tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71753825240969968692024-03-05T13:54:09.501-08:00Strange Fiction/ Baffling RealitiesThe blog of author M.L. ArcherM. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-88318689774319356542018-02-18T16:43:00.001-08:002018-02-18T16:50:09.896-08:00A Poem Like That<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3i-qRdWRiJHvBhdosCFMHmeF0FtwZ0-8K8vts8DddHp5O7zk3K2mx3I0wI8nRvteVR3d6256izynj_ihDuP63I9x7LeBFVDCGAN0B5-EGE0jCxa482Ib0xviUUAKF1rERdk7Ufhjj1uy8/s1600/colourful-bright-colours-morning-glory-bindweed-color-blue-yellow-CXN00J.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3i-qRdWRiJHvBhdosCFMHmeF0FtwZ0-8K8vts8DddHp5O7zk3K2mx3I0wI8nRvteVR3d6256izynj_ihDuP63I9x7LeBFVDCGAN0B5-EGE0jCxa482Ib0xviUUAKF1rERdk7Ufhjj1uy8/s400/colourful-bright-colours-morning-glory-bindweed-color-blue-yellow-CXN00J.jpg" width="248" height="400" data-original-width="863" data-original-height="1390" /></a></div>
Wouldn't it be grand to skip the lies?
If you don't love me, simply speak the truth.
I need to hear it from you...
and in so doing give you one last chance to act like a man.
I won't hold my breath.
M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-87579408735927799622018-02-17T19:30:00.001-08:002018-02-17T19:33:15.989-08:00Once Upon September
Softly blows the wind at night through the hills and valleys
Moves the clouds beyond my sight until my eyes can now see…
Moonbeams dancing on the hill touch secrets I remember
They now stay ever, ever still since once upon a September.
Mother said come here to me,
safe forever you will be,
Let their arms now comfort thee
I promise they will set you free this night in good September.
Their game was played on these very hills
I was swift but we all took some spills
Twas harder than my very will
In that warm September.
They called the game a merry chance
But whoever lost had to dance
A dance that only they could pick
So I had to dance at the end of a stick
The robed ones disdained all my cries
Saying for fortune I was their prize
A dainty for the gods they pleased
That night in dark September.
I never saw my mother again
But fortune is her new best friend
The cloaked ones earned their queens embrace
And I a new path forever take,
Sailing O'er the mid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEni0xo8fOFFCTLGiZvG6eQnmVrUYx1b9qK7pQyFYzARN3L78RCSX45HZs1RkSpIjD6pA5OYJpx3UBFyazBdRdbu5COlMr5Xiq_yIixTt5K1u0joRSr-MqX1ycADlIvDn16pjeHN81sMVi/s1600/is.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEni0xo8fOFFCTLGiZvG6eQnmVrUYx1b9qK7pQyFYzARN3L78RCSX45HZs1RkSpIjD6pA5OYJpx3UBFyazBdRdbu5COlMr5Xiq_yIixTt5K1u0joRSr-MqX1ycADlIvDn16pjeHN81sMVi/s400/is.jpeg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="341" data-original-height="256" /></a></div>
night breeze...
Quiet, peaceful, still as you please
Yet there is no comfort left for me...
Ever since September.
M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-50639778276256436642012-04-22T14:13:00.001-07:002012-04-22T14:28:00.499-07:00Mike Malone and the Book of Enoch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKQ6xUcEO4RXrW82BdCa7jtjO79exEEYLXJouAsEPVOyvmnBR_45cLcbUHasGX0E8gOR_Yr_nEPRunVFH7rKPnT2oz306PJ8RJ0fr7jmrWS0F8S-L9dZMVOu1FljwoPflkhG-bAzmAvfu/s1600/mike+malone+hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="164" width="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKQ6xUcEO4RXrW82BdCa7jtjO79exEEYLXJouAsEPVOyvmnBR_45cLcbUHasGX0E8gOR_Yr_nEPRunVFH7rKPnT2oz306PJ8RJ0fr7jmrWS0F8S-L9dZMVOu1FljwoPflkhG-bAzmAvfu/s320/mike+malone+hand.jpg" /></a></div>
In 2010 I wrote an article for the Midnight Diner about my (then) coming novel, The Calling of Mike Malone. I've learned a lot about the book of Enoch since then, but it still formed the genesis for the story and the article sums up why.
From The Midnight Diner--
<b>Why Enoch?</b>
In August I have a novel coming out called, The Calling of Mike Malone, to be published by MuseItUp publishers. This story grew from all the years I’d spent wondering about a certain prophet in the Bible named Enoch.
Why Enoch?
Come on, how do you not wonder about Enoch? I can recall being five years old, driving along in the family station wagon off to church and my sisters arguing about people dying and going to heaven. My mother added that there was at least one man who didn’t die at all, a man named Enoch.
I asked how he managed to skip that step and my mom said because he was translated.
I sat there staring into space, my five year old head thinking, ‘Translated? To French?’ I sat back and forgot about it for awhile.
But over time I noticed something about Enoch…the Bible doesn’t say much about him. From the KJV we know that he didn’t see death, that God was pleased with him, and, aside from a few blurbs in Jude, there isn’t much.
So then, one day, I read the book of Enoch. No, it’s not part of regular biblical canon. My view of extra-biblical works is that you might have to take them with a grain of salt, but you can also learn things. For instance, the book of Enoch deals with the days Enoch spent judging the fallen angels.
Yeah, think about that a second. This man called down God’s judgement on the angels. You know, destroy- a- city- with- the- wave- of- an- arm, smite- thousands- at- a- time, beings -of- blazing- light…angels. And yet this little human turned to them and spoke the words God gave to him say, “You’re going to hell.”
Not a message I’d want to deliver. Enoch had guts.
The book also introduces us to the concept that in over five thousand years the snarkiness of rebellion really hasn’t changed that much.
Here’s the fallen angels deciding to go to earth and get some strange.
Enoch 7
1It happened after the sons of men had multiplied in those days, that daughters were born to them, elegant and beautiful.
2And when the angels, the sons of heaven, beheld them, they became enamoured of them, saying to each other, Come, let us select for ourselves wives from the progeny of men, and let us beget children.
3Then their leader Samyaza said to them; I fear that you may perhaps be indisposed to the performance of this enterprise;
4And that I alone shall suffer for so grievous a crime.
5But they answered him and said; We all swear;
6And bind ourselves by mutual execrations, that we will not change our intention, but execute our projected undertaking.
7Then they swore all together, and all bound themselves by mutual execrations. Their whole number was two hundred, who descended upon Ardis, which is the top of mount Armon.
8That mountain therefore was called Armon, because they had sworn upon it, and bound themselves by mutual execrations.
Unbelievable! Big bad angels about to disobey God. This section is like something out of middle school when me and a few other baddies would meet around the picnic table and talk about how we were going to steal answers from the teachers desk or something.
Samyaza is like, “I’ll go do it, but I’m not going to be the only one that gets in trouble. You guys do it too or I’m out.”
And like a bunch of dumb-ass punks, the fallen all agree that they’ll do it, too.
Now, even if you don’t believe the book of Enoch is biblical at all, it is still a very old book and in this example alone we learn that bad guys are most believable when they are a little bit stupid.
Go back and read the account again and listen for these other commonalities: They show no ability to put themselves in someone elses shoes. The ‘it’s all about me’ attitude has been embraced throughout the millennia. How else do you think Lady Gaga scraped up fans?
But the implications and possible ramifications of the events in the book of Enoch are still with us. Long debates are fought in the UFO community as to whether or not the fallen are still having babies down here and if they are behind the alien abductions we hear so much about. Some religious groups, like the Mormons, insist their God lives on his own planet and spends his time making babies. Sounds down right Enockian.
So coming up with a story in which a fallen angel decides to out do his brethren by creating his own personal anti-Christ and taking over not only our world, but the spiritual realm, well, it ends up sounding not so far-fetched.
