was left alone most of his life, even if involuntary, Scribbles learned and perfected the craft of wordplay and tale telling. Scribbles quickly became the scribe of the tribe, as well as the tale teller, history recorder, newspaper editor, and post master. In the self proclaimed saddest existence in the woodlands, Scribbles often told himself that words were his only true friends because they did not judge.

“Sorry,” Franklin backed away at the fuming Scribbles and scurried off onto another tree, calling behind, “I just thought I would let you know.”

“Thought he would let me know”, Scribbles gritted his teeth. The only reason why he ran to tell him was because he wanted to see the pain that took his face when the news was delivered, Scribbles knew. That Franklin was a true work of art, and an even truer piece of trash.

No Forest for the Wicked - Chapters 1 - 5

Introduction

Did you know that there are places in Washington DC that have more squirrels per square mile than any other place on the earth? It has to be true, I read it in a book (as you can now pass this off as truth having just read it), and it is for this reason that I can officially declare that the squirrel is the true Americanimal.

Chapter 1

Brad was feeling the itch; the need for speed. The fingers connected to the white knuckles tingled. Adrenaline pumping, Brad extended his leg and slammed his foot all the way to down while flashing Jenny a devilish grin. She was digging him, how could she not? As the red Corvette neared triple digits Brad had one thought on his mind, and it appeared from the lustful look in Jenny’s eyes that the feeling was being reciprocated. Some people just really like speed and when those people connect magic happens.

Brad took one hand off of the wheel and placed it on Jenny’s leg, which was barely covered by her tight yellow mini-skirt and at that moment fixing his eyes on hers took priority over the approaching bend.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Jenny laughed playfully, making no attempt to remove his caressing hand.

“Why?” Brad toyed. “Isn’t the danger the best part?”

Brad’s eyes returned to the road, but his eyes were not the only ones watching.

Chapter 2

He took in a deep and calming breath, as he always did before action. His lungs filled and he held it a moment. Let the oxygen disperse and let the nerves settle. Exhale and prepare. This was it; this was big time. With this one final act he could be forever immortalized and this dark and crisp night could, no would, go down in infamy. Was he nervous? No, why would he be, other than the mere fact that this final act of his would be more challenging than anything he had attempted prior; but as they say, the show must go on. Right?

Sure he was the best at what he did, he reassured himself, but was that enough? He extended his limbs and arched his back, he needed to stay alert. He closed his eyes slowly and opened them to study his surroundings once more. He had one shot, and timing made all the difference. In a few minutes he would meet his destiny.

Chapter 3

Another set of eyes peered down from above, the beady eyes fixed on the one that crouched along the roadside. “Soon you will meet your maker,” hissed a raspy voice. “Soon I shall too, but I know my fate.”

He continued to watch and his hatred intensified. He knew that the time was coming close and although he could not see the vehicle in his line of sight, the loud roar of its engine acted as a count down.

“I have dedicated my life and I am about to receive my reward. I am forever grateful.”

Chapter 4

“Come on, I can drive at the same time,” Brad insisted.

“So you have experience?” Jenny shot back.

“Uh,” Brad stammered for the right words. “No. I just figure that I can remain focused; that’s all.” Brad then pushed his foot even harder into the pedal, half out of the embarrassment over the question and half out of a need to change the topic.

“What are we at now?” Jenny leaned over to check the speedometer.

“About a buck fifteen,” Brad answered, becoming intoxicated off of the sweet smell of Jenny’s hair. Perhaps he should pull over, he thought, but at the same time did not want to let Jenny down when she was so clearly getting turned on.

“Hot,” Jenny whimpered. “How fast can you go?”

That is a question that Brad was willing to find the answer to, but unfortunately fate had other plans for him, as well as all that watched.

Chapter 5

He saw the headlights fast approaching and shuffled his bare feet in the dried leaves beneath. The gentle cracking from autumns offering was soothing to him as it reminded him of home. He welcomed the reminder of why he did what he did, but he also needed to get himself back in the moment. Now or never, he told himself; the same thing he would always tell himself before anything remotely important. A moment more passed and his thoughts along with the sounds of the leaves were drowned out by the deafening blare of the engine; which was enough to make even the bravest of hearts achieve a rapid rhythm.

