How I spent my tenth birthday

 

 

 

     Dear Diary,                                                   March 1^st, 2000

    

     I will always remember this rainy, March day perfectly. This was the day I was supposed to be having a birthday party. Instead, there I was, in a hotel room, getting into a blue, denim dress with black shoes. I felt fine, better than I had that past Monday, when Mom dropped the bomb about Grandma's death.
      "Are you okay?" Mom asked me.
      "I'm fine." My main concern is mom since it was her mother that died. "Are you okay?"
      "I'm fine," Mom straightened my collar then told me to get my coat.
      I slipped my coat on and followed my family out to the big, fifteen passenger van that we had rented for the trip. The van was half white, half gray and it smelled funny.

     I climbed in and soon we were on our way to the Cathedral where the funeral was held. I had never set foot in a Cathedral before and my ten-year-old eyes were awed by the massive structure. I was even more impressed with the inside. The foyer was huge; it could hold maybe fifty people or more. As I walked inside, someone came up and offered to take my coat. I took it off and handed it to him then proceeded farther into the foyer. A massive chandelier was just above my head and a fountain bubbled merrily just a few feet in front of me.

     I looked around me and was surprised at the size of the crowd. I had never seen this many people in one room before. I went to look into the fountain. The yellow light from the chandelier gave the water a yellowish hue. Kira came to stand beside me. She reminded me of a candy cane in her red and white striped dress. Mom came over to us and asked how we were doing. Kira didn't answer but continued to stare at the water. I nodded and turned to walk away. However, I looked back and saw Mom take Kira in her arms. I then noticed that Kira's face almost matched the red stripes on her dress.

     Someone came up to me and handed me a red carnation, Grandma's favorite flower. I noticed that all of my cousins, no matter how old they were, held a red carnation as well. What the grand kids were supposed to do was single file, walk up to the Priest and put the carnation in a vase that he was holding and then sit down.

     My cousin, Karen, was holding onto her sister and sobbing. I felt odd because I didn't feel like crying. That was, until I saw Grandma's casket. It was closed and I wish that it was opened so that I could see her face one last time. Soft organ music began to play as a boy and a girl came forward and draped a white cloth over the casket before the casket was wheeled to the front of the sanctuary. It took all of my willpower not to cry as I lined up behind my other cousins. I didn't want to cry in front of the Priest. So, as soon as I had put my carnation in the vase, I went to sit with my family on the hard, wooden pew and that's when I lost it. Now, I never sob out loud, I'm a rather quiet crier. Dad was sitting to my left with my cousin, Alicia, to my right. Dad had Kira sitting in his lap. Kira was still crying and I didn't blame her.

     I can't remember the service because I was so numb. It was as if I had died I remember staring at the handkerchief in my lap. The hankie was decorated with sunflowers and daises and that didn't seem appropriate for a funeral. But, it was the only hankie I had.

     At one point, Owen got up, went to a piano, and began to play "Ave Maria," Grandma's favorite song. After he was done playing, my two little sisters began to clap. They’re only five and seven, and they always clapped after their brother had given a wonderful performance. I tried to stop them, thinking that we weren't supposed to clap in a Catholic Church. And especially not at a funeral. My efforts to quiet Kira were futile and about half the Church clapped with my sisters.
      Not long after that, the service ended and my family started to leave the pew. I didn't want to leave. I felt dead on the inside and I squeezed my tear-soaked hankie in my hands. Suddenly, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and looked up. A man with spiked, orange-looking hair, a matching beard and coat and wearing thick, black glasses was looking down at me, his brown eyes were full of sympathy. I didn't say anything and neither did he. He just stood there with his hand on my shoulder, comforting me for a few moments before moving on.
     Dad called to me and I numbly got up and left the pew. I slowly got my sobs under control as we went back into the foyer. A lady was standing with an enormous bundle of red carnations in her arms. This time, everyone was given a carnation. I then noticed my Dad's brother, Steve, standing off to one side. This surprised me because as far as I remembered, Uncle Steve didn't know Grandma. I went over to him and said hello.
 "What are you doing here?" I asked.
 "I came to honor your Grandma," he replied.
 "Well, there she goes," I said as her casket was wheeled past us and went outside to the waiting Hurst. My voice cracked visibly, even though I tried to sound happy.

     Uncle Steve understood and put a comforting arm around me. I was touched that he would drive all the way from Okeana, to Blue Ash, just to be there for his brother and sister-in-law. 

     Soon, the Prescot family was loaded up in the van once more and the procession towards Grandma's final resting place began. We were last in the long line of cars. I don't know how many there were, I just remember an incredibly long, long. A policeman on a motorcycle kept whizzing past us, making sure that no one that wasn't in the funeral line tried to cut in.

     I remember more of the burial ground. Everyone gathered inside a small room to say good-bye. The Priest sprinkled water on the casket and asked if anyone else would like to do it. Grandpa did it then the Priest extended the invitation again. I wanted to do it, but was too scared to raise my hand. No one else did and the funeral service was over. Then the entire family left to go to Uncle Brice’s for lunch.

     I will always remember this day as long as I live. How I spent my tenth birthday.  

The world is to high tech for me--everybody's LJ page looks so crazy and advanced; I'm in the deep south and it shows. Might as well just sit around on a porch and drink some Sweet Tea. Nothing else to say really. Not going to any plays, not in to fancy coffee, fancy food; ladi dadi. But am cooking on my book, it's going fast and well and have written a lot. I may not be up there in smarts with yall, but something tells me I am holding my own. If I can write one-thousands words once I get going like right now, just dwell on what I am going to write and totally get lost in what I am writing, then well, I know I am getting something accomplished.

It's like, sometimes when I sit down at a new keyboard, I have to get used to the keys. It takes me a few minutes to get going, but once I am there I am gone. To think, I can write like this on a dwelled on story and really have somthing to say. Really, what I am writing, I go through with like anyone else. The doubts that what I am writing it pure crapola; the fear that its not any good; the point in which you wonder--is this totally pointless dribble and nothing meaningful is coming out.

So, I have it all planned out what I want to write tonight or tomorrow during lunchtime. I am in sweet anticipation of it; it's going to be wonderful. I like the feeling of the keys as my fingers go buzzing a long this keyboard. My fingers are carpenter bee's trying to find a home in the wood panel. Perhaps they will not find it, maybe they will die, I am not sure.

Time to go I guess, I am going to look for that funny SNL skit where Justin Timberlake and Jimmy Fallon pretend they are one of the Bee Gees-- barry gibb or whatever and the skit itself is hilarious. What it is really--it's like waynes world, a sit down talk show and I think to many people were imitating it on youtube so they took it off of there. So, now I will have to go to some virus leaching site to find it. Found a good stream of the new star trek moving too; pirates aren't just out to sea. They are alive and well--they are your next door neighbors and thank goodness for that rare pot of gold that they find, put on the internet to share with everyone. Don't worry, I already saw Star Trek the proper way in the theater and wow it was glorious.

Later everyone. I am a writer, I am a writer,

and, it means absolutely nothing.

Have consistently written over 1,000 words daily since about the third (may); am at about 13,000 right now and steadily climbing. Or, will be steadily climbing. This far in to it and still haven't figured out my characters yet which is a first. I've figured out characters 1,000 words in to a story--now in this story, haven't figured out who is aggressive and who is not--but, as I keep going and everything builds up, I know they will all have to interact and really find themselves.

Someone mentioned how hard it is to pick up where one left off when they write a story. It can be hard, but I have discovered some secrets to making it easy.
1. leave notes as to what you want to write next.
2.re-read what you wrote the previous day, that way you pick up the personalities of the people you wrote about--you'll end up having more fun that way if you fall in to your characters shoes--that can be very exciting sometimes
3. leave your story at an exciting part--something you would be eager to continue the following day
 
A story exists; the one your writing--all you have to do is excavate it.

Wrote 700 words durring lunchtime; will write 300 more before bedtime.

This journal is now strickly for writing about writing. Didn't get much but 957 words done today. Will write before I go to work in the morning. I don't know what story I am falling in to right now, it hasn't taken shape yet; I am waiting for it to take on a life of its own--it will happen soon enough.