But then Mike Malone has to deal with the fact that his father’s greatest dream for his life is to have Mike become own his anti-Christ. And Dad doesn’t like hearing ‘No.’ The ride Mike takes after making this clear to his father becomes- an extremely dark, but fascinating adventure. One that I hope the reader will enjoy.M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-19667293483123061762012-02-29T18:27:00.009-08:002012-02-29T20:44:38.081-08:00Secondary Character? Still First Rate!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1Pc1_vUyCv5T5bTqchXcOfWZSYRBOICBkvwrBdI16Y8wOcbHoPmqe8unNrdTw3TQTh88Iq3v9NFdTstKVOIraUDgsZs32NibslV9Uph5Fln8Hbvhyphenhyphen9seQFv-Z_qAzmnKTIXp-B7me_xG/s1600/mike+malone+cover.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1Pc1_vUyCv5T5bTqchXcOfWZSYRBOICBkvwrBdI16Y8wOcbHoPmqe8unNrdTw3TQTh88Iq3v9NFdTstKVOIraUDgsZs32NibslV9Uph5Fln8Hbvhyphenhyphen9seQFv-Z_qAzmnKTIXp-B7me_xG/s320/mike+malone+cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714750143450134146" /></a> <span style="font-weight:bold;">Welcome to the Paranormal Blog Tour! I am so pleased to be your first stop!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">In paranormal fiction, secondary characters still need a first rate quality. They’re like ushers helping the MC and the readers find their way through your bizarre universe. Here’s an example from my novel, <span style="font-style:italic;">The Calling of Mike Malone</span>. This is Mike’s meeting with Reverend Hazel Lumski, a character who functions around the edges of the story, but adds so much. She becomes the perfect introduction to a new, strange chapter in Mike’s life. She’s a New Age medium who enjoys, among other things, Chicago basketball, cigars and…speaking to the dead. Let’s meet her!<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">…Mike rang the bell again, and in a moment he found himself staring down at the Reverend Hazel Lumski, a woman who stood about four foot nothing. Her red hair was wrapped in a tidy bun, and she wore what he thought the ladies called a peasant dress, with puffy sleeves and gingham print, an earth tone shawl draped her shoulders.<br /><br />Thinking he might punch Rudy for sending him to some weird, middle-aged spinster, he forced a smile and said, “Good afternoon, Reverend. I’m—”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Michael Sean Malone,” she briskly informed him. “You were born almost twenty-one years ago here in Chicago, your mother is alive and retired to Florida, your friends say you work much too hard, you listen to old rock and roll, you’re a Cubs fan, and you keep a special stash of money in your briefcase in an envelope marked business. Your girlfriend’s name is Linda. Please come in. Rudy, it is good to see you again.”<br /><br />“Been way too long, Reverend.”<br /><br />Closing his gaping mouth, Mike stepped into the house.<br /><br />“Let me take your coat, Mr. Malone.”<br /><br />“Thank you,” he murmured, still stunned. “How-how did you know all that? Not even Rudy knows about my money stash.”<br /><br />“Ha, now I do,” Rudy said.<br /><br />The Reverend smiled sweetly. “It wasn’t I, dear. It’s one of the many spirits I see surrounding you and vying for your attention!<br /></span></span><br /><br />The Rev never loses her ‘take charge’ attitude throughout the story. She is ruled by her willingness to discuss the incredibly weird as if they are just things we should take for granted…<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">…Mike swung one leg off the saddle and landed lightly on the floor. <br /><br />“If I hear the word calling one more time! Reverend Lumski, among other things, my father is a cannibal.”<br /><br />“No, no.” She wagged her annoying finger the same way she had at their very first meeting. “One can only be a cannibal by devouring one’s own kind. We are not his kind. He is a god. A creature far superior to us all. To the smaller minded, his behavior may well appear extreme.”<br /><br />Mike said, “I’m warning you. If you stay here, and he gets bored with you, or you quit being useful, you will end up on the menu.” He pushed his way past her and started up the stairway. “Forget it, I’m getting the girl.”<br /><br />“That’s not the right way.” She pointed down the first floor hall.<br /><br />“And I should believe you, why?”<br /><br />“Because your father told me to give you anything you wanted.”<br /><br />“Sure, give me Linda.”<br /><br />“Manners!”<br /><br />He paused. “Please give me Linda?”…”</span><br /><br /><br />What can I say? Reverend Lumski is the result of immersion. I interviewed people who truly believe in strange things. For instance, a friend of mine, Guy Malone, ran the UFO Festival in Roswell New Mexico for a number of years and also had a radio program called, ‘Live from Roswell.’ Go to the chat room of a show like that and some of the folks you meet can be extremely interesting. I had a conversation with one woman that went like this:<br /><br />Woman: “The Tall Whites spoke to me last night.”<br /><br />Me: “Who are the Tall Whites?”<br /><br />Woman: “They’re the alien race that lives among us. They are the gods returning home.”<br /><br />Me: “Well, what did they say?”<br /><br />Woman: “They said, ‘Soon.’ “<br /><br />I know, creepy, huh? And you can call her words the result of over-whelming awe or a lack of medication, but after an extended conversation one thing was clear: the woman believed everything she said like you or I believe in gravity. In a paranormal story the hero or heroine may be terrified or confused due to circumstances, but if you’ve written a solid secondary character they become like a cemented sign-post announcing, “This is how we’re going to play…” <br /><br />Like Reverend Lumski….<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"…Thank you,” Mike said, nervous, avoiding her eyes. “But I think I’d better go.” He stuffed the medallion into his breast pocket, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door.<br /><br />The ever pleasant, kindly voice of the reverend stopped him again. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you wish to speak with your father? You can, you know. You will think about it, won’t you? I promise I won’t let any harm come to you.”<br /><br />He stared at her, thunderstruck. Talk to my Dad? My Dad is dead you freaking witch!<br /><br />Outside his head he merely stammered, “Sure-sure, I’ll think about it,” knowing full well he would push the entire episode from his mind as soon as possible.<br /><br />Reverend Lumski’s last words took aim like a poisoned arrow. “It never pays to lie, Mr. Malone…"<br /></span><br />_________________<br /><br />Thank you very much for coming! I hope you enjoyed it! I have PDF copies of Mike Malone for the first five ‘creative’ comments. And everyone, thank you again for stopping by!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-56973744809329870912012-02-27T04:44:00.003-08:002012-02-27T04:52:44.635-08:00Death to the Lizards!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPmAKiMihkPefHW1qiFes-I1hksBCm9Ikrf1AnWj-LlMnC04AeU-L6GFv7gV2fVH5388hm_WsC8G-acu8ABBfPfzMwhoQPue4Xe1hvBFriJf3Jt4qMrUEPbL8_rkAm3r5KIUcY3Izgmdgl/s1600/lizard.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPmAKiMihkPefHW1qiFes-I1hksBCm9Ikrf1AnWj-LlMnC04AeU-L6GFv7gV2fVH5388hm_WsC8G-acu8ABBfPfzMwhoQPue4Xe1hvBFriJf3Jt4qMrUEPbL8_rkAm3r5KIUcY3Izgmdgl/s320/lizard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713796612175382162" /></a><br /><br /><br /> In the smoky back room of a Bay City coffee house Tim Marks peered out at the crowd. His turn next. Into his fifties he knew he was way too old for this shit. But the back alley was the perfect set-up for what he needed. The prep; simple, effective. <br /><br />Young punks, teens and twenties, sat in the audience amidst masses of self generated fog from the cigarettes they openly puffed. They lifted coffee mugs to their lips to sip substances with far more punch than coffee. This was an underground club, a place where children of the wealthy gathered to be bad. Some could wake up, but not all. <br /><br />He spotted them. The offspring of the elite. Deja Monique, daughter of movie star Vu Monique sat next to Sunset Diamond, son of music mogul, Dave Diamond. Dressed in chic black and stylish, bored expressions, they sat, eyes peering. <br />Time to see if they’d fall from the tree. <br /><br /> As he stepped on stage, his back-up band hit and sustained a C-five triad. Tim felt the sounds waves wash over him like a clean, mountain stream. The sound of the chord made Deja and Sunset twitch. The rest of his audience raised their voices in approval.<br /><br />But inside he knew they still craved blood.<br /><br />He picked up the mic and over the din of cheers asked, “Got your lizard stomping shoes on?”<br /><br />Expressions changed to amused, half-drunk raucous cries of, “Yeah!” and “Death to the lizards!” filled the room.<br /><br />Yeah, just a roomful of spoiled, dumb kids, programmed to the hilt. But Tim knew if he kept pulling back the layers and layers of implanted ideas and actions, a few of them had a chance.<br /><br />He lowered his voice. “Yeah, death to them…” the crowd hushed wanting to hear. “You know how the show goes…keep it quiet first, but help me sing…ahhh…”<br />In whispered voices the crowd sang, “…ahhh…” <br /><br />The sound shimmered across the room. Tim could see it in their eyes; the ones who’d been to his show before had a light in them. Not a bright light, more like a pin-prick. Still, it meant they were coming back to life. He glanced at Deja and Diamond. Both stared daggers at him and their eyes…not black, but a sick jaundice yellow. Yeah, easy pickings.<br /><br />He continued in the same awestruck, whisper and sang a third above the current note, “Ladies….ahhhh….”<br /><br /> “…ahh…”<br /><br />He took the note a fifth above the first on and said, “Band sings, ahhhh…”<br /><br />“Ahhh…”<br /><br />He let the tones hang in the air a moment until the sound of raw, human voices filled the club with it’s holy sound. He cut them off. Even in a room of drunk rowdy, over-grown children, the sound gave them pause.<br /><br />“There…” he whispered. “You feel it. Our weapon against the evil…and we know it’s there…”<br /><br />His bass player struck a low, ominous note to the rhythm of a heart beat. <br /><br />“You know they’re around when nothing makes sense. The man tells you he needs more tax money because he has to spend it…to make more money. It makes no sense. The man will tell you he is good, but does more evil than the worlds biggest sinner. Remember your note and sing louder….ahhh!…”<br /><br />“Ahhh!”<br /><br />The harmony wrapped around his soul and lifted him. Once again, he would do this.<br />“Yeah,” he said and his audience quieted. Deja and Sunset twitched and gazed at each other uncomfortable. Oh, don’t even think about getting away.<br /><br />“Hey!” a voice called, “I wanna know something’.”<br /><br />Tim waved for his band to halt. “Let the man speak,” he said.<br /><br />The punk stood, a plaid fedora on his head, black coat with blue jeans and dangling black tie. He teetered and bowed. “Thank you, uh…” a loud belch erupted from the bottom of his gut.<br /><br />Laughter mixed with comments:<br /><br />“Aw…sit down, Loser!”<br /><br />“You suck!”<br /><br />The Punk raised an index finger and wagged it at the group. “No, no, no! I jes’ wanna know one freakin’, stinkin’, thing. Izzat okay?”<br /><br />A shout from behind told the Punk, “Sit down before you fall down!”<br /><br />“Let him speak,” said Tim.<br /><br />The punk straightened himself and gave a silly bow. “Thank you, sir. You are a scholar ‘han a gentleman. All I wanna know is one or two little things…”<br /><br />“Dude, the whole show is waiting on you. Speak.”<br /><br />“’Hokay. Why do you hate lizards? Whud they ever do to you?”<br /><br />Tim laughed. “I don’t hate them for the hell of it. If I hated them I’d screw up, then they’d catch me. It’s all self-defense. They declared war on us along time ago and I’m just a soldier behind enemy lines.”<br /><br />The Punk stared at him open mouthed a minute then burst into laughter. “Dude! You are so out there, yer in!” He thrust a fist into the air. “Yeah! Death to the freakin’ man! Death to the lizards!”<br /><br />“Who-hoo!”<br /><br />Tim spoke into the mic, “Time to call ‘em out…”<br /><br />He stared down his audience and sang...<br /><br />"Why’d it take so long for me to see that if I don’t kill you, you’ll sure as hell kill me?<br /><br />I’m walking, I’m talking, I’ll say to you today, that if you don’t back up I’ll blow you all away….<br /><br />Death to the Lizards!”<br /><br />The audience leaped and replied, “Death to the lizards!”<br /><br />“Death to the Lizards?”<br /><br />“Death to the Lizards!”<br /><br />“I live out here in the valley of the shadow, keeping it low…lower than your muther,<br />If you see me comin’ and you haven’t run yet, you better make tracks cuz I’m your angel death, Death to the Lizards!”<br /><br />“Death to the Lizards!”<br /><br />“I quench my thirst with the river of life, so look out bitch, I’m down for this fight…Right? Rights? You wanna hear your rights? In the name of Jesus Christ, you better take flight.<br /><br /> Death to the Lizards. Sing! Ahhhh-ahhhh-ahhhh!"<br /><br />“Ahhhh-ahhhh-ahhhh!”<br /><br />“Ooooh-oooh-ooooh!<br /><br />“Ooooh-ooooh-oooh…”<br /><br />It happened in a nano-second. Deja and Sunset vanished. Next, the scream.<br /><br />“Lizards! Oh, my freaking God! Lizards!”<br /><br />Waves of fright and commotion sent people hurtling towards the exits, but his roadies blocked the ways. “C’mon people it’s part of the show!”<br /><br />“What the hell?”<br /><br />Tim noted that these looked like giant, black iguana-like creatures. Deja and Sunset ran back and forth in sheer confusion for a moment, then roared and plunged, as Tim had thought they would, out the east exit. Close to the sewer.