Standing there studying, with palpitating heart, he tapped his foot and mouthed a few numbers in sequence; all part of the routine. After the technically precise counting in his head reached ten, he set off. He darted out onto the pavement with lightening stealth, holding his breath in anticipation. Maneuvering as only he could, he darted behind the front tire and narrowly escaped it claiming him.

He was halfway there and everything was going as planned. All he needed to do was clear the car before the rear tire passed and he was in the clear and forever immortalized; he would finally make his sons proud. Although he would never admit it, everything he had done in life had been to gain the approval of his two sons, which he knew was opposite of the normal family dynamic, but he also knew that what he had was not the normal family.

He was nearly there, and everything was appearing to be happening in slow motion. He watched as each of his feet greeted the asphalt and lunged off with such skill and the grace of a gazelle. He watched as little pebbles skittered up into the air, firing passed his head like the projectiles of a rifle. He also smelled the smell of burning rubber as he closed in on the goal line of the black wheel; close enough to make out the uneven wearing of the intricate treads and able to tell they were due for a rotation. Then the horrid and acrid stench that filled his nostrils, compounded with the shrill screech of breaks was enough to warn him that things were no longer going as planned, and unfortunately he also knew that it was too late. He was never going to have that opportunity to make his only surviving family proud.

...it's been quiet...

I have been relatively absent from the online world as of late, but I have been working on something special, and it has something to do with...squirrels!

AMBIGRAM: Hourglass

How much time did the HOURGLASS Ambigram take?  Let me count the sand.

AMBIGRAM: ONE in THE SAME

See it?

AMBIGRAM: Musical Influences

Music is a big part of my life, and my enjoyment in general, so here are some Ambigrams of some of my favorite musical influences FAIR TO MIDLAND, GONNA GET GOT, NEVERENDING WHITE LIGHTS, OURS, & SKELETON KEY

AMBIGRAM: Harry Potter

The arch nemesis of he who should not be named can be named twice in this HARRY POTTER Ambigram.

AMBIGRAM: Soul Asylum

I have written short stories inspired by the music of SOUL ASYLUM, so why not give them their very own Ambigram?

AMBIGRAM: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

I had a shell of a time trying to prove DONATELLO, RAPHAEL, LEONARDO, & MICHELANGELO were the TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES via Ambigram.

AMBIGRAM: Fang

Take a bite out of this Vambigram of FANG.

HAIKUS: Galactus and Hercules

Who is mightier?

HAIKUS: Aqua-Man and Elmo

Is there a connection?  Is there?

HAIKUS: Spider-Man and Wolverine

Marvel at these haikus and cartoons.

SHORT STORY: Track 14 – I Did My Best

Track 14 – I Did My Best

James Frank, or Jimmy the Tank as his coworkers dubbed him, clenched the phone in his hand and cared not if it shattered to pieces in his hand. Actually, he let the notion sink in, if one of the glass shards were to infiltrate his vein it would solve his one major problem of the night. He looked down at the phone that was on the verge of giving way and muttered to himself.

“You alright Tank?” Jasmine asked and ran a caressing hand across his chest.

“Trouble with the ex,” Jimmy grinded his teeth.

“There are reasons they become ex’s,” she whispered into his ear. “Want me to take your mind off of her?”

“Sorry, I need to figure this out,” Jimmy stood and tossed Jasmine a wad full of bills before passing by the other scantily clad women and exiting the dressing room; Tim’s Tata Emporium was a frequent stop for Jimmy the Tank.

“Hey that’s for the talent only,” a bouncer reprimanded as Jimmy pushed through the door.

“It’s only me,” Jimmy held up his hands as if he were being apprehended.

“Sorry,” Carlos, a mountain of a man, grinned and patted his friend on the back. “Hope you had a good time and sorry about the tightened security, we have had some troubles this past week.”

“I have some troubles of my own,” Jimmy kept walking and did not entertain Carlos for the conversation he was trying to rope him in on.

Jimmy left his home away from home and sank into his pickup truck with an exhalation of defeat. He could not let her dictate his life, not when something so important is on the line; if he disobeys he runs the risk of losing much more than leverage. Jimmy started up is truck and pulled out into the dusk.