--listend to yugoslavian goth and industrial today--its dark and wonderful and very noisy

Hello and welcome back to my boring life; I am in the Navy and last night I was the Command Duty Officer; seeing as the job is taken so seriously I will not talk about any events that transpired, except that--I made a kickass pot of coffee and had on ok Sub Sandwich. Want to hear a funny? I am on a Subase and I got a Sub Sandwich on a subase. That was funny wasn't it. I warned you. Please do not read this if, I don't know, I plan on dumbing you up; making you stupid with my mindless comments but everybody deserves to be down here at my level--starving for food, because I am trying to get ready for the Navy's Physical Readiness test. The weigh in's are on Monday. I have to be 186lbs or 191 if you round up my height, but lets not risk it. I was 185 last Friday, 199 on Monday Morning--191 by Monday night and 188 by Tues afternoon. So, I did eat well on easter Sunday and even better the night before that--I BBQ'ed everything in sight. Oh what fun. When I pass the Navy Physical readiness test I am going out for chinese food with my family; I am going to eat until I am sick and weight 199 again. My goal should be eventually 168 but I have not been that weight for quite some time and it takes quite a bit of starvation to get to that point. My schedule--eat cereal for breakfast, a chicken sandwich at two pm and cereal before bedtime. Then I run three times a day for 30 min to 60 min while listening to old school modern rock/alternative and frantic Industrial. Time to get off of duty and go home and chill. Got Church tonight. Everybody is christian here right? I guess you can't lose your status of being a christian once you believe Jesus died for you.

Time to step on the soap box--people, wake up. A man, who was also God, and this is supported by the bible, came to earth to bleed, sleep and eat just like us. Man sinned and because we sin we die. But, if we believe fully in this man Jesus who died for us, we can live forever with him in paradise. It's that easy. Let me say that one more time--IT'S THAT EASY. It's stupid proof, look into it. From there on, the bible says, it will be opened to you, so that you will be able to understand it better and believe me--everytime you open that book, you will see something new--it's amazing; it will change your life, you will see your worldly errors and be like me--want to invite other people to spend eternity with you in paradise. And its all such a good feeling--christians make up when they argue and they rarely do, they don't do drugs, they don't drink, and everything is fine and happy. Don't worry about the cheesy part of--I hate being all happy all the time. I hated that part; don't worry, Satan and his demons will still lay the darkness on thick in your life so you can still be Goth and depressed; you just won't go to hell doing it.

I never blog or writing anything, so if anyone is interested, I might as well write a little bit day by day. That's what it's here for right? I BBQ last Friday--I don't know who I was cooking for--I was just going all out, cooking burgers and hot dogs; me and the wife ate outside(and the kids)--used one of those lanterns your supposed to use late at night while working on your car. It worked out well--it hung on the inside of our backyard umbrella--the kind that goes over a small round table.

My writing is totally getting better and I have been getting these urges to write a book; I have been getting, also, the urge to read lots more. I like reading Dean Koontz and Stephen Kings kid--Joe Hill. When your someones famous son, and they are a great writer, why not ride the fame if you are a good writer. But no, he just wants to be Joe Hill. I'm John Doe.

So, the subject matter for a book--it would have to be christian, start out dark and then turn christian. Lots of ideas for a story, but that's the problem--planning things out is killing it. I think when I write I am not going to plan out things so well--it worked for this months genrechallenge story--I let the characters find themselves and what they liked to do; I feel like I made good friends with them and I will miss them when I finally have to say goodbye to the story--meaning I will eventually finish it, editing it--re-write in the next few days.

Time to get my teeth drilled and get a haircut!!!

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MEDIA RELEASE 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She yelled, but that was exactly what they were up too. They had done it to that new kid Simon just last weekend. Had filled him up with so much alcohol that he had no recollection of the events. Just that he had woken up naked in the center of the town’s Baseball diamond. It was better that way--that he didn’t remember. Because the things Trent did to him made her wonder of Trent’s sexual orientation.

“Not us,” Takashi said. “No way. We’ve got something for you.” He pulled on the recliners wooden handle and leaned it back so she was in the supine position. He tied off her arm above the elbow with a long rubber band. The Tourniquet exposed the median cubital vein and she felt it pulse as it stressed from the tension. He brutally shoved a large bore needle in to her arm and she turned her head knowing that if she looked, she might faint.

“That needle better be sterilized,” she said.

“Sterilized?” The boy with the fetid breath said. It was worse than her grandfather’s halitosis. “In a little bit you’re going to be immune to ever disease on the face of the earth. How does that feel?” But she ignored him. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

She couldn’t watch her own doctor do random blood work without feeling dizzy. It was the only reason she was apprehensive about continuing the very beginning of nursing school at the local community college. She didn’t know if she would be able to follow through with it and she watched nurses as much as possible take blood during the clinical practice portion of the class. She was trying to season herself, but this wasn’t helping.

She turned her head and forced herself to watch the process going on with her arm. The blood rapidly flowed from the vein, through the needle, through the tube and in to what she thought would be a collection bag. She learned over to look at the bag. “Where’s the collection bag?”

“Well,” Takashi said. “Due to our limited supply, we don’t have anything that will hold half the blood of your body. So we had to find something bigger--a gallon milk jug.”

“Half?” She questioned frantically. “What do you mean half?” And her eyes began to sting with tears. A horrible realization hit her. They meant to kill her. After watching all of those episodes of America’s Most Wanted with John Walsh. So that she would be able to pick out a dangerous person out of society. Just in case they decided to follow her home one night from her part time job at JcPennies. Here they were right here--two young gentlemen, crazy as loons.

“You wouldn’t want us to take all of your blood would you?” Frank laughed.

***

Outside in the Camaro Trent was toasted. He was working on his 8th Busch, finished it, and once again threw it in to the back seat in to Milo’s face.

“Maybe we should check on her?” Milo said rubbing the sore spot on his forehead where the can hit.

“No, she’s good,” and Trent burped loudly, a long and satisfying one. It was a winner.

Milo now understood the importance of the beer. His new friend, his new alcoholic friend that is, planned on drinking the rest. It seemed he wanted his time to do so, as if he were trying to escape reality. He didn’t understand why anyone would want to escape reality while with a girl like that. She looked like a dream.

Trent looked over at the house. His hot girlfriend was still busy. He cracked open number nine, leaned back in his seat and contemplated getting out to use nature’s bathroom.

***

“I wouldn’t worry about things Missy. My guess is your somewhere between 110lbs and 154lbs right?” Takashi said. Missy was beginning to feel overly relaxed and the tips of her fingers and toes were getting numb. She struggled to lean over again to look at the gallon jug. Tiny tributaries of her blood streaked down the side of it using random paths of the least resistance. They moved this way and that as it filled up with the liquid that was only slightly denser than water. She knew what he was going to say--a rough calculation of how much blood he was going to release.

“We’re only going to let out 2 quarts ok?” Frank said. “Your body has at least a full gallon.”

“And, that should be it.” Takashi pinched the tube off with a metal clip.

“I think I’m dying,” she said weakly.” Her voice was raspy and her breathing was slow and shallow.

Frank jumped off of her and picked up a tall wooden hat rack from the kitchen. A heavy milk jug hung from one of its wooden dowels and it swung slightly from the weight of the dark red liquid in it. He set it next to the right side of the chair and it leaned slightly against it. “We wouldn’t want this to fall over would we? That would be quite a mess.”

“Whose blood is that?” She whispered.

“It belonged to this fellow we met during one of our father's blood drives.”

“You are brothers?” She whispered again with eyes nearly closed.

“That’s right,” Frank said “adopted and brought up as one of his own. We’re going to adopt you.”

“That's right,” Takashi said with all of his signs of sadness gone, “you're going to be our sister.”

Frank put a hypodermic syringe with a tube running from it in to the bottom of the jug on the coat rack. It was sealed momentarily until he unplugged the bore needle in her arm from its bloody tube and plugged in the new tube. He released the metal clip and let the blood flow from the jug on the coat rack to her arm. “When we found our father, a man was leached on to him. We were able to incapacitate him with a couple of silver scalpels to his neck and chest. The only way we were able to fully immobilize him was to take all of his blood.”