<br /><br />“I got this!” Tim bellowed into the mic. “Sit down and get ready!”<br /><br />He leaped from the stage and plowed out the back door. In the alley the two juveniles waited for him. The young ones always waited, still arrogant enough to think they had a chance. Sunsets side frills exploded from either side of his neck. Deja recoiled with a loud hiss. Tim yanked the already silenced Rueger from his side holster and shot them both in the head. Shovel parked by the exit, he used it to flip open the storm drain and stuff the massive lizards down, enjoying splash sound as they were being washed away. He dumped the bucket of bleach water he’d also parked outside, just to rinse any blood away, and returned to back stage.<br /><br />The two stuffed heads they used for props were placed by the back curtain. Tim snatched them each by a head spike and hoisted them high as he stalked back onto the stage.<br /><br />The band had started a rock song, some kids were dancing some still watched the battle video. When Tim re-appeared wild, insane cheers broke out.<br /><br />“Yeah!” he shouted. “They tell you what to think, how to feel, what you ought to be!” He threw the heads back stage and cried, “Remember what you were meant to be and be it!”<br /><br />“Yeah!”<br /><br />He waited for the cheers to die down before an amused smile nudged across his lips.<br /><br />“All right ya’ll,” he said, “wait till ya hear our next song…”<br /><br /><br /> M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-44157840912399196132012-02-05T10:42:00.000-08:002012-02-05T12:59:43.607-08:00The Calling of Mike Malone and what "They" aren't Telling You<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHj-ytF2GVphnNg1rwib-u_RiL-uESHwIQci6AyLK7z1x6L7CHFfMSUPFKBqk83jpkNUqVdgj8-19Vt5j32q9T_50hYfUkAD1iTAHU0vCBXxuzsaydfmpdLoZnvDB4HJqCnoKVS9e18tH6/s1600/mike+malone+hand.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHj-ytF2GVphnNg1rwib-u_RiL-uESHwIQci6AyLK7z1x6L7CHFfMSUPFKBqk83jpkNUqVdgj8-19Vt5j32q9T_50hYfUkAD1iTAHU0vCBXxuzsaydfmpdLoZnvDB4HJqCnoKVS9e18tH6/s320/mike+malone+hand.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5705724830184066338" /></a><br /><br />It starts with a prophet named Enoch.<br /><br />Genesis 5:24 And Enoch walked with God: and he [was] not; for God took him.<br />Hebrews 11:5 By faith Enoch was translated that he should not see death; and was not found, because God had translated him: for before his translation he had this testimony, that he pleased God.<br /><br />Yes, that Enoch. Great-Grandfather of Noah. His revelations were passed down generation after generation until being compiled in the Book of Enoch.<br /><br />Here's what else the Bible tells us about the man:<br /><br />Genesis 5:18-24<br />18 Jared lived one hundred and sixty-two years, and begot Enoch.<br />19 After he begot Enoch, Jared lived eight hundred years, and had sons and daughters.<br />20 So all the days of Jared were nine hundred and sixty-two years; and he died.<br />21 Enoch lived sixty-five years, and begot Methuselah.<br />22 After he begot Methuselah, Enoch walked with God three hundred years, and had sons and daughters.<br />23 So all the days of Enoch were three hundred and sixty-five years.<br />24 And Enoch walked with God; and he was not, for God took him.<br /><br />And that's all.<br /><br />In the book of Noah, Noah says this :<br /><br />Enoch 68:1<br />And after that my great-grandfather Enoch gave me all the secrets in the book and in the parables which had been given to him, and he put them together for me in the words of the book of the parables.<br /><br />What secrets? Well, that's where it gets interesting.<br /><br />The KJV tells us that one third of all the angels were cast down to earth and the unspoken question about Enoch becomes, “What was it like to be alive and kicking at that time?”<br /><br />The book of Enoch tells us these Fallen angels, the 'sons of God' wanted to be treated like gods. They brought technologies to the earth that were the equivalent of handing a loaded gun to a three year old. They mated with earth women, and, as you can imagine, two different species getting together like that produced some horrible, freakish creatures. They were the Nephilim, the giants who devoured human flesh—and by the way, ever wonder why most counties have legends and tales about flesh eating giants living in caves around their land?<br /><br />Our image of the Halloween witch comes from Enoch: the wives of the Fallen were taught occult secrets and the use of strange herbs.<br /><br />But God called the 'secrets' the Fallen took with them 'useless secrets.' It was just enough to impress the greedy among us, and when has man not been greedy? The Fallen turned the hearts of men towards evil continually, and that triggered the Noatian Flood.<br /><br />Before all of that happened, however, God sent this little Prophet named Enoch to pronounce His judgment on the Fallen angels. This man judged the angels. Just for a minute, can you imagine being on earth when these Fallen angels walked among us as wonderful, god-like, however, evil creatures? And there you are, sent to pronounce doom on someone bigger and far more powerful than you've ever felt in your entire life. You get to show up and tell them they're damned for all time.<br /><br />Afterwards they constantly sought out Enoch, screaming, begging, pleading for him to go before God and intercede for them. But like the Flood event where there was a span of at least one hundred years in which anyone could have joined Noah on board the ark, at last, the door closed and the rains began. The time to do the right thing had passed.<br /><br />So why isn't 'Enoch' part of the Bible? I mean, it doesn't contradict scripture concerning the last days. For instance:<br /><br />Enoch 46:1-2<br />1 There I beheld the Ancient of days whose head was like white wool, and with him another, whose countenance resembled that of a man. His countenance was full of grace, like that of one of the holy angels. Then I inquired of one of the angels, who went with me, and who showed me every secret thing, concerning this Son of man; who he was; whence he was; and why he accompanied the Ancient of days.<br />2 He answered and said to me, This is the Son of man, to whom righteousness belongs; with whom righteousness has dwelt; and who will reveal all the treasures of that which is concealed: for the Lord of spirits has chosen him; and his portion has surpassed all before the Lord of spirits in everlasting uprightness."<br /><br />Compare that to the Bible-<br /><br />Revelation 1:10-18<br />10 I was in the Spirit on the Lord's day, and heard behind me a great voice, as of a trumpet,<br />11 Saying, I am Alpha and Omega, the first and the last: and, What thou seest, write in a book, and send it unto the seven churches which are in Asia; unto Ephesus, and unto Smyrna, and unto Pergamos, and unto Thyatira, and unto Sardis, and unto Philadelphia, and unto Laodicea.<br />12 And I turned to see the voice that spake with me. And being turned, I saw seven golden candlesticks;<br />13 And in the midst of the seven candlesticks one like unto the Son of man, clothed with a garment down to the foot, and girt about the paps with a golden girdle.<br />14 His head and his hairs were white like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire;<br />15 And his feet like unto fine brass, as if they burned in a furnace; and his voice as the sound of many waters.<br />16 And he had in his right hand seven stars: and out of his mouth went a sharp twoedged sword: and his countenance was as the sun shineth in his strength.<br />17 And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead. And he laid his right hand upon me, saying unto me, Fear not; I am the first and the last:<br />18 I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death.<br /><br />Most of the other things in Enoch are basically things the canonical scriptures just don't handle.<br /><br />Part of the problem, I understand. The stories of Enoch remained an oral tradition for the most part. They were things “everybody knew” back in the day. Maybe they wanted to keep it that way. What we have of the book is in fragments, the first part 'The Book of the Watchers” was written down around 300 BC. And the Book of Parables came much later. So, some argue, it was not actually penned by Enoch.<br /><br />Well, Genesis wasn't penned by Adam, either. Moses took his knowledge of past events, another oral tradition, and placed them on parchment. What would be the problem with the writers of Enoch doing the same thing?<br /><br />Even still, the book, remained part of Jewish Canon until 90 AD and Christians didn't discard it until after 364 AD. The Apostle Mark took the known scriptures back to Ethiopia where he remained a witness for Jesus Christ and the Book of Enoch remains in the Ethiopian Bible to this day. So was Mark wrong? Why was the Catholic church so anxious to leave it out of the Bible?<br /><br />Oh, there's answers, but don't you smell a conspiracy coming?<br /><br />We'll talk more about that end of it later, but if you were a Fallen angel, which book would<span style="font-style:italic;"> you</span> want kept out of the Bible?<br /><br />However, this discarded book that tells you about Enoch and what he did, the book everybody used to know, that churches now avoid and don't wish to share with you, now forms the basis for The Calling of Mike Malone.<br /><br />See you next time as we begin to discuss the conspiracy.M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-86653393538194060452011-09-13T21:40:00.000-07:002011-10-03T21:41:44.797-07:00The Calling of Mike Malone Now Available!Yes, it's my first novel and already has a four-star rating on Amazon. It's available there (see side bar) or at MuseItUp Publishing! Thanks for having a look!<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage-ask.tpl&product_id=146&category_id=2&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1&vmcchk=1&Itemid=1">The Calling of Mike Malone @ MuseItUp Publishing</a>M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-90164958858395923782011-08-13T15:29:00.000-07:002011-08-13T15:38:31.927-07:00Me and My Kid Playing around in 2006This is from a blog me and my son, Tim, did back in 2006. We called it The Adventures of Dr. Daniel and Phantom. Following this is an excerpt of the kid's writing today.
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<br />Hello, my name is Dr. Daniel.
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<br />Hey, I'm Phantom.
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<br />Dr. D:We are sharing this blog because we work together. I work for the government. I am an interdimensional traveller and my asignments can take me anywhere from a different spot on our time line, to another planet in the sixth dimension.
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<br />Phantom: I'm a pilot and robotics expert. I keep the Doctor's gadgetry working.
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<br />Dr. D: Tomorrow we have to go to Sucomuno, the 12th planet in the Hertofor solar system.
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<br />Phantom: Why are we going there?
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<br />Dr. D: A weather report. We need to see what the effect of a double sun has on a planet very similar to ours.
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<br />Phantom: A weather report? Why don't we just build a model here and let me sleep in tomorrow?
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<br />Dr. D: Well, you'd miss church.
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<br />Phantom: But I can tell you what the weather is like on Sucomuno right now: they have two suns. It's hot.
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<br />Dr. D: But there are some things that can only be known if we go and see them. Up close and personal.
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<br />Phantom: Yeah, it's the personal that gets me sometimes.
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<br />Dr. D.: Get some sleep, Phantom. We've got a lot to do tomorrow.
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<br />Phantom: Sounds good. Nice meeting you folks out there! Things get a little hairy when we're on the road, so bear with us. But tomorrow should go pretty well....Yeah, I like dimension hopping. It rocks! See you!
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<br />Dr. D: Night all!
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<br />posted by M. L. Archer at 7:41 PM 7 comments
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<br />Right now he writes under the pen name, Mike Olmsted. They grow up way too fast.
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<br /> How He Loves
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<br /> By: Mike Olmsted
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<br /> I saw my first demon today.
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<br /> My name is Mark Handley. I’m seventeen. Pretty normal guy, got a regular life, school, work. At home it’s me and my mom. And church. Yeah, church. I’ve been going forever and have heard all about demons and devils. But learning about them and knowing you’ve actually run into one…I better explain.
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<br /> I go to this little Pentecostal church where I sing in the worship band. One of the songs we were doing that Sunday was Dave Crowder’s, How He Loves. I listened to it on You Tube while I was getting ready to go and I happened to hit a version where they swapped out the line, “Sloppy wet kiss,” for “Unforeseen kiss.”
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<br /> I know I made a face like someone tossed a rotten egg in my room. I see things like that as a sign the little old lady brigade got hold of someone and commenced arm twisting till that someone yelled, “Uncle.”