Driving around, what he figured was aimlessly, Jimmy passed by the same church that he had passed by dozens of time before in any given week without even a second thought. Today was different; he could use some spiritual guidance even if he was not a religious man.

The early evening was unusually quiet and the crunching gravel drive of the church parking lot sounded as loud as thunder in Jimmy’s addled mind. The truck came to a stop and the driver sat there for a moment taking it all in; could he just walk in and everything would make sense? What exactly was he expecting; Jimmy had no idea what he was doing.

Large, beautifully carved doors opened and the spliced smell of musty pews and incense infiltrated his olfactory system. Jimmy wanted to sneeze, but he fought the urge, although on second thought he figured he should have taken the opportunity to be legitimately blessed. Quiet, Jimmy thought and feared that it was so silent that his thoughts could be overheard; he was just being superstitious about the teachings on an omnipotent and all seeing God that were driven into his brain as a child.

“Hello?” Jimmy called out when no one came running to greet him and throw themselves at his mercy; again he did not know what to expect.

“Come to escape the bite of the wind?” A robed and aged man almost appeared out of nowhere and took a few strides towards Jimmy before stopping so that his smile could be fully appreciated.

“I am…um,” Jimmy fumbled. “I was hoping for like confession, or advice or something.”

“Would you like a private or public forum?” The priest questioned with a delicate nod.

Jimmy looked around at the empty church but for some reason he still felt it would be proper if they talked in the confessional. “Would you mind if we made it private?”

“Not at all,” the priest smiled and took his position behind the door of his booth.

Jimmy the Tank cautiously opened the door, as if to make sure he would not be smote for any quick movements, and he knelt down to make it official. “Father, I am in need of some counseling. I do not really have anything to confess, other than being a lousy husband and an alright father, but I did my best. Now it is my boy’s birthday and my ex-wife is throwing him a surprise birthday party that she was trying to keep from me so that I would not show up. But I found out about the party, and I called her up and tricked he into letting it slip, I guess I lied a little, so I guess I can confess to that and I apologize. She tried so hard to keep it from me and when I confronted her about it she threatened me with a restraining order if I try to come. Now I am all sorts of messed up in the mind, and I want to show up just out of spite, but I do not want to jeopardize how much time I can spend with Jamie.”

“First off, two Hail Mary’s for fibbing to you ex-wife,” the priest smiled through the mesh window. “I can tell by the conviction in your voice that you have nothing but love for your son, as it should be, and I can tell by our brief time together that you are indeed doing your best, but that is in no way an admittance of inadequacy. A man’s best in most occurrences far exceeds expectations. It sounds as if you and your ex-wife are both suffering from bouts of stubbornness trying to fight for Jamie’s affection at this crucial time, and for what? Fighting for a child’s sake does more damage to them physiologically than good can be gained from more bonding time with you. Teach Jamie civility, teach him how to be humble. If there seems no way to attend the party, have you considered having Jamie come to you after the party? Jamie gets his party, Jamie’s mother can have the party as she intended, you can spend time with your son on his birthday, and Jamie gets two celebrations.”

“Bring Jamie to me,” Jimmy smirked with a wave of understanding; this whole religion thing really did open up one’s mind. “Thank you Father, thank you. I know what I need to do, thank you. Two Hail Mary’s coming your way, and who knows, you may even see me on Sunday.”

Jimmy jumped up and hastily made his way out of the church and to his truck. He started the engine and screeched around the block back onto the highway while unsuccessfully getting his ex-wife on the phone. She was probably screening her calls now; he needed to find a pay phone.

With mind racing about how to put his plan into action, and his vehicle racing towards a truck stop that he knew of with one of the only working pay phones in the area, Jimmy the Tank seemed to have it all together. He pulled up to the stop and quickly jumped out of his car with quarter in hand.

“Hello?”

“Claire, it’s me, don’t hang up.”

“I have a party to prepare for.”

“I know, I know. After the party is over would you mind if I take Jamie out for ice cream or something. I just want to see him on his birthday.”

“You can see him on your weekend.”

“That is not his birthday. It is not the same.”

“I am not having this conversation.”