“So seeing as we were in the Win-Dixie parking lot.” Takashi added. “I got a couple milk jugs from the store. Dumped out the contents, rinsed them out in the bathroom and when I got back to the van I added some acid citrate dextrose.”

She knew what that was--an anticoagulant to keep blood from clotting, preserving it for a long period of time. “This is his blood?”

“Not anymore,” Frank said looking at her from a kneeling position on her right. “We used it but we kept the same jug fresh with our own.”

“What’s the point?” She said feeling slightly stronger. “If it’s not my blood type my body will reject it. Right?”

“No,” Takashi said, “that’s the great thing about this blood. Your immune system will not be bothered by it. Your body will accept it as if it were its own.”

“And you know how long it took to get this jug filled back up with more blood?” Frank said, excited. “12 weeks! A cup here, a cup there from each of us.”

“I still don’t get it.” Missy said.

“We’re altruists!” Takashi said smiling broadly.

“What?” She said confused.

“I don’t think she gets it.” Frank said, talking to Takashi as if she weren’t there. “This blood belongs to the Paracanthopoma Nosferatu,” he said to her. “The Paracanthopoma Vampyra or Paranthopoma Draculae. Take your pick.”

“You’re crazy,” she said. “You both are.”

“Frank pinched the tube off and she reflected on her current physical status. She put her hand to her heart. She certainly wasn’t dead. It beat rapidly and she sat up feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline. It was as if she had just drunk a gallon of sweet-T or way too much heavily sugared blonde and sweet coffee. The room looked clearer--crystal clear and brighter even though the same poor lighting existed in the room.

“If we’re so crazy,” Frank said “then tell me-- how do you feel?”

She pulled the bore needle out of her arm and a small jet of blood squirted out. She quickly bent her arm at the elbow to apply pressure to the vein. She briefly turned her head to look at the front door. It looked welcoming and the process of immediate flight crossed her mind. Why would they stop her? They hadn’t intended to harm her, though they had nearly killed her. “You said you’re altruists? But if you were true altruists you would help without true expectation of reward right? And you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Go on,” Frank said with curiosity. Takashi leaned over the back of the now upright E-Z chair as she sat on its edge.

“Your Utilitarian.”

“No we’re not.” Frank said with an un-emotional straight face. The statement seemed to bother him. “What do you know? You’re dating a dumb jock that couldn’t get a scholarship to play college football. He’s arrogant and he’s had academic and behavioral issues all through high school. Everybody knows that and we’ve only been going to the school for two weeks. If we thought he was worth anything, we would have helped him too.”

“Wait a minute,” she said, clearing her head of everything. “What do you mean ‘helped’? How do you feel you helped me?”

“Because,” Takashi said, “we set you free.”

“This wasn’t planned but of all of the people in the world we were glad it’s was you.” Frank added.

“I still think you’re practicing Utilitarianism. You’re trying to do the greatest amount of good for the greatest amount of people. So, you’re helping yourselves by improving the world. You plan on populating the world with your kind.”

“No.” Frank said, raising his voice in anger. “Takashi and I--we didn’t ask to be this. It’s all right, and when it happened we accepted it.”

“What do you mean when it happened? It happened to your father, not you.” She thought for a long second. “Oh! Now I get it! I get it!” She understood what they were up too. “You lost your father and knowing what you killed, you used its blood to stay brothers forever for fear of losing each other. You want to adopt me in to your family.” She wanted to tell them they couldn’t do this. That they couldn’t make this kind of permanent decision for her. But she was struck hard by the sincerity of there actions. They actually wanted her as a sister. Someone to take the place of their father in their odd, eternal hearts. During this time frame, she stared at the ground in thought and then looked up at them with tears in her eyes. “I’ll still be able to see my regular family? I live in an apartment in Glendale Heights. I haven’t lived at home in some time.”

“You can see you family anytime you want.” Frank said, now calmed down some.

It seemed to her that he angered easily. She turned around and looked at Takashi. He was smiling at her and pleased as punch. It was clear what had been bothering him--he missed his father. “So you are altruists,” she said “you’ve relieved me of my bond to the people that needed me and used me; needed me more than I really needed them. I never would have been able to get Trent out of my life. This action did not benefit you at all, as an altruist believes in the best interest and welfare of others without any expectation of reward. What you’ve done to me is more than morally right.”

“Only if you believe that what we’ve done to you helped you more than it helped us.”

“I don’t know about that,” she smiled. “Just by being here I’m helping you guys a lot. But why do you feel you have an obligation to benefit others?”

“We’re not bad people.” Takashi said, looking at his brother. Frank agreed--”Nope, we’re not. Think about it this way--we have a gift. If you could live forever--wouldn’t you want to share it?”

“She thought again for a second. “It would depend on the overall consequences. I guess we’re just going to have to be selective with the people we help. Help the wrong person and you could have a real problem.”

“Like Trent.” Frank said.

“Yes.” Like Trent.” Takashi said.

***

Takashi was the last one out the door. Missy spied Trent around the back of the Camaro relieving himself in the Florida sand. “Hey, what took you guys so long?” He said in a giddy fashion. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever coming out.”

She opened up the Camaro’s broad passenger door. “How many did you have?” She said as she poked her head in. She could smell the strong musty odor of spilled drops of beer emanating from the crushed cans. He never finished them all the way through. He said the very last warm bit; the watered down portion that barely contained alcohol made him gag.

“Excuse me.” He said as he shoved her aside to get in to the vehicle. “Hey, this is the wrong side huh? Milo! Why didn’t you tell me this was the wrong side you moron!”

“Sorry Trent.” Milo said from the back seat, though it was barely audible.

“Trent,” Missy said nicely “why don't I drive, I’m interested in making it home alive tonight.”

“No, I’ve got it woman,” he said with heavily slurred speech. Frank grabbed his arm while Melissa walked over to the driver’s side to get it. “Let go of me! I can drive! Hey you’re strong--you ever thought about playing football?” Trent had pulled on Frank’s arm--hard. Hard enough to pull a three hundred-pound man off balance and the boy hadn't budged.

“Why don’t you get in to the car, we can discuss it on the way to the park.”

“Well okay.” Trent said reluctantly and got in the car.

Frank leaned over and flicked the handle that moved the passenger seat forward. Trent leaned forward to make room and hit his head on the dash, “Ow!”

Franks feet crunched on the Busch beer cans on the rubber floor mats and he slid over Milo to the window. Takashi got in and pulled the door shut.

She turned the key and the car hummed to life with its deep, low, stuttering growl. “I’ve always wanted to drive this car.” She said.

“Well good,” Trent said as his glassy bloodshot eyes functioned lazily “here’s you chance.”

The moonlight cast an eerie glow on the cars silver surface. Missy leaned her elbow out the open window with her other hand on the wheel as she waited for a massive logging truck to rush by. The front windshield was cold with dew on the outside, as if the car were perspiring from the strength of its own aggressive nature. Trent put a hand on her thigh but she ignored it and floored it out on to the open state-road.

“Have you ever considered a career in football?” Trent said again. Milo shrunk down in his seat, he knew what was coming. “I sent video highlights of my playing out to college recruiters, I mean I was good. It looks like I’m going to be a ‘walk on’ instead.”

“What’s a walk on Trent?” Frank asked. He looked outside in to the night--tall fields of pines lined the road with endless swamps behind them.

“It means I’m going to have to pay my own tuition with the hopes of making a team or receiving a scholarship.”

“Or making it on the local two-year college, non-scholarship team, because you have academic and behavioral issues.” Missy said.

“Behavioral issues?” And he barely got the word behavioral out of his mouth. His tongue twisted and disfigured the word, giving it numerous un-required syllables.

There was a brief silence. His left arm went full force, straight and solid like a 2 by 4 in to her face. The center of the back of his hand hit her squarely on the nose. The car swerved nearly running off the road. “You think you’re so smart! From day one--everything that's ever came out of your mouth was smart, smart, smart!” He relaxed putting his hand in his lap. “I fixed you didn’t I,” and he glared in to the darkness and then smiled while hanging on to the anger.