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<br /> Now don’t get me wrong. Little old ladies are just fine. In fact, if you’re my age and never sat down and spoke with someone 20, 30...60 years older than you, heck, do it sometimes. Those guys are cool. I’m telling you, they know things.
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<br /> But there’s always that minority who place their attention on performing an ethnic cleansing your brain cells until you meet their standard of perfection. Annoying, but I let it go, since I was singing ‘Sloppy wet kiss,’ anyway.
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<br /> Had an okay service. My mom told me when I joined the band that, “Your first job is to lead people into worshiping God, not your ability.” She doesn’t sugar coat much. But she’s right. So I do my very best to make that happen. But today when I was on the platform, I felt like something was watching me. Like some dark cloud had hissed through the church and every eye seemed critical.
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<br /> I have to admit, I felt bad because I thought it meant I had let myself obsess over that stupid song line to the point where I wasn’t doing my job. Yeah, me the guy that said, ‘Jesus, I’m your man. Just tell me what you want done and I’ll do it…if I don’t completely screw up, that is.’
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<br /> So I sang my song the best I could and was glad when it was over.
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<br /> When church let out, I was outside the sanctuary, hanging around with my wingman, Jimmy Wilson. He’s a big guy, football player, the kind of guy who greets you with a shove and a name. My left shoulder took the greeting this time as he said, “What’s going on, dork?”
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<br /> I regained my balance and gave him a quick back hand to the chest with an added, “You’re the dork.”
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<br /> You’d have thought a mosquito landed on him. He stood there laughing like, “Heh-heh…heh-heh...”
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<br /> And then all hell broke loose. I mean it.
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<br /> Sister Jabez, a blue-haired, stern faced, matron barged forward, calling my name. Her heavy wooden cane thumping on the sidewalk.
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<br /> “Mark Handley! I saw that! I heard you!” a gaggle of senior ladies followed behind. For an older hobbled woman, she sure got in my face right away.She stuck a finger an inch from my nose while her friends gathered around like an octogenerian Gestapo. My heart sank as I realized I was trapped by the real little old lady brigade. I could see it: Mark Handley met his end today after being pummeled by old ladies with canes and walkers.
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<br /> My jaw dropped.
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<br /> Sister Jabez sniffed, “I think we’re all a little tired of watching the boys your age engage in so much tom-foolery. Why pushing and shoving, you could have knocked someone over. And you, especially, you’re supposed to set the example. You on stage and then afterwards calling people names like that. You should be ashamed! You make me sorry I had to hear those words and I want you to apologize to me and all my friends right now! This is church!”
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<br /> I’ve often heard the phrase, “Just wait for a Word from God.”
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<br /> But the only word in my head at that moment sounded like, “Whu-huh?” So I didn’t say it.
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<br /> I paused and in those few seconds I think a thousand idea’s ran through my head. Two years ago I would have tossed my hands in the air, said, “I didn’t do ANYTHING!” And stormed off. Not now. My first thought was to apologize and say I was sorry for disturbing her. That would have been a nice thing to do.
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<br /> But not the best.
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<br /> I stared at her, still dumbstruck. Her eyes narrowed. More than ever in the glare of sun light her face appeared as relief map of wrinkles and worn in an expression made even harsher by the way her lip curled wolfishly as she glared.
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<br /> My mind raced through every encounter with this lady and nothing added up to this kind of outburst.
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<br /> But maybe she had had a bad day. Car trouble, benefit of the doubt…go with it. I could do that.
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<br /> Except I looked into her eyes again.
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<br /> Her arms folded, her head tipped upward. “Well?” she snapped. “We’re waiting. Apologize. Apologize now.”
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<br /> Once, I asked my mom how you can tell if there’s demon causing problems. She just looked at me and said, “Biggest demon tag I know: when everything stops making sense.”
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<br /> This made no sense at all and Sister Jabez’s eyes explained everything else. For a moment I saw their blue-gray color retreat. A mocking intelligence peered from behind as they darkened to black. I felt a rush of shock; I was with something inhuman. It was the first time I ever knew something wanted me dead. In my minds eye I could see this evil sprite, cavorting against a black sky, and it’s death head rushed to my face as it cackled, <span style="font-style:italic;">“Yes, boy, bow to me.”
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<br /> But it all felt just like imagination. I had a verse spring into my head, but if these were the wrong words, if this really was my imagination, she’d be crazy angered, and there would be meetings with my mom and the pastor and I’d be told to maybe take a break from the worship band while the church healed…and on and on…
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<br /> But then I could also hear my youth Pastor, when he told my group, <span style="font-style:italic;">“God is talking to a lot of you guys even now. At some point you have to decide whether or not you really believe He’s got your back.”
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<br /> I knew what I believed, I knew what was happening, so I said the verse, “Get thee behind me, Satan.”
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<br /> Sister Jabez's response startled everyone. She doubled forward in explosive coughs. I yanked some change from my pocket and told Jimmy to go buy her a ginger ale. I took her arm and lead her to a nearby bench where the coughing continued for several minutes. Jimmy brought the can of soda and I sat by her, offering it to her as I lightly patted her back.
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<br /> She drank. The coughing slowed and I asked, “You okay, Sister? Didn’t mean to startle you.”
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<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> He is jealous for me, loves like a hurricane, I am the tree, bending beneath the weight of his wind and mercy.
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<br /> Her eyes were no longer black, the darkness replaced with tears. Her face, soft, kind.
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<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> When all of a sudden I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory and I realize just how beautiful you are and how great your affection is for me…
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<br /> “Oh, Mark, I’m so sorry to snap at you like that. I have just so much on my mind, I really do think you’re good boy. I’m just a snappy old woman sometimes. You don‘t think I‘m Satan, do you?”
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<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> Oh, how he loves us…</span>
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<br /> A picture flashed into my mind of Sister Jabez in her fancy house and plenty of money, still wondering, still afraid if everything would be okay.
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<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> We are his portion and he is our prize, drawn to redemption by the grace in his eyes. If His grace is an ocean we’re all sinking.
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<br /> “Of course not. In fact,” I smiled and gave her a wink. “Let’s do lunch. I’ll pick you up on my motorcycle.”
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<br /> Sister Jabez threw her head back and laughed more joyfully than I’ve ever heard her laugh before. I mean, c’mon, if something wanders in one ear and out the other, doesn’t mean you stop loving that person.
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<br /> “Oh, my!” she laid a hand on her chest while the rest of her friends joined in her merriment. And all of a sudden, I knew I was going to help this lady realize that God really does have her back.
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<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> I don’t have time to maintain these regrets when I think about the way He loves us…
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<br /> “This old bag of bones racing down the highway?” she said with a laugh. “I don’t know, but you if you promise not to laugh, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to ride one of those.”
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<br /> I sat up. “Really? I could give you a ride now.”
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<br /> She waved me off . “No, no, I’m in a skirt. But on Wednesday, I could wear slacks. If you promise not to go very fast and stay right in the parking lot.”
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<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> Oh, how He loves us, How He loves us all.</span>
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<br /> She wasn’t a bad lady, just scared. Yeah, I could help.
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<br /> I told her it was a date, which made her friends giggle. And all was well with the world again. The ladies gathered themselves up to leave, and I knew would climb onto my motorcycle and head for home, but not before Sister Jabez gave me a hug and planted, right on my cheek, a sloppy wet kiss.
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<br /> Could it have ended any other way?
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<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> And He loves us, Oh, How He loves us...
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<br /> Oh, how he loves us...
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<br /> How He loves us all...
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<br />M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-84839397835507896402010-08-22T15:46:00.000-07:002011-10-03T22:13:02.511-07:00The Calling of Mike Malone to be Published by MuesItUp!Yup, next summer, The Calling of Mike Malone comes out with Canadian based MuseItUp publishing. It will be presented first as a an e-book I am excited and thrilled!<br /><br />Here's the start...<br /><br /><br />Somebody was watching Mike Malone, and it scared the hell out of him.<br />A tall man, he peered out over the crowds, scanning the people who hustled past. One arm rested on the roof of his car, and he paused, tensing over the familiar sensation that now struck as quick and chilling as the late autumn wind. Though this feeling of being watched often followed him, he knew it had to be ridiculous. Who on earth would spy on him? And why? But after brushing off an endless stream of strange incidents in his life—which now included glimpsing the future—Mike couldn't deny it. He needed help.<br /><br />His father’s words whispered from a distant, childhood memory. “I’m so glad you are<br />happy son. Your life may take some strange turns, but I promise you’ll understand when you’re twenty-one. I promise.”<br /><br />Mike gritted his teeth. Tomorrow he would be twenty-one. <span style="font-style:italic;">Dad, if you wanted to make dire claims over my life, you should have stayed alive long enough to explain them. Enough, I’m done. This ends today.<br /></span><br /><br />For more sample sections checkout Mike's fan page on Facebook.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/pages/The-Calling-of-Mike-Malone/138105149537945?ref=ts">The Calling of Mike Malone-Facebook</a>M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-10535957702356876422010-08-09T19:56:00.000-07:002010-08-09T20:32:16.411-07:00Back in the Midnight Diner....Hey, good to be back in the Midnight Diner. I decided to stick with my theme of violins and violinists experiencing supernatural problems and wound up writing this piece called, Virtuoso. Would you believe I wrote this because of a really nice recording of Ave Maria? Go figure.<br /><br />But here's a short excerpt from the beginning of the story. Hope you like it! <br /><br />Hey, here's a link to the author's page so you can check out the whole motley crew...<br />http://themidnightdiner.com/<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Virtuoso</span><br /><br />M.L. Archer<br /><br />Benjamin Toll pulled his ball cap down over his eyes and tucked his violin case a little closer. He slouched in a darkened, rear booth in a bar off Paris’ Rue Monge and wrapped himself in its shadowy embrace. Stale Gauloise smoke, decaying leather, and bourbon sat with him.