“Hello? Hello?”

Jimmy slammed the phone down on the receiver with force; she had hung up on him. Jimmy had expected that she would not be cooperative and that he would have to resort to Plan B, and he was fully prepared for the consequences. Jimmy made his way to convenience store attached to the gas station for the proper supplies.

Two key ingredients to the plan; Jimmy was focused. First and foremost, he needed a birthday gift for Jamie. The store had a small section of stuffed animals, which Jamie had always loved when Jimmy would bring him back one went he went away on business; perfect. A plush and, masculinity aside, adorable owl was the obvious choice, so brought the toy up to the counter where he knew he would be able to find key component number two; a bag of mixed nuts.

“Just these two things,” Jimmy said to the teenage clerk who seemed to have more important things on his mind like playing with his cell phone.

“Twelve seventy eight,” the kid said while running a hand through his unkempt hair.

Jimmy took out his wallet and tossed a credit hard onto the counter.

“System’s down, no cards,” the kid mumbled.

“Check good?” Jimmy asked, reaching into his pocket.

“Nope, just cash today man.”

Jimmy looked into his wallet and saw a solitude five dollar bill, which was enough for the nuts, but not for the owl. The owl was the most important part; he needed a gift for Jamie. Jimmy’s heart started to pound and sweat started to emerge on his brow, but he needed to remain calm. Without looking suspicious, he glances around the corners of the store; no cameras. “Can I also get a pack of smokes? Marlboro.”

The kid nodded with a glazed over look and turned around to open up the cigarette case. Jimmy grabbed the owl and nuts off of the counter and ran out of the store, into his truck, and spun back onto the highway. It was for the right reason, Jimmy told himself; perhaps a few more Hail Mary’s could be thrown in for good measures.

Jimmy the Tank pulled into a strategically placed bar, tucked the owl into his back pocket and entered. “Whatever’s on tap,” Jimmy muttered as he sunk onto a bar stool and took out his protein packed mixed nuts.

“Here ya go,” the bartender produced a home brew that look to be a wheat beer. “Wanna start a tab?”

“Sure thing,” Jimmy smiled, thinking to himself that another Hail Mary may be in order after what he had planned. Jimmy then took the perspiring glass and took a swig along with a mouthful of nuts. Chewing down Jimmy tried to figure out what all the fuss was about, and although tasty, they seemed a little too salty for his liking. Any minute now, he waited, knowing the reaction was on its way to link his plan together. Jimmy coughed and a rush went to his head that caused him to topple forward. Is this it, Jimmy thought to himself, did he go too far? Was this a stupid idea? Was he now circling the sink of life, never to see Jamie again? Why did he think this would work? Jimmy’s world faded to black.



“Dad?”

“Ughre.”

“Dad, are you awake?”

“Jam, raagh.”

“Jimmy your son is trying to talk to you, are you awake or not?”

Jimmy sprung up in the hospital bed, he knew that voice, he knew both of the voices; Jamie and the ex. “I’m awake.”

“You scared me dad, but luckily the restaurant you were at was right next to the hospital,” the boy smiled at the sight of his superman overcoming another challenge in the form of an anaphylactic attack.

“I thought you knew you were allergic,” she hissed and walked out of the room.

“Happy birthday Jamie,” Jimmy leaned onto an elbow. “Go over to my pants and check in the back pocket, I got something for you. Jamie, I did my best for you.”

SHORT STORY: Track 13 – Nothing to Write Home About

Track 13 – Nothing to Write Home About

Harley Crisp sat and sulked before his large hand crafted oak masterpiece of a desk. Occupying the desk were only two stationary residents, a single sheet of blank paper and a motionless pen. Harley winced and let his tear be the third arrival to the desktop party and his sigh of contempt was the soundtrack. His life was not all that people made it out to be and he knew it.

He picked up the pen with great hesitation and he hovered over the upper left hand corner of the page. It should be so easy, he told himself, just “Dear Mom,” and then tell her all about the good things in your life. What good things, he scoffed; he gave away all the good things a long time ago in order to achieve this level of fame and fortune.