Takashi put both his hands on the back of Trent’s headrest squeezing it tight. His thumbs punctured the tough black leather and he gritted his teeth hard, grinding them. “Easy Takashi,” Frank whispered and he patted him on the back. “He belongs to her.”

Milo watched with wide eyes in amazement as Takashi removed his thumbs from the back of the seat. Milo tried it out. He pressed his thumb hard in to the back of Missy’s seat. “How did you do that?”

Missy shook her head. Her nose stung in pain and her eyes watered. She felt herself wanting to cry--to express how much she was sick of him. Sick of him telling her what to do all of the time. Sick of being his trophy, always they’re at his dad’s restaurant in the evenings at the edge of the bar. They’re to impress and wow his friends. He didn’t know anything about her. “Am I going to grow teeth?” She asked both of the boys in back, excluding Milo.

Takashi laughed, lightening up a little. “Sounds like someone has been reading too many Anne Rice novels.”

Melissa looked over at Trent who was finishing off Busch #10. She put her left knee under the steering wheel to hold the car steady and looked over to see where his left arm lay. She reached over with her right arm, grabbed his hand, put it in her left hand and held it tight. With dizzying speed, her arm a blur, she grabbed the switchblade out of his shirt pocket and flipped it open.

Trent looked over at her. His right hand tipped his beer and it spilled in a cool golden stream in to his lap. “Hey?” His body felt numb from the excessive beers, but he could feel an open wound on his wrist. He looked at the switchblade sitting in her lap and dropped his can of beer. He grabbed at the knife with his right hand. She pulled on his hand and turned his wrist, pushing on the outside of his muscular arm at the elbow. His face, contorted with pain, pressed against the cool dash. All he could think about was saying was one thing “Uncle, uncle! Missy, Missy! I give up! I give up!” Milo scooted forward to the edge of his seat in the middle of car and put both hands on the seats in front of him craning his neck to see what she was doing. He had no words for what he saw.

She sucked harder on his wrist and the liquid began to come as a solid stream. It came fast and it squirted in pulses in to the back of her throat. ‘Uncle’ he kept saying. She felt a full feeling as if she had just eaten a medium rare steak, shrimp, mashed potatoes and peas with an order of grits on the side just to keep it real. The sound of ‘Uncle’ grew weaker. She pulled her full lips off his wrist. Blood did not issue forth from the wound anymore. His wrist was just an open, smiling, fleshy red mouth. His skin was ash and pale like powder and his breathing stopped. While still holding his hand with her left, she pushed on the back of his elbow with her right forearm and snapped it like a twig.

Milo winced at the sight and breathed hard out his nose. His heart raced and he felt out of breath. She tossed Trent's limp, floppy ligament aside and his body slid toward the gearshift. “C’mon, get out of the way.”

“Jesus Christ! What did you do?” Milo gasped.

“How did that feel?” Frank asked.

“It felt all right.” She felt un-emotional about it, but then relaxed. “I guess it felt ok. You’ve done that before?”

“You have to eliminate the weak people from your life to access more strength. Think about it this way--he’s better off now. You put him out of his misery.” Takashi said.

“And I did unselfishly help him without any thought of own personal gain or expectation of reward.” Missy said.

“I think so.” Frank agreed and the more you do it the easier it will get.

“That really wasn’t all that hard.” And she looked over at Trent. The best place for his body would be in some random swamp where the gators would finish him off.

“I think we have a natural.” Takashi said now a completely different person. He felt happier than he had been in awhile.

“I think it was wrong to do it out of anger though.”

“Hey,” and Frank leaned up in his seat to put his head on her shoulder “all in all we’re eliminating the weak and freeing the intellectually superior. You know what they say--’stupid people shouldn’t breed’.”

“Hungry?” Frank asked Takashi.

“Very.” Takashi said and they both turned to look at the still stunned Milo.

 

 

The cherry red 1969 Camaro 502 pulled up to the brightly lit Sunoco Gas station. Its store and signs glowed yellow and looked like an oasis for rednecks; a beacon of hope for those parched between sessions of heavy drinking. Moths and other Floridian insect life fluttered about dusty fluorescent tubes and signs for sales were haphazardly taped to the windows.

A tall, blue truck with muddy tires pulled up next to the Camaro’s wide and low stature. Vehicles darted in and out of the nightly stop, busy people with their road beers to go.

Milo leaned over the Camaro’s black leather seat to steal a whiff of Missy’s thick, dark brunette hair. It wasn’t his girl and he secretly cherished and coveted her beauty. “Busch right? We are getting Busch?” He said. “I swear to God I hate Budweiser.”

“Milo,” Trent said from the driver’s seat, “nobody cares what you like or dislike.” His voice was gravely and commanding. It always was--just one notched louder than anyone else's and because of this people listened.

“So, then what are we getting then baby?” Missy said putting her hand on his leg, smoothing his ball hugging Levi jeans with long fingered, red nailed strokes. He grabbed her thin little wrist and tossed it back hard in to her lap. “Hey!” She said detesting her hands rough removal.

Milo laughed. “He’s just pissed because he’s going to be a walk on.”

Trent spun around in his seat and grabbed Milo by the back of his long, black rocker hair. He flicked open a 4 inch switchblade and held it to the boys neck. His wrist was taut and unwavering. Milo’s eyes struggled to look down at the weapon. The knives shiny silver blade was making a small section of his pink flesh white as it pressed in to his skin. “You mention that scholarship one more time and I swear to God I’ll slit your throat.”

“Take it easy Trent,” Milo said in a hurried, panicked voice, “they saw the tapes man. They saw them and it won’t be long until you get one of those phone calls. One thing’s for sure, you’ll never get that call in prison.

Trent thought about it for a second. He relaxed his hold on the boy’s hair and put the blade back in to his deep flannel shirt pocket. “I guess you’re right. Missy? What are you still doing here?” He said aggravated.

She kept her lips pursed, she knew better. She felt trained, but she felt wise--she knew when to keep her mouth shut. She pulled on the cars shiny chrome handle to exit and got one foot out the door in to the cold winter night. “Oh, and Missy!” He yelled as if she were far away. Don’t buy any girly wine coolers this time!”

“Sure thing babe.” She said hastily shutting the door on his voice. She had gotten the Strawberry Daiquiri wine coolers last time for fun because she had grown tired of the sharp and ordinary taste of beer. If allowed she would have gotten them again in a second; maybe an ice cold blue coconut Bartles and James. “Hey there pretty lady.” A voice said from her right. It was some man in the usual redneck attire, pure team real-tree camouflage--all decked out and ready to shine some deer. She imagined him performing this illegal sport-- catching the animals off guard with high powered spotlights, while picking them off one by one with skilled shots to specific parts of their anatomy.

“Hey there yourself.” She mumbled. The fluorescence of the down home southern mini-mart brought reality home. It always did. The eyes couldn’t hide in the bright white light. Even behind rose colored glasses three shades too dark from the evils of intoxication. She was thankful she hadn’t started yet. She was going to be careful to stay away from a night of debauchery. She knew if she had too much to drink she would end up at someone’s house at the end of the night doing a striptease on their kitchen table. Self control was very important--she had to stay in control. She supposed that’s why Trent was so appealing to her. He controlled her. How could you lose control if someone else was playing you like a marionette; with a certain amount of respect of course.

The customary electronic ding of the store door sounded off as she gained access. She could see out of the corner of her eye a man ogling her backside as he headed out in to the brisk winter night. Nice, she thought to herself. He probably has six daughters but that wouldn’t stop anyone in town from sneaking a peek at her frayed daisy dukes.

She walked down the narrow isle as a woman in her mid thirties passed by with leathery sun ripened skin, a green tank-top and no bra. That’s why she didn’t like this store. It wasn’t anything like the one near the back roads. A place where the houses near it were bigger and the people who dwelled in them tended to more normal, civilized lives; where the people married for life and families stuck together through thick and thin. The area she was from.