<br /><br />Ben’s plan to drink until Madame Gissette’s words no longer rattled his head had failed. He lifted his empty glass and planted it, upside down, on the wooden table top.<br /><br />“Benjamin Toll! You ‘ave done zis to me!”<br /><br />Check mate.<br /><br />“You and no one else.”<br /><br />Benjamin gave a deep sigh and started to slide out of his seat.<br /><br />Movement caught his eye. A woman dressed in black glided through the bar towards his table and the sight of her felt like icicles.<br /><br />She approached, a stark figure dressed completely in black from the pumps which she balanced on to the large brimmed hat on her head. Ben couldn’t see her face. Like the rest of the world, he had to view the woman through the heavy, black veil that blocked her visage and he wondered if there was something wrong. Perhaps a disfigurement.<br /><br />She moved with unearthly grace. But her steps, and the complete focus of her path, conjured a sense of obsession, as if this woman made the knowledge of his private comings and goings her reason for being alive. As far as Ben could tell, her gaze never left him.<br /><br />She halted a few feet from his table and spoke in French.<br /><br />Ben couldn’t see her face other than a vague outline of blood red lips. Her eyes were dark hollows.<br /><br />“No parlez vous francais.” He hoped she would brush him off as an ignorant American and leave him alone.<br /><br />“That is not a problem. I speak English very well, no?”<br /><br />“Madame, I would rather not have company at the moment.”<br /><br />“But you are drinking alone. That cannot be good. Do not worry. I am here for you…” She slid into the booth facing him.<br /><br />A man’s voice broke in. “Oui, monsieur?”<br /><br />Benjamin glanced up to see the bartender addressing him from his post.<br /><br />“Did you call to me?” the bartender said.<br /><br />“No, I was speaking to…” Ben halted mid-gesture and gaped at the now empty space the woman had occupied.<br /><br />Ben said. “Just thinking out loud. Sorry.”<br /><br />The bartender chuckled. “Or, perhaps, our French spirits are a bit much, eh? Eet is alright. But go home, sir. You will be well.”<br /><br />He rose, violin case clamped under his arm, and carefully walked to the bar to pay his bill. He tugged his wallet from his blue jeans.<br /><br />Benjamin glanced at the bartender standing against his backdrop of bottles filled with amber liquid and sparkling glasses. “Did a woman in a large black hat come in here?”<br /><br />The bartender paid him an easy smile. “Do not worry. There are many willing females, no?” Recognition then flitted across the man’s face. “Mon dieu! Are you Benjamin Toll?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“I must tell you, I am so sorry to hear of what has happened. But you have given so much pleasure with your music. All of Paris is yours!”<br /><br />“Thank you. You’re very kind. Bon soir.”<br /><br />“Bon soir.”<br /><br />Ben paid his bill, stepped out the door and into the night.M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-8331373471655757802009-06-02T10:32:00.000-07:002009-06-02T10:47:26.089-07:00Dale, Me, and the Speed DemonStory of the Month-April, <span style="font-style:italic;">Mindflights Magazine</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"...because the words that come out of your mouth mean something..."</span><br /> <br /><br />All my life I wanted to race at Talladega. But the night before the Cup race, I sat in my apartment shakin’ like a leaf.<br /><br />I was Lightnin’ Jack Davis. I was the guy who went around sayin’ he could beat the devil. I had the big promo poster that showed me leanin’ against the side of my car, black number 21, with my catchphrase at the bottom: Speed is my friend.<br /><br />I was the hottest rookie on the circuit and didn’t mind sayin’ so. A few days ago all I wanted was to win the Cup. Now, all I wanted was a way to skip out on the biggest race of my life.<br /><br />Some people think my attraction for NASCAR came from me growing up so close to the speedway and spending my summers working there. That’s only part of it.<br /><br />When I was ten, we visited my grandma, and I loved it because around her house were the longest, steepest hills in all of West Virginia.<br /><br />First day there, I took my bike out, and with as powerful a push forward as I could muster, I slammed my feet onto the pedals and pumped like I had Satan at my heels. I took a full eighth of a mile to build up speed on the level straightaway as I pushed toward the start of the slope. When I peered over the top, I pedaled even harder. I picked up speed as I raced down the hill and kept haulin’ until my pedals spun freely. The wind whipped my face and at one point I felt the bike leave the pavement. Flyin’. I was flyin’!<br /><br />Then, I realized I didn’t have a plan to stop. After a brief panic, I figured I had a few choices. I could slam into a mailbox and end up at the hospital, I could try running along the curb to slow down and most likely chew up my tire, or…at the bottom of the hill, a field fenced off by barbed wire waited to welcome me. Now, that would have been one of the bad choices, except I saw a board left lying on the curb. I figured if I hit it going fast enough it would act like a ramp and send me flying over the fence.<br /><br />Now that was a choice.<br /><br />I gritted my teeth, aimed the bike and forced every pedal’s worth of power I could pull from the thing. When my front tire slammed into the board, I flew into the air, my bike landed in the barbed wire, but I went on another three feet and crashed down in the nice, soft mud.<br /><br />I was a mess, but I wasn’t hurt even though my mom got plenty upset. But I stuck a hand on my hip and told her, “Don’t worry, Mom. I could outrace the devil if I wanted to, ’cause speed is my friend.” And being a mom, she repeated that little quote a million or so times, and what can I say? It took. And it was true. I loved speed. For me, that was the attraction.<br /><br />My fans in the stands even echoed the story. “You’re faster than any devil, Lightnin’ Jack! Whip the devil’s butt!”<br /><br />I’d laugh and promise to do it.<br /><br />But wouldn’t you know? During the qualifying rounds for the Cup race the devil called me out. No, he wasn’t wearing a red suit. He came in the form of an old woman. Lots of older ladies come to the track and cheer and yell right along with all the guys and have a good time. So when this old woman, sidled up to me at the track, I didn’t think too much about it…at first.<br /><br />She looked me in the eye and said, “Lightnin’ Jack, you think you can beat the devil? Well, I gotta message for you, boy. He’s got your number, and you’re gonna die.”<br /><br />She yanked out a container with red dust in it and tossed it at me.<br /><br />While I was waving my way out of that cloud, Hank, who heads up my operations team, called security.<br /><br />“You okay?” Hank peered at me from underneath his #21 ball cap. “That old biddy get any of that junk in your eyes?”<br /><br />I brushed it off me. “No. What’s her durn problem?”<br /><br />Hank gave a dry, short laugh. “She sounds like Satan’s number-one fan. Crazy old bird. Takes all kinds. I’ll have the guys make sure she doesn’t get on the track anymore.”<br /><br />“Yeah, thanks.”<br /><br />This morning, the old lady made the papers, just not in a good way. The headline read, “Self-described, ‘back-country witch’ found dead after ritual involvement.”<br /><br />The paper explained how police found the old lady’s body covered in evil markings. No explanation how it happened. My stomach felt like lead, and all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. You know that feeling you get walking past the graveyard at night? Like there’s something with you, except you’re supposed to be alone? That’s what I felt.<br /><br />Tom, one of the pit crew, gave me a whack on the shoulder. “Well, she ain’t gonna be riding her broom anymore. Wonder if the devil got her? Or maybe she summoned Pumpkinhead! Whoooo!”<br /><br />He wiggled his hands in the air like some dumb kid on Halloween, and I snapped, “Shut up!”<br /><br />That was the day we did qualifying rounds. After years of driving in starter races, and dealing with ARCA cars, and traveling to Loews and Atlanta, I was doing what we set out to do. I met Hank in Atlanta and he was the one who decided my driving was worth the hassle of gettin’ a car and team together. We had so much riding on that day and suddenly I was so spooked, I barely bagged a starting position of thirty-second. Thought I’d be sick.<br /><br />Everything startled me. That’s the best way I can explain it. It ain’t smart to be twitchy in a stock car.<br /><br />The guys were all cool about it, even Hank. But, dang, I could’ve done better.<br /><br />That night, I’d close my eyes, and I could see that old woman, one gnarled finger pointing at me. She kept calling at me in a dead croak, “You mocked Satan! Nobody beats the devil, boy. But he is going to beat YOU!”<br /><br />The only reason I got up and went to the track the next morning was because I still couldn’t figure a good way out of it. Even if I died, there were people I couldn’t let down. The witch cursed me, and I knew it. But I sucked it up and went to Talladega.<br /><br />The raceway did make me feel a lot better, though. The smell of exhaust alone cheered me up.<br /><br />I got dressed in my coveralls, got together with the team, went over the strategy, got my car in my crummy thirty-second position, and when the white flag waved, I realized…I was okay. No headless horseman had showed up to haul me away, or Pumpkinhead, or Freddy Krueger. All of a sudden I felt like the dumbest kid on the block for lettin’ some crazy old lady scare me so bad. With the sun up and the engines roaring, I was ready to go.<br /><br />I heard Hank’s voice over my radio. “How ya’ doin’ out there, kid?”<br /><br />I hit my intercom. “Remember all that mess with the old lady?”<br /><br />“Uh, yeah…”<br /><br />“Well, forget it. It’s time to get to work.”<br /><br />“Now yer talkin’!”<br /><br />I gripped my wheel and focused. I always said every race was mine to win, and this one wouldn’t be any different.<br /><br />Johnny Fizbin and Mike Raider were both driving and on my team. Our plan was that when we had five laps to go we’d make our moves, earlier if the game changed a little, but at the latest by then. We were counting on each other to ride our drafts for better placement. This many cars back, I surely hoped neither of them would get greedy.<br /><br />I held my position, lap after lap.<br /><br />Some people think it doesn’t take much to drive in NASCAR, but let me tell you, try taking one hundred and eighty-eight laps around a track doing close to two hundred miles per hour, while the track temperature itself sits at about one hundred and thirty degrees. Yeah, it takes skill and focus.<br /><br />It’s also why, when I first heard the roaring sound, I thought maybe my lack of sleep was getting’ to me.<br /><br />See, I made it all the way to lap 178 when stuff started getting weird.<br /><br />In my mind, I started wondering, Should I pull over? Get some water tossed in my face? What?<br /><br />No reason not to keep going.<br /><br />Then I heard it again. Wasn’t anything strange about hearing an engine on the speedway, but this sound practically filled my car. It didn’t sound so much like a stock car as it did an oncoming tornado. The kind of loud, ongoing roar that tells you anything in its path better get out of the way. Right at that moment I saw it. A car so fast and dark, it whipped past me in a black blur.<br /><br />My heart leaped into my throat.<br /><br />Hanks voice came over the radio right away. “Jack! You’re swervin’ awfully bad! You got a problem?”<br /><br />“I—I—I...” That’s when I heard a voice in the seat next to me say, “Quit stammering and answer the man. But watch what you say or they’re gonna think you’re crazy.” And when I glanced over, I dang near lost control of the car. I didn’t know whether to scream or puke or what. A guy sat there wearing racin’ coveralls, with a red ball cap on his head. He had mirrored sunglasses and a reddish mustache that twitched a little when he talked.<br /><br />I’d been lookin’ at that guy all my life. My heart skipped a beat ’cause I’d even cried like a girl…when he died.<br /><br />“Dale Earnhardt?”<br /><br /><br />To see the rest...check out<br /><br />http://www.mindflights.com/item.php?sub_id=5344M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-11967596320481936852008-10-14T19:48:00.001-07:002008-10-14T19:51:51.536-07:00Paint it BlackBecause this story is set to shortly come out in the Goth-zine, "Coach's Midnight Diner" I can't post the whole thing here yet. But here's the first 'movement.' Since the main character is a symphony musician the story is set up in movements like a symphonic work. Cute idea, scary story.<br /><br /><br />I. Molto Grave’<br />When a loved one not only dies, but races to death’s dark embrace as if it were a prize or reward it cuts us to the core. The heart is left with a single agonized cry of Why?<br /><br />That question became my own last March when my brother took his life. The discovery was unbelievable. But he didn’t die alone. My brother was a cultist. He and twenty-seven others took knives to their own throats and they did it because they thought space aliens were coming to take them away.<br /><br />I could almost handle believing he was unhappy and distraught over his divorce. But…space aliens? <br /><br /> I am, by profession, a violinist with the Dallas Symphony. My brother, Rick, and the others took their lives after spending time in a cult called ‘Heavens Temple,’ based out of Santa Fe, New Mexico. For many hours, I researched this group, hunting to see if, among other things, it still had a following in Santa Fe. It did. <br /><br />Here’s the core of the ‘Heaven’s Temple’ entire belief system: mankind is about to be recycled and the Ascended Masters are coming to help a few chosen souls shed their mortal bodies and raise them up to heaven. ’Hey Rick, the aliens want you! Kill yourself! ‘ <br /><br />I didn’t buy it.