Harley could write about how he up and left his small hometown in Alabama for a bright future in acting, completely ignoring his mother’s pleads for him to stay. He could write of how he dropped out of school and turned his back on the only people who genuinely loved him. He thought about this constantly and the shame he had been able to bury was the greatest thing keeping him from having any communication with his family for over fifteen years; he had brought this on himself and he was punishing himself for it.

Harley shed another tear as he recalled some of his mother’s words of wisdom that, at the time, sounded like nothing more that empty lies to keep him grounded in Alabama. She said that this place of acting and money was filled with nothing but cruel people who are only out for themselves. Why didn’t I listen, Harley damned himself. He placed his head into his hands and took in a deep breath thinking that no one here in big time Hollywood understands what it is like to feel so alone and empty because they are hollow already; Harley did not want to grow hollow, but he really saw no other outcome for himself.

In all his time living the glamorous life, had he learned anything of value, Harley clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. Why live this life at all? What was the money good for? Harley reckoned that the answer was the same as what war was good for, and yet he remained, doubting that he would be able to turn away mostly for the fear that he would not be accepted back home.

And who am I anymore? Harley stood abruptly at the thought and knocked his solid chair over with a crash. “John, please sign this,” or “Dear John, I admire you,” or “John we have a perfect role for you,” from the so called fans, and producers, and agents, but that is not his damn name, John is a character he played and every time he was called by his most famous persona he felt a little piece of the true him died. Harley punched the wall and slumped to his knees weeping; it was all his fault, he wanted this.

Who was he to complain, he leaned back and stared at the ceiling fan mocking him with its carefree existence. There were worse things in life than a bout of identity crisis and being homesick, Harley winced, like having a real crisis or actually being sick, like the millions of people all around the world. He was just one miserable millionaire, so he had no right to talk about his woes; no one wants to hear the selfish ramblings of an egotistical and self-centered hypocrite. Just keep on doing what you do just like every other day Harley Crisp, dance like the fool you are.

“No,” Harley shouted at no one in particular and jumped up to his feet to readdress the blank letter. “I control my own fate; I can teach myself the things I have yet to learn.” Harley reached for the pen and with great control he scribbled exactly what he wanted to say.

“Dear Mom, I love you. Love Harley.”

SHORT STORY: Track 12 – Tell Me When

Track 12 – Tell Me When

What is the point? I stand up from my bath which I was hoping to relax me, but I have grown used to disappointment. I stand there and let most of the beads of water drip off, they want nothing to do with me and I can’t blame them; join the party. I reach for my towel and finish drying up, this is my daily routine, work, bathe, sleep alone. Day after day after day, when does life begin, because this certainly is not a life.

This is no way for a thirty-five year old woman to live; I should have children by now to love me, or at least a husband. I would settle for anyone at this point, faithful or not, just someone to talk to. I look at my exposed self in the mirror and I can’t help but think it is laughing at me. Who is this fool, the mirror says, she lost all that weight so that someone would find her attractive, but still no one wants her. The mirror is right.

I step out of my bathroom onto the carpet of my bedroom; the only other room in my miniscule apartment besides the kitchen. I don’t even have enough room in my apartment to have anyone else in my life. I need to get out of here; this place will not be my final tomb. I throw on a t-shirt and jeans, dressing to impress, yeah right. I reach for my keys and in doing so I knock my phone off the receiver and onto the floor. Should I pick it up? Why the hell should I, who is going to call anyway? I leave the phone, leave through my front door, and close the door loudly behind me.

“I hate you,” I scream to the door, aiming my words at the apartment, but my life and myself earned some of those words too. I put my key in the knob to lock it up but then I pull my hand away. I will just leave those there so that it is easier on whoever has to clean it out, God forbid I inconvenience anyone to the point of calling a locksmith.

I walk to the curb where my car was resting and I start it up, it too sounds like it’s on its last breath. It sputters and rocks and we are off. I am not sure where I am headed, and I really don’t care, I know the right place will present itself as long as I am looking. I start by driving around my dark neighborhood, looking into my own eyes in the rearview mirror. You really are nothing to look at even for myself; why would anyone else want you? I take to the deserted highway and under the lonely moon my car moves along for eight miles before giving up all together. Just what I needed, a stalled car in the middle of nowhere, but was this my sign?