She passed the ten cent candy racks and a small newsstand with the monthly swimsuit issue of Plush. The woman on the cover’s light brown eyes met hers as she crouched down to view the odd selection of alcohol: candy flavored red Saint Ides malt liquor and Zima-like energy drinks. She opened up the cooler to get a 12 pack of canned Busch and the stagnant air from the back room greeted her face a long with the smell of soured milk. She coughed lightly at its foul breath and crunched back over the remnants of a leaky bag of cat litter. It was partially turned in to tan mud from the wall to wall refrigerators condensation.

Missy reached a cluttered isle of magazine racks with Maxim’s and auto-traders. Little Debbie snack cakes and buy one get one free honey buns called out to her as she rounded the counter to get next in line.

“Pump 7. I didn’t say pump 8.” The fussy man said in front of her. “I only put 5 dollars in to my tank and I paid for 45. You see that truck out there? You know how far 5 bucks will get me? About 2 feet.” He huffed for a second. “You know what son? Just give me back 40 and I’ll go somewhere else.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? What do you mean you can’t?”

“Somebody just pumped 45 dollars in to pump 7. I think they just drove off.”

“My 45 dollars?”

“Yes sir.” The cahier said, feeling satisfied that this man was properly screwed out of his money.

“You know what young man?” And he pointed a stern finger at the 22 year old with ragged, poorly cut blonde hair and a red, cheap, cotton vest. “Your manager is going to hear from me. You got that?”

“Yes sir. I’m really sorry sir.”

Missy quickly stepped back as the man stormed passed her. “Wow, rough night huh?” And she clanked down the 12 pack of cans down on the counter.

“Can I see some I.D. mam?”

“My I.D.?” And she leaned over the counter on her elbows. The low scoop neckline of her baby blue shirt dropped low. His eyes followed the edge of her pink lacy bra to the curvy lines of her smooth olive complected cleavage and met her curious gaze.

“Daddy? I have to go potty,” said a little girl behind her. “I have to go potty really bad.” The cahier focused his attention on the tall bearded man who clutched the child’s tiny hand, though his mind was still distant from reality.

“Sir?” The father said. “Could you hurry it up please--unless you’ve got a bathroom key?”

“Here.” The cashier said reaching over the blue cardboard case of Busch, handing the man the key on a wooden lanyard made out of driftwood. Three more people replaced him in line.

“I think I left it in my car outside,” Missy said while tossing her dark brown hair to one side, leaning over slightly further “could you keep the case behind the counter while I go get it?”

“That’ll be eleven-fifty ok?” He said quickly, glancing at her soft curvy features once more hopefully without getting caught. His gaze met her curious dark blue eyes again and then he looked around her at the now ten impatient people in line.

“Hey thanks, that’s really nice of you. I won’t forget it next time--I promise.” She said handing him twelve dollars. She received her change and then bounced out the door with the electronic chime.

***

Missy took a deep swig of Trent’s Busch beer. She grimaced as it soured slightly and fizzed on her palate. Her only delight was in its natural carbonation and smooth ice-cold texture. “Well, that’s not too bad,” she said.

“Better than wine coolers,” he said in return. He wasn’t witty, but everything he said mattered to her. His brutal words often remained with her but she licked the wounds clean when he was not there. That’s how she supposed she had been with him for so long now, unscathed by his insensitive personality.

“So, we’re going to do what you said before?” Milo said quietly, passively and meekly, from the back seat. Trent didn’t answer.

Missy knew exactly where they were headed, to a destination un-known. Maybe not even known to Trent. She pushed the silver button on the car’s glove box and it slowly opened like some ancient drawbridge. She pulled a CD out she had stashed earlier called “Mixes for Trent” and put it in.

“What’s this?” Trent said. The Camaro’s yellow eyes watched carefully for deer as he sped a long the vacant state-road at a comfortable 70. “Some more of your brothers freak music?”

Missy kicked off her cheap, non-descript white Payless shoes and put her bare-feet on the dash. It was her own secret ploy. She knew he liked it--the curves of her thighs, smooth legs and buttocks on display. Especially when she was wearing her cutoff Daisy Dukes or soccer shorts. It made him look out of the corner of his eye and attention from Trent was a rarity.

“Well?” He said, while sneaking a peak at her sensual pose.

“I like it,” Milo said, as the bass of the music’s hip-hop sounds mixed with deep unsteady guitar riffs.

“Nobody asked you,” Trent mumbled.

“It’s just some mix I made for you from my brother’s I-Tunes selection.” Missy said.

Trent didn’t respond. He crushed the fat aluminum waistline of his current can of beer and tossed it in the back. It hit Milo in the face and he fizzed open another. Missy trained her ears on his lustful gulps. It was his third and she hoped he was going to stop soon.

***

He pulled off the state road on to a long dirt road that was barely accessible. The aggressive roots of bushes held fast; their leathery leaves of heavy growth brushed against the car as it drove through the thick mess.

The vehicle came to a stop in front of a house up on stilts. When it rained it poured and the nearby reddish brown tannic river flooded out to the edge of the front porch twenty feet up.

“What are we doing here?” Milo wined. “I thought we were going to the park.”

“Apparently not,” Trent said while shutting off the cars growling engine.

“Whose house is this?” Missy asked. This area was unfamiliar to her and she avoided it. Dangerous nightlife lived here--pygmy rattlers and Florida panthers that stalked unsuspecting prey.

“It’s your stop,” Trent said irritably.

“My stop?”

“You know the two new kids in school: Takashi and Frank?”

“You mean those two who are always in the cafeteria with their nose in a book?” She said uninterested.

Trent pulled out a full fifth of Jack Daniels out from under his seat. “We’re going to have a party." And Trent turned in his seat to give her full eye contact for the first time that night. He looked her up and down taking in the length of her beauty. "Well?"

“Sure thing babe” and she leaned over for a kiss. She knew the drill, though the new Milo didn’t. Get the boys, talk to them for a bit and then coax them in to the car with heavy flirtation. The process never failed.

***

She hurried up the hollow wooden steps. The heel of her left hand slicked a long the mossy wood of the stair’s steep handrail and she slowed her ascent just in case she slipped. At the top there was a porch that wrapped halfway around the house. An air conditioner hummed in the silent night while water dripped from it down on to the muddy sandy soil. Vines trailed up the house strangling it out, fused to the structure that was made entirely out of nearly indestructible slash pine.

Missy knocked on the door. She listened attentively putting her ear to its cold surface, straining to hear the sound of footsteps. She realized she suddenly felt nervous like a little girl knocking on a friend’s house--a residence belonging to someone she might have been more curious about in younger more innocent days.

There was no answer. She started to knock again when the door quickly opened up a crack. The round face of a boy peered out with sullen eyes and then it slammed shut. The sound struck the darkness of the night, but did not wake a thing. All those things were already awake. She heard the latch of the door chain pull back and then click against the top of the door; it opened up abruptly and she let herself in.

One thing she had learned from Trent, it was not to be shy. She pushed past the short, sad looking Japanese boy. She entered all of Trent’s requested excursions in the same manner--invited or not. She was not allowed to fail. The one time she did fail to collect her prize he ignored her for an entire day and instructed her friends to do the same. The feeling of loneliness had nearly been too great for her to bear.

“How’s it going guys?” She said as the Japanese boy shut the door behind her. She felt a mild warmth wash through her from head to toe when she met the gaze of the other boy as he emerged from the kitchen. She looked him up and down as a female would showing rare interest. Trent was the only one who awakened her body and that usually took a while. This boy did it at one glance.

His lack of attire was appealing. He wore worn jeans and no shirt. His body was overly thin and his ribcage was visible beneath his pale white skin. He face was long and serious and yet his eyes displayed something else entirely--a haunting mystery she wished she could touch. He looked beautiful to her and she felt a longing to cares his frailty.

He looked at her and then walked over behind a heavy looking forest green recliner. “Great. How are you?” He said bluntly--a frankness that, to her, did not match his soothing appearance.

“I was wondering if you guys would like to go to a party.” She said while frowning at the condition of the room. She tried not to let the expression show and her eyes surveyed its horrendous condition.