<br /><br />That summer, I decided to leave Dallas and take a summer job playing for the Santa Fe Opera because then I could further look into things without alarming my family.<br />The Sunday before I left, I played the special service music at my parent’s church, and then went to their home for supper. It seemed to cheer mom up for a little bit. She’d been awfully quiet since the funeral. <br /><br />When it was time to leave, my father walked me outside and shook my hand. “Well, son, thanks for playing the service. Your mom needed a few braggin’ rights.”<br /><br />“Thanks, Dad. You think she’ll be okay?”<br /><br />My father shook his head. “I don’t know.” <br /><br />I leaned back against my little Tercel. From sheer habit my violin case was tucked under my arm. <br /><br />Dad looked me over and gave a small laugh. “You remember all the crap Rick used to hand you about taking up the fiddle instead of playing football?”<br /><br />“Yep.” I said feeling the wetness start down my cheeks. “I still can’t believe he did it, Dad. I miss him.”<br /><br />“I know you do. And you know what bothers me? I don’t think he did anything crazy as suicide.”<br /><br /> “You think he was murdered?”<br /><br /> “I don’t know. I just know in my heart, there’s more to the story. You do, too. That’s the real reason you’re going to Santa Fe.”<br /><br />My father kept a step ahead of me all my life. I wasn’t surprised he had me figured out now. I wiped my eyes and nodded.<br /><br /> “Thought so,” he said. “I’d do the same thing if I didn’t think it would upset your mom. Find out whatever you can, but be careful, call me if anything strange happens. Your mom couldn’t stand to lose another son.” His voice broke, “Neither could I.”<br />We stood on the driveway and embraced each other until he gave me a light whack on the back and said, “I’m proud of you, son. You’re a damn fine musician.”M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-80978924992633260582008-09-30T16:31:00.000-07:002008-09-30T16:35:27.417-07:00Interview with Game Developer Patrick FryeFirst appeared in Infuze Magazine June 2005 <br /><br />Patrick Frye reprinted it on his webzine, ICEPOWERED, earlier this year.<br /><br />This interview is pretty old now but our motivations haven't changed and neither has the industry all that much.<br /><br />Michele: We'd like to know about you, who you are, how long you've been a Christian and a bit about your technical background.<br /><br />Patrick: My name is Patrick Frye. I was raised in a Christian home but I don't think I truly understood what it meant to be a Christian until about five to six years ago. Up until then I consider my faith to be nominal. This was partially due to the church I was attending at the time, which didn't teach the Word. Then I again, I may have been thick-headed.<br /><br />I worked for a Department of Defense contractor where I produced the software that controlled satellite communications systems in spy planes used by the U.S., Britain, and Australia (along with some other NATO countries). It was stressful since there were always deadlines to meet.<br /><br />Now I work in a service oriented department at a non-profit Christian ministry so the amount of work goes up and down and... no deadlines.<br /><br />What is your position at TGS and how did you become involved there?<br /><br />I'm the Lead Engine Designer, a.k.a. "code monkey." I provide the tools for the level designers and artists; it's their job to produce the actual content for the game. Of course, that means if the resulting game is horrible I can't be blamed. Just kidding. I actually have been submitting many ideas during the pre-development design stage for Nightmares. In the first game, Eternal War: Shadows of Light, I didn't have any input at all into game play since I came on very late in development. Most of my work was in upgrading the original engine with additional features and fixing major issues.<br /><br />As for how I joined TGS... If I was going to work in the game industry I wanted to produce games that not only entertained but could teach a solid Bible-themed message. Along with a group of other people I started a company called Gamers Underground Movement Productions. To make a long story short that endeavor failed and I decided to set aside my own plans in favor of furthering the Christian game industry in whatever capacity was available. I believe that one of the largest issues facing the Christian game industry is the fragmentation of the talent pool, since everyone seems to want to develop their own little pet project. At this point the industry realistically cannot support that. So I set about looking for a solid Christian game developer that seemed to have a good track record. I submitted my resume to TGS and was immediately accepted.<br /><br />Tell us about Eternal War and please discuss some of what is involved in the making of a game.<br /><br />Here is the storyline in a nutshell:<br /><br />Eternal War takes place in the suicidal mind of John Coronado, a desperate teen ready to take desperate measures to escape his "personal hell."<br /><br />You are Mike, a friend sent to help John out of his pain and struggles before his time runs out. Traveling down the road of malice and destruction, Mike is faced with hundreds of obstacles ahead of him to overcome through the only power that John thought abandoned him."<br /><br />There are a variety of specialized fields involved in game production including:<br /><br /> * Management (Finance, Marketing, Sells, Website, etc)<br /> * Game Design Leads<br /> * Programming (Rendered, Sound, Networking, Engine Architecture, Scripting, Physics, etc)<br /> * AI Programming (I list it separately because it's pretty much its own field)<br /> * Script Writers<br /> * Level Designers<br /> * Sound/Recording Artists<br /> * 3D Modelers<br /> * 2D Texture Artists<br /> * Play testers<br /> * Musicians<br /><br />For learning more about the game industry I suggest www.gamedev.net and www.gamasutra.com.<br /><br />How do see the ministry possibilities for the Christian gaming industry?<br /><br />In movies the message is given to the audience and it's only passive interaction. With video games the audience becomes involved and they are forced to think about the message and to make decisions based upon it. Brain research scientists have discovered that a person's thinking can either be changed or solidified by modifying or reinforcing the brain's neural pathways. While it is difficult to change old neural pathways with enough dedication it is possible.<br /><br />The U.S. military has taken this research and they use 3D combat simulations in order to desensitize soldiers to possible violence they might face in their first real combat and hopefully prevent them from freezing up and getting themselves killed.<br /><br />Most people don't realize this, but the video game industry has already surpassed the movie industry in worldwide net profit. It could also be said that the ability to effect society is already greater. Movies usually run between 1.5 to 2 hours and most people spend a limited amount of time thinking on the subject matter contained within. AAA title video games usually contain anywhere from 12 to 60+ hours worth of game play content and many gamers will play popular games for months or years. While playing these games, certain neural pathways are consistently being reinforced. Because of this the potential to effect people is huge -- both positively and negatively.<br /><br />So far this great potential has not been met. The "message" in the storyline of most video games is usually fairly neutral in scope and for the most part does not hold a social agenda. Just like Nintendo's Mario, most games still consist of a hero, a basic goal, and a bunch of bad guys blocking the player's path to the goal. It's slowly gotten better with in-game cut scenes and game play scenarios and environments that actually mesh and belong in the story. Technology and funding for years was mostly the limiter but those limitations are slowly being erased. Game developers are just now starting to talk about games where players will feel for the characters and think of moral situations. This brings about the possibility of producing games that can change the audience's views and thinking on moral issues.<br /><br />I will state one caveat right now: those who claim video games were the cause of incidents like the Columbine school shooting are just looking for an easy target to blame for responsibility... other than themselves. At the same time those who claim that playing video games does not effect them at all usually are not being honest with themselves. Reality lies somewhere in between.<br /><br />In males, depending on the game type, there is usually a raise in blood pressure and heightened aggression. This effect is limited in duration and usually dissipates within minutes after the person has stopped playing the game. Now the effect on a person's thinking is dependent on the subject matter and the perspective the person chooses to take when playing the game. As for me, when I play a First Person Shooter I view it the same way as I do paintball. Just like the board game of chess, I'm out to beat my opponent(s) by "tagging" them with a certain set of rules and tools (weapons).<br /><br />On the other hand, the Columbine shooter's anger at their classmates caused them to recreate their classrooms in custom levels in the old game Doom. In this manner they simulated killing their classmates over and over before actually considering doing the deed in reality. If a person views playing video games in a similar way they should not being playing video games and should seek counseling!<br /><br />Desensitization towards violence is also a rightful worry when it comes to children. During that stage in life the brain is still developing and is highly malleable to change. If a child's boundaries are being taught through video games and not by their parents then I would be worried also. At the same time children should be taught that there are real repercussions to their actions, whether it be in reality or in a game.<br /><br />Publishers are very careful about claiming video games have no correlation with violence... mainly so the bottom-line isn't effect and so they cannot be held legally liable; not because all game developers actually believe this. Isn't it odd how software publishers claim educational software can teach children to think a certain way yet deny that "just for fun" games can have any effect on the mind? An employee at Id Software once made a statement to this effect: "After a very long session of play testing one level designer noticed that he was automatically thinking of ways to defeat and kill his fellow employees as he walked the hallways. His brain could not tell the difference between reality and a video game. Now even though this was a short time effect on his mind needless to say this freaked him out."<br /><br />The Grand Theft Auto series is famously used an example, since in it the player role-plays as a criminal who is out to gain power using any means possible. The game play mechanics are laudable but the message detestable. But that is not the only way to package a message to an audience. The games Fable and The Sims did not comment on homosexuality but merely introduced it matter-of-factly by allowing the player's character to marry a non-player character of the same sex. While not actively advocating homosexuality through words, the message was still the same: homosexuality is normal behavior. In fact, not reinforcing homosexuality in the game as "special" only enhances this message.<br /><br />In the same way, Two Guys Software doesn't plan on bashing the audience over the head with the Bible every time they play our games. We plan on integrating moral themes into our games without disrupting the player's game play experience. In Christian literature, authors Ted Dekker and Shane Johnson go about writing their stories the same way. The characters, settings, and plot draw the reader in and then they are introduced to concepts where they think about moral issues, and sometimes the basic message of the gospel, sometimes without God or Jesus mentioned until the very end. This way non-Christian audiences are not immediately scared off by blatantly Christian packaging of the message.<br /><br />When it comes to EW: Nightmares, the plot will be considerably darker in content. This is where we'll probably get the most flak from the Christian gaming community, but we're not too concerned about that. This time around we're going to approach the story more authentically. We've been doing research into the real-life effects that abusive use of drugs, porn, suicidal thoughts, rage, and occult influences have on people. It's not a basic "messed up kid who needs help" story again, we're aiming more for a chaotic conflict zone, each zone having it's own type of chaos that the player interactively helps a game character overcome. So the game will be a lot darker but also much more powerful in message.<br /><br />Where do you see the industry headed?<br /><br />At this time the largest problem facing the Christian game industry is the lack of adequate financial investment. The majority of companies are being run from home and the work is done only on available spare time outside of normal day jobs.<br /><br />The other huge problem in the industry is this: Everyone wants to own their own little company and pursue their own little vision of a great game; they want full control and to be "the boss". Some times this is due to pride, but usually it's the heartfelt desire of people to fulfill their dreams. While these desires are laudable this also severely fragments the talent pool since we have hundreds of little companies/groups made up of maybe 5 to 10 people on average.