Just in front of me was an overpass to a river below. Coincidence that I am stopped right here, or simply fate? I can just ease off and end it all, and no one would know; or care. Just as quickly as I am forgotten I can be gone, and why else would God stop me right here? I can do this.

I leave my car and approach the edge of oblivion. I can hear the rush of water below and even in its fury it seems tranquil. I can do this, this can be how my life begins; with the end. Just hold your breath and let go. I step up onto the guard rail and I can feel the breeze of the night caress me. It is chilly, but none of that will matter soon; one last exhilarating plunge. Just let go, you can do this, you earned it.

I can’t. I didn’t earn it, I didn’t earn anything. I just got dealt a hand of life and the house always wins. I can never do it, I am not brave enough, and in fact I am not anything enough. Not thin enough, not beautiful enough, not smart enough. I am maybe sad and hopeless enough, but then again if it was enough I should be able to follow through.

I retreat back to my car and pick up my cell phone. I flip through the numbers on my speed dial and punched in the tow truck company I have become a regular of. I told them where I was and I sat in my car for twenty minutes until they arrived.

The driver was an older, balding, somewhat muscular man and to be honest it was good to just have someone else there, even if it was just to load my car onto a hitch and drive us somewhere to fix it; perhaps that is why I go out for my midnight rides all the time?

During the ride back to the shop, I sat in the cab with the driver and I tried my best to look enticing, but I am such an amateur he paid no mind, why would he, he was probably married with kids and a whole handful of people who cared about him. We pulled in and after the mechanic looked over the car he informed me that I was just out of gas. Perhaps I was aware that I was running low on fuel, perhaps not, but this was the third time in the past six months this mechanic told me the same thing. I paid him and the driver for their services and I went on my way; this was my life, and this was my social interaction.

I decided to just head home when I came to a red light. While idling and waiting my turn, I noticed the neon glow of a bar that had just opened up. A new bar I thought, that means a whole new crew of men whom look the other way, but at the same time they never saw the skinny me. Maybe I can meet someone? What’s the worst that can happen, I head home miserable; already there.

I pull into the partially filled parking lot and enter the bar. The air smells musky, but the bar had not yet been tainted by the smell of sour beer; give it a few more weeks of spills. I sat at the bar and smiled at the bartender who nodded back. He asked me what I will have, and I said I needed a moment to decide. Playing games, I know, but I wanted someone to buy me a drink. Never in my life has someone bought me a drink, and I needed this. Just one drink, just a few bucks and I will feel like I have started a new chapter. Please.

My wait turns into ten minutes, and then twenty minutes, and as I smile at everyone in the bar they all turn their heads. I could understand no one looking my way when I was fat, but I am thin now, I thought life would change. Why did I bother putting in all that work on this body? Am I not thin enough? Is it just my natural look? Is my nose too big? Am I too old? They aren’t much younger; someone has to at least acknowledge me. Even the guy sitting alone by the bar won’t look at me twice. Him, he is a little husky, has a full reddish beard, and short reddish hair. He is kind of cute, but certainly no catch, even by my low standards, and he won’t even look at me? Perhaps I should have taken the jump.

Wait, why am I waiting? I waited my whole life, I deserve better. Screw the house always winning; I am going to make my own luck. I stand up and almost knock the bar stool over behind me, but I don’t care. I walk over to the bearded man of solitude with as much confidence as I could muster and I take a seat next to him.

“I would like to buy you a drink,” I said as I flag down the bartender.

“Well alright sweetie,” he said somewhat uncharacteristically effeminate. “I’ll take it, but y’all know what type of bar this is right?”

Just my luck I let my head fall in defeat. What kind of cruel sense of humor does God have? I knew better than to think it was that easy. “Tell me when does life begin, or better yet, tell me when it ends?”

He sees the tears run down my cheek and places a meaty arm around my shoulder. “There now, don’t fuss yourself over me,” he said sweetly as he patted my shoulder. “You know what, my brother is on his way here to pick me up and he is not like me in one regard, and I think he would just love to buy you a drink.”