There was a tall bookshelf next to the kitchen door crammed with books. Magazine lay on the floor in front of it: Popular Science, National Geographic, and Discovery. Magazines that to her belonged in the home of the elderly. Next to it was a computer desk with no computer. Dirty dishes covered it--a molding plate of spaghetti soured her eyes. Dirty clothes and laundry were all over the floor to the bedroom and she could see and hear the ceiling fan in the room. It spun out of control like a dangerous helicopter blade. It was one of those houses so small that every room was visible from the living room.

“A party?” The Japanese boy said with a glum demeanor. Her eyes met a couple objects of curiosity. The first was a long piece of rice paper hung up next to an FHM calendar of a scantily clad woman with bright blue lingerie, a garter and stockings to match. The land of the rising sun was on the rice paper.

It was carefully painted and an elongated bonsai tree was beneath it with Japanese characters scrolled from left to right. “What does that say?” She said, trying to ignore the condition of the room. She almost felt the urge to start picking up things for the boys. “Is that about your family lineage or something?”

“It’s a haiku isn’t it?” Frank said, asking Takashi.

“It is. It says:

‘Kudzu strangled house

Overgrown vines and tangled veins

Summer place of pain.’

“Gee, that’s not very happy,” Missy said.

“I suppose it’s not,” Takashi sighed with his hands on his chubby waistline looking at the piece seriously. “Poetry is about what you feel and that’s what came out at the time.”

“What’s that?” Missy said, looking at the medical instrument on top of the clothing outside the bedroom door. She knew what it was but asked anyways.

“That?” Frank said, and he pointed at it with a long bony finger. “It’s for blood transfusions.”

“I thought so. Why do you have it?”

“It is amazing what you can find at flea markets these days,” Takashi said in a neutral tone as if his melancholy were about to cease, making way for a brief break in the clouds.

“It’s from World War 2 right?” And she tucked her hair back behind her left ear while bending at the knees, crouching down to take a serious look at it. “Why does it look so used?”

Frank nodded his head at Takashi who was looking at him. It was a go.

She stared at the shiny steel instrument. Her long dark hair draped down nearly touching the dried blood of its tubing. It looked like a wine opener with wounded, prosthetic arms on either side crusted over with black--most likely dried blood. It even had a handle with a silver ring on the top, for hanging.

She stood up and Takashi grabbed her from behind. His hands met at her stomach and he lifted her off the ground. “Hey!” She said. “Get your hands off me!” She felt delicate to him yet he could feel the physical strength beneath her softness as she kicked and fought.

“You’re a ball of fire!” He laughed. “Wow. Isn’t she going to be perfect Takashi!” He said excited.

“Guess so.” Takashi said still neutral with his head cocked to the side, looking at her.

She was a tall girl, about 5’8” and about 135lbs. Frank was significantly shorter but he carried her in to the small combo living room, family room, and TV room and threw her with the greatest of ease. She hit the recliner in a seated position and the chair reared back and then back down again with a great thump.

He jumped on top of her pinning her wrists down with his hands.

“What are you doing?” She said grunting and struggling.

“How do you know your medical equipment Miss Missy Baines?” Frank said right in her face.

“Let me go!” She said with a child like persistence.

“How?”

“I’m preparing to go to a two-year associate degree program to become a registered nurse,” she said quickly “okay--is that all right with you?”

“I’m impressed,” Takashi said, next to them.

“Me too,” Frank added. We didn’t think you were capable of anything beyond the basic process of simple thought. Maybe the capacity to slut around a little and hang out with that loser jock boyfriend Trent.”

“Slut around? I just came here to invite you guys to a party!” She said angrily. She wondered if Trent could see her. There were enough windows here, all equally black from the night. Maybe he could see her from the car.

“Come on,” Frank said and she had to turn her head and gag because his breath was so bad. “We heard what Trent does to the new guys--take them out for a little hard night of partying, embarrassing them with brute physical force and a good tongue lashing right in front of the prettiest girl in school. You get off on it don’t you?”

 

 

Was this inspired by Stephen Kings first story?—I was a teenage grave-robber? (I BELIEVE HE RE-NAMED HIS STORY BY THE WAY—FORGET WHAT HE NAMED IT)

 

-entire critique is only opinion, not necessarily fact

-should be a comma between “Taneous Maine” I think.

-should be “the there”—I put asterisk where it should be-- to * distraught bereaved

-should be “of” here—would read better that way—places asterisk where it should be--   all * the pride

-there’s no period between “for his services Minty caused”—shouldn’t there be?

 

- “Strong mints were always the first item.  Large tablets of chalky white aggregate that were so strong that Jenning's avoided selling them to children, and he would have given up stocking the things if it hadn't been for Minty. The grave digger always bought five dollar's worth, about a hundred of the tablets, and occasionally some new socks, or a comb and toothpaste.”---You explained what these things are but what are their purpose? The purpose of the aggregate tablets? To me, the layman who knows nothing about grave-digging, I have no idea.

 

- “The origin of the nickname Minty was clear; you could always smell the crisp scent of mints on the grave digger's breath.”—who would smell someone’s breath to give them a nickname of that kind. I can see if someone’s breath smelled bad they would get a nickname according to that information, but not if there breath smelled pleasant. This paragraph I am pasting here: I do not find it relevant to the story—the truth is, it is relevant but I find it silly—maybe that was your point— “The origin of the nickname Minty was clear; you could always smell the crisp scent of mints on the grave digger's breath.  He always seemed to be sucking on one, first one cheek, then the other bulged like a plundering squirrel as he rolled the candy around his mouth.  He would lodge beside his teeth like chewing tobacco when he spoke, the mint flashing as white as his gleaming gnashers when he smiled, which was often.” –maybe if you gave him a different reason to be called Minty that was more suitable that would fit better with a story about Grave-digging. Like maybe he stole breath mints out of the pockets of the dead or something (who knows why breath mints would be in there pockets but maybe a family member placed them there or something.

 

--at this point I am going to cease pointing out grammatical errors in the story—I just found out a spot where there should be a comma, but the errors so far would prevent acceptance of the piece by a small press publisher

 

--this sentence does not read smoothly and is too long—“
He would sit at the bar order one ice cold pint glass of beer and sip it slowly while talking with the other day time regulars about the weather, the state of the nation and whether or not Jim Hickey was a shoe in for the first prize giant pumpkin growing festival that year.”

 

-there are numerous spots where the story does not read smoothly—I suggest reading it back to yourself. Then you might be able to find some of these errors. Basicly—the way you have written some sections—I do not believe—is how a real person would talk—even with an accent of any kind.

 

-I did not understand this sentence “Coming up on the row of freshest headstones, where the combined resting place of Marty and Sandy was the freshest James was brought up short.” It doesn’t make sense to me. Using the grammar checker on your computer would be a good idea before you call a story completed. I use mine to the point where I am sick of it, but I do it anyway. I have learned that it is proper to generally use “were” instead of “was”.  

 

--VERY GOOD IMAGES AND DESCRIPTIONS THROUGH ENTIRE STORY--

 

THIS SENTENCE DOES NOT SOUND CORRECT—“ Coming up on the row of freshest headstones, where the combined resting place of Marty and Sandy was the freshest James was brought up short.”  

 

- Climbing out of the grave Minty bent and with a smooth rhythm of a professional shoveler   ---A PROFESSIONAL SHOVELER? DON’T YOU MEAN GRAVEDIGGER? THE WORD SHOVELER DOES NOT SOUND CORRECT.

 

--THERE SHOULD BE A SCENE BREAK HERE--***  --- The grave digger reached the cottage, and went inside.  James crept around the small house and peered in the kitchen window, watching in horror as the scene unfolded.

***
The cottage kitchen was small and neat.  A wooden table was laden with fresh vegetables and a small basket of gathered mushrooms from under the nearby trees. Minty came in and set the heavy

 

--THIS STORY SEEMS OVERY GRAPHIC—WERE YOU GOING FOR SHOCK VALUE WITH THIS? This story would be considered “Splatterpunk” a particularly visceral and grotesque kind of writing filed under Extreme Horror—there should be a warning before your story that says “warning: extreme horror”

 

--it was cool that “Minty” was instantly forgiven because of his properly performed required duties and the fact that his occupation did not cost the township anything

 

--excellent story/fantastic descriptions of everything. I like to write lots so you are competition. I want to write better than you. I can write more properly than you can—better use of grammar, but your descriptions of everything are far better than mine (better than my descriptions of things in my own writing). That makes me jealous. Make sure you don’t improve that way I won’t have anything to worry about (j/k about that part)

Hi all, first time submitting (3 crits down and a bunch to go).  2300 words make up this strange tale of a town's grave digger.  Have at it.