<br /><br />I'm reiterating this point from above because I consider it so important: I quickly realized that the only way to succeed is to set aside my dreams for the short term and join an already established company that appears to be succeeding. Perhaps in the future, once the Christian game industry has matured, I might be able to develop my own dream but I must learn to be patient. To complete my thought, if all the available people would band together under one company it might be possible to be competitive. If we have a hundred people working part-time on the side it would be approximately equal to about twenty to twenty-five full-time workers. Of course, managing all that would be crazy and be a full time position by itself but at least it would be possible to competitive with the secular industry and thus financially successful.<br /><br />One of the reasons these small groups fail is because they are overly ambitious. They have grand visions but do not consider the reality of creating their vision in terms of resources, time, and capabilities. Some people are just starting to realize this error. As one game developer put it: "I'm just sick of project ideas -- whole projects even -- just being discarded because there's no time or it gets old or its too hard." Then these groups run into another problem, that of reducing their game to the point where it is irrelevant in the market. Most "simple" game play styles are available in such quantity that many are even free! It's quite impossible to sustain a working business plan which includes profitability when faced with such a situation.<br /><br />Another problem is the lack of business sense in the industry. The majority of people starting these Christian game developers have no clue what to do when it comes to even simple business practices. The last paragraph could be used as an example. For another example, when I started Gamers Underground Movement Productions with several others, none of us had any practical experience at running a business. Fast forward to the future. TGS does receive help from Christians in the secular industry but day-to-day decisions are still left up to us, as well as marketing and other disciplines we are sorely lacking in.<br /><br />Only once the talent pool is consolidated into professionally operated corporations funded by investors and run by experienced managers do I see the Christian game industry as being able to stand on its own. It's going to be a hard road and I imagine it will be years before the fruits of our labor pay off and the Christian game industry has settled down into a more settled, more "normal" routine.<br /><br />What, if any, have been your biggest obstacles in dealing with the Christian community?<br /><br />You'd be surprised at how the majority of mainstream Christian publishers we've talked to say Christians should not play video/computer games. It's practically the same situation that occurred with the Christian music industry in the 60 and 70s, where those with the money and who were in control of the industry said rock and roll is evil. At the same time it's amazing how many secular magazines/newspapers (like Fortune, MSNBC, etc.) are asking to interview us (TGS) about these emerging "religious games." The secular media actually paints a brighter picture than most Christians, estimating that the Christian game industry will exceed five hundred million dollars in several years.<br /><br />One of the few Christian publications I've seen that has even mentioned the Christian game industry is World Magazine. But even then their editorial had a negative slant, quoting Mack and others out of context, and complaining that we have any type of violence in our games. Conflict of some type in video games is pretty much unavoidable, as is a certain level of violence. In the letters to the magazine section I saw letters about that article printed over a period of several months. These letters were all negative, saying they were appalled we were making such games and calling us hypocrites. Do I see these same people screaming about the blood-soaked, gory descriptions in the popular Left Behind series?<br /><br />The reason most Christians don't play Christian games is the same reason why most gamers don't play our games: With the resources we're forced to work with we can only produce games that are five to seven years behind the game play curve (or worse). The AAA titles of the late 90's were made with a budget of less than a million and maybe twenty to forty people. Today's games are made with budgets typically exceeding several million dollars (two million dollars a month for Valve Software's recently released bestseller Half Life 2) and a staff of over one hundred people. The original Half Life was released in 1998 and to this date, the Christian game industry hasn't produced a game that can match it -- though, to be fair, many recently released secular games don't match it either. To put it pointedly, the majority of gamers have grown tired of games that play like Quake 1... and that's the quality level a spare time budget allows developers to make. While it's impressive that Eternal War: Shadows of Light met and exceeded the gameplay of Quake 1 considering it was developed on spare time and a limited budget, it still isn't enough to compete with today's market.<br /><br />Now, the problem isn't a lack of Christian talent -- there are many Christians already working in the secular game industry in companies like Sierra, Activision, Electronic Arts, etc. These guys have even expressed interest in joining Christian game developers like N-Lightning or Two Guys Software. The problem is that the majority of these guys have families, mortgages, and bills to pay. Joining a Christian game developer would mean a huge pay in cut that, quite frankly, they can't afford at this time.<br /><br />Many publishers will look at TGS and other Christian game developers and then claim the reason they aren't interested in backing us up is because of our lack of major financial success (or in the case of secular publishers mainly just because we're Christian in the first place). What they don't seem to comprehend is the lack of success is largely due to a lack of money, marketing, business management, and store shelf space... things only they could provide. It's a Catch-22 since we first have to be financially successful in order for them to consider providing the necessities required for us to be financially successful in the first place.<br /><br />Why does there need to be a Christian game industry that creates games specifically to be marketed to Christians alone? Can't Christians just work from within the mainstream game industry?<br /><br />When I think of the Christian game industry I agree that it shouldn't be centered around games created specifically to be marketed to Christians alone. Preaching to the choir or specifically targeting a yet-to-exist Christian game market has always seemed a waste of time to me, though I know others in the industry might disagree. It's possible that type of business plan might be financially sustainable in the long run, but that's not my interest. Two Guys Software's goal, for example, is to reach out to hardcore gamers with Biblically sound values and game play that anyone could appreciate. The idea is to overtly integrate moral issues and a message into the game play so that non-Christians don't feel like they're being bashed over the head with the Bible.<br /><br />We've actually received more interest from secular media outlets like Forbes and MSNBC and mostly scorn from Christian publishers and media. "Christians shouldn't play video games, especially if they have any sort of violence at all in them" is usually the type of response I hear. There are actually many Christians in the mainstream game industry, from Sierra to EA, but I know from experience that the publishers will bulk at the idea to produce games that discuss sound moral issues in any manner; even if the Bible, God, or Jesus is not brought up explicitly. Using the word "Christian" will almost always get you shown the door immediately. That is why there is a "Christian" game industry, because at this time it seems that is the only way the games will be produced.<br /><br />Where do you see TGS five years from now?<br /><br />I cannot give an exact time frame but we're expecting the development of EW: Nightmares to take several more years. We're currently seeking financial investment and/or support by a mainstream publisher, either Christian or secular.<br /><br />If a young person wished to become involved with the Christian gaming industry, what advice would you give them?<br /><br />To be able to make good games you have to recognize good games and the game play mechanics behind them. What makes a "good" game is a fickle thing and often requires the tweaking of many variables over a period of months in order to balance out the game play.<br />I would recommend reading game development websites and magazines so you can become familiar with the industry. Depending on your planned specialty you may have to be well grounded in technical matters.M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-62634696571155436262008-09-30T16:16:00.000-07:002008-09-30T16:19:52.881-07:00An Interview with Demonologist Keith JohnsonAppeared in Teenage Magazine 2007<br /><br /><br />When God works we glory in His miracles and greatness. When Satan works we remember that the Christian walk is no game.<br /><br />Keith and Sandra Johnson are paranormal investigators. For a number of years they have helped people with their questions and problems regarding this field. Along with hosting a local paranormal talk show in their native Rhode Island, Keith also serves as consulting demonologist for TAPS, The Atlantic Paranormal Research Society, whom many have seen on the sci-fi channel hit series, Ghost Hunters.<br /><br />Keith graciously took time to answer a few questions exclusively for TeenAge...<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">TeenAge: Please tell us who you are and a little about your organization, New England Anomalies Research.<br /></span><br />Keith: We founded New England Anomalies Research, in October of 2004, as a means of investigating the paranormal as a team, as well as assisting people who are facing situations which may possibly involve paranormal phenomena. More and more frequently, we find that people are requesting help with these types of situations, and they are often extremely grateful to find an organization they can turn to for help.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">TeenAge: When someone hears the term ‘Demonologist’ it tends to sound a little bit scary; as if a demonologist is someone who hangs out with demons. Would you define the term for us and explain what it is that you do?<br /></span><br />Keith: Essentially, a demonologist is someone who studies the history, theology, nature and activity of the demonic realm, and is able to apply this knowledge.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">TeenAge: How does your Christian faith help you when dealing with these situations?</span><br /><br />Keith: It is through our Christian faith that we feel protected when entering a situation where a demonic entity may be involved. We know that we are not dealing with these situations under our own authority, but that we are protected and guided by Jesus Christ.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">TeenAge: On the heels of that question, Keith, how did you and Saundra each become involved with paranormal studies? Is that how you met?<br /></span><br />Keith: Sandra and I actually met when we were involved in a theater project together. As far as becoming involved in paranormal research, my interest was originally peaked by the fact that I grew up in a house when paranormal phenomena occasionally took place. Sandra also developed an avid interest in this field, and this, combined with our Christian faith and desire to assist others who were seeking answers, led us to investigating these types of cases together.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">TeenAge: What happened on your most startling or frightening investigation?</span><br /><br />Keith: A fourteen-year-old boy was subject to demonic possession, and while we were helping him, his aunt also went under possession. This was a perfect example of demonic spirits working together.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">TeenAge: Can demons read minds?</span><br /><br />Keith: Demons can mainly pick up impressions, and can seemingly read the thoughts of someone who is demonically influenced. However, they cannot read the thoughts of someone who has the indwelling of the Holy Spirit.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">TeenAge: Can Christians become possessed?</span><br /><br />Keith: A Christian cannot normally become possessed, as in being taken over by a demonic entity. However, a Christian can be tempted and even demonically influenced to a degree, if his or her guard is down. This happened on at least one occasion to the Apostle Peter.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />TeenAge: When it comes to paranormal investigations, a very common set of initials one hears are the letters EVP. Could you explain what that means and how it relates to your investigations?</span><br /><br />Keith: EVP stands for Electronic Voice Phenomena. Essentially, this is disembodied voices being picked up on either a magnetic or digital recording. Often these voices are picked up during a paranormal investigation, sometimes even while we are interviewing the client. They are generally only heard when the recording is played back. However, we would caution that voices caught in this manner are not necessarily the voices of departed human beings, and they can also be very deceptive.