SHORT STORY: Track 11 – Just Like Anyone

Track 11 – Just Like Anyone

She looked out of her makeshift home into the blackness of night. She knew the way and could easily get there with her eyes closed, but that was not what was freezing her there; it was fear. She had been living there with her tribe for what felt like three years now ever since the catastrophe which left them stranded and cut off from the world. She often wondered why no one looked for them, but only in the first few months; after that survival trumped all other thoughts. Survival, she ran through her head again and again.

Just twenty short feet into the woods was all she needed to go. To compound the issue, the stress she was currently undergoing was negatively impacting her stomach, which meant that she had little time left to convince her legs to walk before she would be soiled. Why didn’t she just take the safe route and claim it was an accident? She knew why, she could not handle that sort of torment, not anymore. You would think that a small group forced into a society through hardships and tragedy would not have the time to find and ridicule an outcast; she would forever think, but she was always wrong.

Just then the gloomy clouds parted and the pale moonlight lit the way momentarily; this was her chance, she sprang from the door and ran barefoot into the unknown. She reached the plank door of the outhouse, pulled it opened as quickly as physics would allow and she slammed it behind her; she cared not if she woke anyone with her antics. She took in deep calming breaths, dismissing the aroma, and allowed her heart rate to settle.

She went about her business and reflected on the one friend she had when it all began. Tom was about her age, give or take a year or so, and he was kind to her. Whenever the others would gang up and find it their duties to explain how useless she was, Tom would appear and put an end to it. That was over two years ago, because he was the second to go missing.

They had set up their little village, the twenty three of them, and went about living. There were three to a room at first until time allowed them to build more homes; which consequently became a moot point. After a year full of constant failed attempts to discover where they were, and how to return, they began to grow disheartened and drop their guards. One night, after hearing a savage rustling of the trees and bushes about the village the strange things began to happen. In the morning, the exteriors of the houses were severely damaged with what could only have been claw marks. None of them knew what to do and after a distressed meeting, it was decided to fortify the windows and see what the night brought again. That was the night Tom went missing.

He was never found, but after him, once a month or so, another would go missing, some of which turned up weeks later; or at least parts of them turned up. Two years living in fear, and now she sat in the darkness amid the woods as one of the only four remaining survivors.

Why? She thought. Why me? Why not me? My own kind will not accept me, and whatever it is out there does not want me either? Must I be picked last for everything? Torture upon torture. Wait, she screamed in her own mind, can’t I make my own fate? Can’t I choose to be chosen? Why couldn’t I be like the other nineteen before me? Why couldn’t I be more like Tom? I can, I can be what I want.

On that she stood and pushed the plank opened to reveal that the moon had once again retreated behind the clouds for complete shade. She stepped out with pride in her step and conviction in her marrow. One step led to another, but she was not going in the direction of her straw bed, in fact she was heading in the opposite direction; into the unknown.

Unknown, she chuckled to herself, was it really the great unknown? She knew where she was headed and she knew what to expect. She was going to be one of them, one of the majority. She took each step eagerly and no longer cared to mask her sounds. Although she was not tracking the time she was walking, she was sure that she had not been traveling long before the air became frigid and so did her muscles. She stopped in place and heard the muted hiss of breathing; she was no longer afraid.

She felt something dig into her shoulder and the pain was welcomed as her world spun around her like a top. She was no longer going to be just the awkward her; she was going to be someone else, just like anyone.

SHORT STORY: Track 10 – Eyes of a Child

Track 10 – Eyes of a Child

Clarissa Ewings ran through the park as the sun almost finished its descent of the day. Beads of sweat were escaping down her face as she hastily hustled towards home; if only she had lived closer. So much to do and not enough hours in the day, she thought to herself, allowing her mind to become overwhelmed once again.

Clarissa had to get home to Johnny and Jacob before six so that the babysitter would not charge an additional hour; money she could not afford to hand out. She had to make a quick dinner, probably pasta, before Bethany and Clyde had to leave for their part time jobs; it was sweet of them to help out, but Clarissa wished she could support them all so that this was not the case. She needed to help Frank with his math, help Susan with her reading, and make sure the other seven did not kill each other with rough housing while she did all that. On top of the children, she needed to find a cheap plumber to fix the toilet, but how to would find the money to pay for it she did not know. She wished that the broken toilet could go the way of the broken toaster and vacuum and that was to just stay broken, but a toilet seemed like a necessary item.