"Minty" by Paul Mannering

Charles "Minty" McGregor had seen it all in his years as a grave digger for the town and county of Taneous Maine.  From baby coffins no bigger than shoe boxes to distraught bereaved throwing themselves in to the pit after the descending casket.  He still dug his graves by hand with all the pride of a master craftsman.

He could dig a six foot deep hole with perfect sides in little more than an hour.  The Taneous town council appreciated his willingness to retain the old ways, the maintenance and fuel for a mechanical digger would have put undue strain on the annual budget and other than a small monthly check for his services Minty caused them no fiscal inconvenience what so ever.
On the first Monday of the month the grave digger would walk the mile into town, stopping off at Jenning's Store to cash his check, then suitably armed with notes and coin he would make some purchases.  Strong mints were always the first item.  Large tablets of chalky white aggregate that were so strong that Jenning's avoided selling them to children, and he would have given up stocking the things if it hadn't been for Minty. The grave digger always bought five dollar's worth, about a hundred of the tablets, and occasionally some new socks, or a comb and toothpaste.
The origin of the nickname Minty was clear; you could always smell the crisp scent of mints on the grave digger's breath.  He always seemed to be sucking on one, first one cheek, then the other bulged like a plundering squirrel as he rolled the candy around his mouth.  He would lodge beside his teeth like chewing tobacco when he spoke, the mint flashing as white as his gleaming gnashers when he smiled, which was often.
After his purchases at Jenning's Minty would stroll over to Hardin's Tavern.  He would sit at the bar order one ice cold pint glass of beer and sip it slowly while talking with the other day time regulars about the weather, the state of the nation and whether or not Jim Hickey was a shoe in for the first prize giant pumpkin growing festival that year.
Around two o'clock in the afternoon the monthly ritual would conclude. Minty would slip a fresh peppermint tablet into his mouth and say a polite goodbye to his drinking comrades, and then walk back to the cemetery.  No one saw him in town other than that, strangely enough no one thought it at all odd.
Minty lived out at the cemetery in a small cottage under the boundary trees.  He kept a tidy vegetable patch and picked the wild apples each fall from the heavy laden trees by his kitchen window. His duties other than digging holes included gardening, mowing the grass, tending the graves and acting as a stand in pall bearer for grave side services where no friends of family were present.
When Marty Soames wrapped his high-school graduation present around a telegraph pole at ninety miles an hour he and his sweetheart Sandy Parker had to be washed out of the knotted chassis with a hose and scooped up with a shovel. Lester Finn, the local mortician didn't bother embalming the remains.  He took one look in the heavy garbage bag the sheriff's deputies delivered to his work room and raised an eyebrow.
"May as well cover them in barbeque sauce for all the good I can do," he said and tied the bag shut.  With the help of the two officers in attendance they arranged the tied off sack in a casket and Finn set to and nailed it shut.  
        "Damn shame," Finn said and the young couple were buried together the next afternoon before a weeping crowd of friends and family.
James Van Pelt had played football in high school with his good buddy the late Marty Soames. So it was, in his mind a fitting tribute to come out to the cemetery that night and raise a bottle of his dad's single malt in his friend's honor. Parking down the road and sneaking into the cemetery James made his way through the shadow dappled trees.  It was a new moon night, stars were giving the best light and James knew that Minty was vigilant in his watching over the dead, so a flashlight was only going to bring trouble.  
Coming up on the row of freshest headstones, where the combined resting place of Marty and Sandy was the freshest James was brought up short.  A shovel was gleaming in the muted starlight, flashing with a sharpened edge as it rose and fell above the edge of the grave.  
'What the hell?' James thought and slipped closer to see what was happening.  Crouching down behind a nearby headstone he watched and listened as the freshly buried coffin was hammered and split open with the shovel. A few moments later, with barely a grunt of strain from his muscled frame Minty heaved the heavy trash bag over the edge and onto the trampled grass beside the coffin.  Climbing out of the grave Minty bent and with a smooth rhythm of a professional shoveler returned the earth to its hole.  The empty casket was soon covered, and in no time the grave was returned to normal, except that it was now empty.
Astonished at this bizarre grave robbing James watched as Minty hefted the bag over his shoulder, lifted his shovel and began walking back to the cottage under the trees.  Following at a discreet distance James' scalp crawled with an uneasy dread.  If the rumors were to be believed there was nothing salvageable from the corpses.  No jewelry or gold teeth, no organs for sale on one of those black markets you hear about on the news. What the hell was Minty doing?
The grave digger reached the cottage, and went inside.  James crept around the small house and peered in the kitchen window, watching in horror as the scene unfolded.
The cottage kitchen was small and neat.  A wooden table was laden with fresh vegetables and a small basket of gathered mushrooms from under the nearby trees. Minty came in and set the heavy plastic sack down in the sink.  With his strong hands he untied the top and inhaled deeply, the set of his shoulders and the broad smile on his face suggesting that the aroma was pleasing to him.  Retrieving a long sharp butcher's knife from a solid wooden block on the bench Minty plunged a hand into the bag and removed a large dripping chunk of raw meat.  Setting it down on a cutting board he took up the knife and quickly carved the flesh into chunks. James watched in growing horror, as piece after piece was retrieved, cut, and prepared.  The growing pile of human flesh was transferred into a heavy iron pot, the waste, which seemed to include shards of bone, hair and smeared lumps of brain tissue were dropped back into the plastic sack.
Finished with the meat Minty moved onto the selection of vegetables and mushrooms.  Chopping and peeling, the diced bits all going into the pot.  Finally he added some water and some stock from a brown earthenware jar and set the heavy pot on the stove and turned on the gas. James had seen enough, backing away from the ghoulish scene he lit out for town as if the devil were on his heels.
James' was making no sense when he got to the sheriff's office, the deputy on duty called the sheriff, who turned up smartly.  Taking James' by the hair Sheriff Tillman dragged him into his office and threw him into a chair.
"Siddown and shaddup boy."  
James opened his mouth to say something about not meaning any disrespect sheriff but there's a psycho living out in the cemetery eating dead people. But the cold look in the law's eyes muted him.
Tillman picked up the phone, dialed and then murmured into the receiver.  James heard mention of snooping and kid and Minty's name was used too. The sheriff hung up, sat down and leaned back in his chair.  His uniform was a bit faded, and the cuffs were fraying but his face was stone and together they sat in silence while James wondered what the hell was going on.
Chuck Gillins had been the Mayor of Taneous for years and he ran a tight ship. After the last lumber mill had closed up shop he had steered the town through shark infested waters and avoided the worst possible fate, losing the entire population to more developed population centers until the town of Taneous was completely abandoned.  He was a 5th generation resident and he was damned if the town was going to quit while he was mayor.
His pioneering spirit had galvanized the residents and they had survived, times had been tough, and weren't getting any easier but there were ways to attract visitors and family based cottage industries had replaced the corporate steam whistle chiming of the mills.
"Hey there Jimmy, Sheriff Tillman tells me you've got some cock-a-many story about ol' Minty?"
James took a deep breath, finally someone who wanted to listen to him.  He blurted out the whole story, editing a little, so the theft of his dad's scotch was omitted; instead James had just gone out to say a last goodbye to his best pal in the world.
The mayor and the sheriff listened as James described in horrified detail the pot and the preparations Minty had made for his monstrous supper.  The two men listened in silence, the mayor with one arm folded across his chest and the other hand cupping his chin, listening and thoughtful.  Sheriff Tillman rocked back in his chair and tapped his thumbs against his belt.  Neither man accused James of telling lies, being drunk, high or making a nuisance of himself.
"Well I do believe we should take a trip out there and see this for ourselves."
The sheriff nodded and with a sigh he rocked up on to his feet, hitched his belt and slipped on his Stetson before leading them out through the front room.
"Back in an hour Earl," he said casually to the deputy manning the front desk.
James and the sheriff rode in Tillman's car, James in the back, a first for him, the doors had no handles on the inside and it made him feel distinctly claustrophobic. Mayor Gillins followed behind, and they parked up at the gate to the cemetery and walked across the well manicured lawn together.
Tillman knocked on the cottage door and they stood there for a brief time of uncomfortable silence until the door opened and Minty loomed large and somber barely framed by the small doorway.
"Evening Minty," Tillman said, sweeping his hat off and kneading the brim in his hands. "Sorry to bother you, but we need to have a word.  Mind if we come in?"
Minty stepped back, turning aside to allow them to squeeze inside.  The air in the cottage was scented with mint and a delicious warm cooking smell that even set a horrified James' mouth watering. Tillman led the way into the kitchen, James, Gillins and Minty came behind.  The door closed firmly against the night.
Mayor Gillins was looking quite glum in the dim light of the kitchen.  A low wattage bulb burned yellow in the small room. Gillins and the sheriff exchanged resigned looks and at some non-verbal prompt the mayor took the initiative.
"We did our best Minty, we really did.  But kids these days, ya know?"
Minty blinked slowly, his shoulders seeming to swell ever broader in the long shadows.
"The thing is," the sheriff interjected, "James here came out to pay his respects to the dead and saw you ahh… taking your share."
James turned to stare at the sheriff who wouldn't look at him.  "Taking his share? What the hell does that mean? This guy digs up corpses and eats them!"
Both the mayor and the sheriff studied the floor.  Heads bowed they looked truly repentant for some transgression.  "We appreciate everything you do for us Minty, we know that without you this town would be dead. It won't happen again."  Tillman spoke in a subdued tone and both men nodded at the silent figure who regarded them all impassively.
"I forgive you. As I have forgiven you all in the past, and will do again in the future. The blessing of Mintanaeous is upon this land and the people.  Now leave us." Minty's voice rolled with a dull echoing reverberation from deep with in the earth like seething magma.
Gillins and Tillman hurried out of the cottage without so much as a glance at James.  The boy was about to follow when Minty placed a hand on his shoulder and stopped him dead.
"Your people are young on this earth," the grave digger intoned.  "The first people showed wisdom when they gave praise to that which has always been.  Since I awoke, drawn from the earth by the prayers and suffering of the people I have given my strength to the land and the town your forefather's built upon it.  I devour the flesh of the dead, they are the price of my blessing."
James stared into Minty's eyes which were now glowing red crystals glinting with the fires of the earth's core.  The grave digger's teeth gleamed around the swelling chasm of his opening mouth.  James felt the searing rush of volcanic heat as this ancient god of the deepest earth engulfed him.

I have decided I am going to start writing in my journal, just little things. Ready? This is the life of a married 34 year old male who lives in what he thinks is the deep south. I didn't take out the trash this morning for the garbage truck and I will get in trouble for it. I didn't get up with my daughter to get her "cuppy", so my wife was forced to sleep on the sofa because both daughters crawled in to bed. I guess I should have gotten the cup- I will tomorrow if it happens again. our cats rip around the house at 4 in the morning creating disturbances. I am christian but I cannot deny the fact that sometimes I feel like different "Spirits" try to say hi to me at night. Sometimes it's a good thing, sometimes its not. Sometimes I get nightmares- other times it's just someone who wants help. Like, there was this spirit of a girl and for 2 nights I was bothered, but as soon as I figured out its name- Rossetta, it was happy about that and went away. It just wanted to be acknowledged, who knows why. I saw someone laying down on a grave- some women dressed in fancy older attire with an odd hat- when she layed on the grave she sank/vanished in to the earth. I was like a vision or a dream. She was perfectly content. Later everyone.

Written while on Darvocet
ELIZABETH R

(for Neil, by way of G.K. Chesterton)

Have you ever been to Westminster Abbey?
I dare not go again.
For Elizabeth R walks freely there,
And her steps I do not ken.
Sometimes she floats beneath the dome
Of her bedded sepulchre;
Sometimes she roams in the royal gloam,
And the bones, they dream of her.
I glimpsed her once in the glasséd case
Of her battered effigy,
And because she had no eyelids left
She stared right back at me.
She lingers long, pond'ring the doom
Of the greater and the lesser,
And my only salvation lies at the tomb
Of Edward the Confessor.

 

“What is that?”

“I’m just going to rest your foot on it dear.”

She place her foot on what looked like a very sharp knifeforzen peas, doc gets angry because little kid gets cast wet- also retains patient is on the phone, is told by the father to get off the phone- gives the doc evil glance

            It’s silver glare cast a small sunspot on the wall like a watch caught in the sun.

            “It’s to put your foot on- kind of like a shoe horn only this is a sock horn.”

            “Oh,” The little girl said, though she had no idea what he was talking about.

                        “She put her foot up on the shiny metal surgical steel- “It’s cold.”

He took a ring of cloth hanging on the apparatus and stretched it out over her foot and was surprised at the little girls silence- by now a child was usually busy with a flurry of questions- “what is that?” What does that do?” He would simply settle in to his patients, as easily as counting to ten- he imagined it was a certain breathing meathod he learned from a friend in Med School that could keep your heart rate down during the most stressful of times- this was important in his line of work-

            “Hello? Ya, yes I know, I was planning on it.” The girls father could almost hear the other person on the doctors cell phone- a male voice, but could not make out what he was saying.

            Dr. Harris slowed his movement, brought the white, nearly transparent sock up the little girls heel and halfway up her calf. He then grabbed a bandage out of a plastic white box off the floor and dipped it in a foggy colored liquid. “Ok, alright- I won’t forget.” He closed his tiny silver Samsung cell phone and returned to a faster pace with two hands wrapping the wet cloth around the girls leg- “This is called a short leg cast” also refered to as a walking cast”

            “That’s a fiberglass material Doc?” The father said.

            “Yep, fiberglass-polyurethane- it takes seconds to dry- as oposed to cotton bandage with plaster of paris which takes 72 hours to dry. And you wouldn’t want to wait that long would you?” He said to the little girl. She shook her head no violently.

“What color cast would you like? We Have Pink, Green…” He didn’t get very far, she looked like a fan of Hello Kitty- belonging to parents with money- it was clear what kind of cast she would be getting- he didn’t even have to ask.

“Pink!” And she smiled gratefully- “I’m going to have a pink cast daddy! You think all of my friends will sign it?”

“Probably Missy” Her father smiled back.

Dr. Harris grabbed the pink wraps and began to skillfully wrap up the girls leg with the pink she would have to live with for the next three weeks. His cell phone rang again- “Yes, I know- we can get it done tonight. Yes, I know, it’s important to me as it is to you..” He closed up the phone again and slipped it in to the pocket of his white cotton coat.

“Doc- you think maybe you could talk to your wife on your own time and finish patching up my daughter?” The father said sincerely with a calm level voice.

“Sure- you think you could mind your own business.” He said matching the fathers sincerity. He stared the father down with cold dark eyes while laying down the last of the bright colored wrap. He un-wavered his eyes from the little girls dad- “young lady? Do you know the rules.”

“Don’t walk on it.” And she paused briefly glancing at the ceiling in thought- “And, don’t get it wet.”

“Very good.” And he turned his head to smile broadly at her rows of perfect white teeth.. “But- it’s a walking cast- so, you can walk on it, but only if it doesn’t hurt. No running and I’ll see you in three weeks.

The Doctor stood up off one knee to speak personally to the father- “As we looked at in the X-Ray, she has a fractured growth plate on her right ankle- too much time on her feet in the next three weeks and her foot will not heal properly. That means she could end up with a limp for the rest of her life. Got it Dad?”

“Got it” The father said reluctantly. He didn’t like the doctor’s tone of voice, but held his tongue and lived with it. – “c’mon honey, let’s go.” And he grunted as he picked up the exceptionally tall six year.”