Lost in her thoughts Clarissa tripped over something on the sidewalk and almost lost the small brown bag she was carrying, which was the whole reason she was out in the first place. In her bag were Johnny and Jacob’s cold medicine, and a full array of her prescriptions for anxiety, depression, and various other medications to treat the ailments of an overworked, overstressed, single working mother of thirteen. Clarissa looked down on what she had tripped over and her eyes went wide and her heart sunk.



Meanwhile, on the other side of the park Royston Jenkins trudged along in a zombie like state as per his typical daily ritual. His mind was thinking of nothing but sleep as he clung to the worn newspaper gripped in his fist. Visible on the newspapers pages were highlighter marks and red circles around various employment opportunities for anyone with no discernible life skills.

Royston coughed into his free hand and looked down at the paper thinking, how was he going to handle a fourth job? He got no sleep as it was, waking up at four in the morning to get to the hotel to serve as their watchman, and then for a few hours later he would head to the hospital to serve as a file clerk if they have anything that needed filing, and then after filing, he headed through the park to wait on tables at the diner, sometimes until two in the morning; and then the routine restarted.

When would he even have time for another job, he asked himself, but he did not really want to know the answer, all he knew was that he needed money to get his car back, pay his lousy ex-girlfriend child support so that she did not have to lift a finger and could just float through life. He also needed to earn enough money to pay for the medication and doctor’s visits he had to frequent as of late; ironically enough, his decreased health was due entirely on overexerting himself and running himself down, which he did so partially to pay the bills to make him healthy again. As Royston let his mind go he could not help but see a woman standing over a crumpled form, and even though he was already running late and his tips would suffer as a result, he had to stop.



Cat saw the two adults standing over a small and filthy boy laying there on the ground, and even at her mature age of thirteen she could not help but reminisce about when she first hit the streets seven years ago and degraded herself to once thought unthinkable things to earn money. That was around the time she ran into Rick, who said he would take care of her, and in a way he did, but it was not exactly the caring a young girl would have hoped for. Cat knew that she was just a tool to Rick to turn a profit, but for a while she was alright with their arrangement as she had no other options.

Not sensing the girl behind her, Clarissa looked down at the quietly whimpering boy and extended a hand. Should she take him in, she asked herself. She already had thirteen children at home and, although she may not be able to identify which deadbeat father sired which one, as if it mattered because they were never going to come around anyway, what was one more? He was clearly in need and she thought about what it must be like for him living all alone on the streets. Children are supposed to have high hopes and ambitions, to dream of the stars, and not have to go on day by day wondering if you will eat any time soon. Being a child was supposed to be a glorious feeling of ignorant bliss before learning of all the turmoil in the world; this boy needed love.

Royston watched as the woman leaned in and touched the boys shoulder and he let a tear run down his cheek. His whole life he was thinking about himself and by doing so he filled himself with rage. He was working hard to earn all the money he could to pay for his child, and who cared if his lousy ex-girlfriend lived off of it? He was providing a home for his son, he was providing food for his son, and that was all that really mattered. This tattered boy lying on the ground in a dark park did not have any of that Royston knew; and it broke his heart.

Cat watched the two adults and she felt a sudden twitch of nerve run through her, a side effect of one of the toxins the wonderful Rick had introduced to her, and she was beginning to go through withdrawals. She then looked down at the boy and she smiled. This boy has no home, and has no family, and has no food, she knew. These two adults see that and they feel sorrow for him because they think a better life exists out there for him, Cat sighed. I know there is a better life out there for him as well, Cat smirked and raised her hands in front of her, and I know that the optimistic thoughts of the fools won’t do anything for him, but that doesn’t mean they are of no use.

“Empty your wallets,” Cat demanded as the two spun around with stunned faces as a thirteen year old girl waved a pistol back and forth between them.

The two obeyed in fortified shock as the girl collected the small amount of money while her filthy and despicable accomplice stood from the sidewalk and joined her at her side. Cat smiled at her partner, an eight year old con artist in training named Tim, and the two ran along their way; just a few more scores like this and they could truly run away from it all for good.