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><br />TeenAge: My thirteen year old friend wants to know when you hear voices on an EVP how can you tell if they are demonic or human spirits?</span><br /><br />Keith: If a voice captured in EVP form reacts negatively to any mention of God or Jesus Christ, then it is likely that of a demonic spirit. Most EVP messages are very brief and whispery, and often of a negative or sarcastic content.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><br />TeenAge: You occasionally work with TAPS on the sci-fi channel show, Ghost Hunters. I heard part of an audio once for a show that Ghost-Hunters never aired. It featured Keith performing an actual exorcism and was really quite frightening. But I recall hearing a great deal of Christian prayer also going on during the same episode. Any thoughts on why it wasn’t shown? Too scary, or too Christian?</span><br /><br />Keith: There are actually quite a few episodes of Ghost Hunters which, for a variety of reasons, do not wind up being aired on TV as part of the series. This particular episode was perhaps considered a little too controversial. However, an upcoming preview of it was shown, which resulted in many people asking questions about what actually happened. Let me just say that the exorcism was successful and the victim was eventually freed. The entire session was extremely physically and emotionally draining on me.<br />(Because there were so many inquiries, I did wind up writing out what happened in full story form, which can be found on the stories section of our web site: www.nearparanormal.com.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Teenage: Many teenagers are fascinated with the occult. Could you offer any words of wisdom, or even warning for those who want to learn more about it?</span><br /><br />Keith: The occult can be very dangerous, and also very, very deceptive. At first, it can even sometimes seem very alluring, such as the opportunity to gain advantages or to communicate with the spirits of departed loved ones, as through the Ouija board or automatic writing. But make no mistake...these are false promises, designed to trap people into getting in over their heads. It is often easier to lure in a demonic entity than it is to get rid of one. These spirits have the wisdom of the ages, and will look for any opportunity to infiltrate the life of someone who may be lonely, depressed, or spiritually vulnerable. But also, take comfort in the fact that Jesus gives us protection always read this out loud when entering a situation where the demonic may be involved. against these unholy forces through faith in Him. A good method of protecting oneself against demonic forces is to put on the "Armor of God," which is described in Ephesians, chapter 6. Sandra and I always read this out loud when entering a situation where the demonic may be involved.<br /><br />_______<br /><br />In case Ephesians 6 doesn't ring a bell, here's the section to which Keith is referring:<br /><br />Ephesians 6:10-13 KJV<br /><br />10 Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might.<br /><br />11 Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.<br /><br />12 For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.<br /><br />13 Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.<br /><br />A good passage to remember, no matter what you happen to do.M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-83447092494162565022008-09-05T09:03:00.001-07:002009-05-06T04:18:15.357-07:00Bless the Children: Appeared in AlienSkin Magazine Jan. 2007Excerpt........<br /><br /><br /><br />My name is Glob. Around sundown today I went above ground to get groceries, and this is how my trip went.<br /><br /> I was a little miffed when I went to the TV/Stereo shop on the corner. I just wanted to catch a glimpse of the news, find out what’s going on in the world, y’know? So I’m watching, and the next thing you know, this dumb show comes on about these lousy little reptiles that get doused in nuclear waste then, ‘Bammo!!” They transform into heroes! Man, like, what if they were nuclear tapeworms? Would they eat the bad guys from the inside out? They should have made a show about us. At least we used to be human.<br /><br /> My girlfriend, Bucket, says we still are. I don’t know.<br /><br /> So anyway, I’m standing there, my hood is pulled over my head when the manager yells, “Hey, kid! If you aint’ buyin’ get out!”<br /><br /> And I thought I wasn’t a Rhodes Scholar.<br /><br /> Well, I already had my chain jerked a little anyway, so I spun around and stuck out my tongue. The dude screamed like a girl then started saying swear words about the costume shop down the street.<br /><br />“Go on!” he cried. “Get!”<br /> <br /> I said a few words about his over-sized rear and took off.<br /><br /> I took my usual path down the alley that runs adjacent to S. Michigan Avenue, Chicago, USA.<br /><br /> Chet’s Diner was my first stop. Sitting on the back steps were the four bags he leaves everyday. I leaned forward and smelled the soup. Mmmm, minestrone. I peaked in one bag and saw he had included a can of V-8 especially for our girl Loosey. She needs extra vegetables, but her jaw doesn’t work very well. I also noticed the bags were sturdy and had handles. Good ol’ Chet.<br /><br /> Of course, before this had been Chet’s place it had been Sal’s, and Tawan’s and also Larry’s.. But hell, those guys couldn’t deal and became real inconvenient. Inconvenient people die. My mother taught me that.<br /><br /> So old Chet is a good boy. We help him, though, it’s only fair. Like the time he was robbed. Friggin’ burglar stole a ton of money and equipment. Expensive stuff. Police couldn’t find him, but we did. Chet got his stuff back and I let Patch abort him. He didn’t live long. A good deal all around.<br /><br /> Next stop was the church. Father Hillary left a small box of medicine we needed with a note attached; ’Will have extra clothes, blankets and batteries tomorrow. The ribbon is in with the medicine.’<br /><br /> I felt excited and tore open the bag for a look. There it was, a strand of velvet, all ruby-red and soft. It was a present for Bucket. Man, I knew she’d love it. She loves tying things around her head. I also saw Father Hillary had included his usual present: a Bible. I gave asnort of laughter and chucked it to one side. That Father Hillary, sometimes he’s a hoot. Always talking about the great life you can find just reading the Bible. Maybe it hasn't dawned on him that I'm dead, so what's a dead man need with a life? But the Father is still a pretty good one. I’ll have to carve a lot of flesh before I find a replacement for him.<br /><br /> I put the box in with the juice and headed for my last stop, Wilma’s Natural Food Mart. She was supposed to leave us organic apples, but when I got to her back door, I didn’t see anything.<br /><br /> Disgusted, I pounded on the door. Wilma opened it and peaked out. She’s thin with gray lines in her hair, always wears blue jeans and acts like she’s doing me a big, fat, favor. She’s got it wrong.<br /><br /> She looked at me and stuttered, “Oh, its-its….y-you.”<br /><br /> “You-you? Who-who?” I talk like that to her. Freaks her out. “Say who I are.”<br /><br /> “I’m not calling you that-that name.”<br /><br /> I told her, “My name Glob. I wanna apple.”<br /><br /> “You’re not a glob.”<br /><br /> “Liar.”<br /><br /> Her eyes said she was a little scared and guilty at the same time. I thought, N.G., Wilma, N.G.<br /><br /> “Look,” she told me opening the door. “Come in. We have to talk.”<br /><br />“I wanna apple,” I said and waddled in after her.<br /><br /> She lead me to her office which was a real mess, let me tell you. The paperwork on her desk looked so jumbled you’d have thought it had a life of its own. There were bills held in check by a marble paper-weight; a spiked message skewer over-flowed with messages and order sheets covered her desk like insulation. Being an orderly kind of guy, I was just plain friggin’ appalled. And this slob was supposed to help me. Tsk, tsk.<br /><br /> She sat in her rotten old desk chair and motioned for me to sit.<br /><br /> I told her, “Glob stand.”<br /><br /> “Uh…all right,” she stammered. Then she smiled in that same kind of way Bucket does sometimes. Except, when Bucket does it, she’s usually congratulating a two year old for pooping in the right spot. I aint’ two years old. This chick spoke like we reached some major compromise.<br /><br /> “All right…Glob. Stand. But we will talk. I’ve been letting this arrangement go on too long. You must see that you need help! My church has a youth Pastor who could help you to...”<br /><br />“I wanna apple.”<br /><br /> Her eyes flashed, “Stop talking like that! You’re not stupid! I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you! But you do need spiritual help and physical help. The swellings are there, but you could see a doctor! You could be a normal boy!”<br /><br /> Her words punched a button with me so big and touchy I wanted to nail her right there. But I was in a bad position. I kept cool and moved closer to the desk.<br /><br /> “Gimme apple! Gimme now!”<br /><br /> She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and said, “That’s it young man! You can’t be more than fourteen and if there are other children like you down there…don’t you see? They need a doctor! Jesus didn't save your lives just to have you hold them captive in the dark till they all die or don’t you care?”<br /><br /> Inside my anger flared like an exploding volcano. Didn't care? She had NO idea! But since she was about to die, I told her the truth. I leaned forward on her desk and gave her my most intelligent smile. “Wilma, Wilma, tsk, tsk. My clan is officially dead. Or so you’d expected when a person is aborted. But a few of us made it, as you well know…”<br /><br /> I never used this voice with her and I could see her face go slack with fright, as if she had just learned a fatal secret. She had.<br /><br /> Wilma gasped, “You’re normal!”<br /><br /> I grinned and yelled, “Surprise!” Then snatching up the paper-weight, I slammed it into her temple and she slumped to the floor. I felt the side of her neck and found no pulse. But it didn’t matter. I felt in my pocket for my switchblade, pulled it out and snicked it open. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, I yanked her head up and slit her throat. No hard feelings, but when I kill someone, I make sure they’re really dead.<br /><br /> I waited at the back door to her office. I could hear the clerk out front yakking on the phone and having a grand old time. No one else was in the store. I slipped out. Near the back door I found the sack of apples and oranges she was supposed to leave for me before she came down with the bleeding heart sickness.<br /><br />I grabbed the sack and left.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Does it end well? Hmmmm....we'll have to see! </span>M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-87589035271362367982008-09-05T08:54:00.000-07:002008-09-05T19:12:44.088-07:00Soul Mate and Blessed Infant: Appeared in Infuze Mag. June 2005It doesn't happen too often, but once in a blue moon I write poems. The first was a poem, the second became a medieval style song, performed locally.<br /><br /><br />Soul Mate<br /><br />I always knew you were there,<br /><br />A companion almost too good to be real.<br /><br />Someone who could do the impossible<br /><br />And love me...<br /><br />just the way I am.<br /> <br /><br />I always prayed you were there,<br /><br />the elusive soul-mate<br /><br />only others seemed to find.<br /><br /><br />You fill my heart,<br /><br />You touch my soul<br /><br />Just knowing you exist...<br /><br /><br />I thank God for you,<br /><br />again and again,<br /><br />I thank God for you...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Blessed Infant<br /><br />Blessed Infant rest your head<br />Sleep baby, sleep<br />Laying in a manger bed,<br /><br />Sleep baby sleep.<br />A thousand stars may grace the skies,<br />but one shines brightest for you tonight.<br /><br />Come so that we may have life,<br />Sleep baby, sleep.<br />Sleep baby, sleep.M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-77919859087194794682008-09-05T08:50:00.000-07:002008-09-05T19:14:50.962-07:00On Rejection: Appeared in Perpetual Mag. Spring 2008“But it’s a good story!” the Writer insisted. “This is a Christian horror magazine, isn’t it? So what’s wrong with being a little scary and a little ugly? It’s the genre, man!”<br /><br /> Waldo folded his hands. “You know, the Bible says in all things we are to give God the glory. Here, you’ve written about a teen-aged girl who suffers terrible, frightening things after becoming involved with witchcraft. How is God glorified?” To emphasize his point, Waldo held the manuscript aloft. He always felt such gestures were important to set himself above the Writer. “What spiritual lesson could this possibly teach?”<br /><br />The Writer shrugged, “Uh, stay away from witchcraft?”<br /> “Yes, but does it, in the process, clearly point the reader to God as the one great Creator over all? And where are the Bible verses? You used so few one might doubt your allegiance to the True God.”<br /> Waldo could see the Writer’s jaw drop.<br /> “Look mister,” the Writer said. “Just because I’m not spewing Bible verses every other line doesn’t give you or anyone else call to doubt what I believe!”<br /> Waldo smiled. Bringing this one down would be easy.<br /> “Well, I suppose it was too difficult to write in a character that could have witnessed to the girl.”<br /><br />The Writer threw up his hands. “I could have, but it doesn’t always work that way!”<br /><br />Waldo rose from his chair. He would stop this man in his tracks, and use his own religion to do it, too. “It will never work that way if people don’t have the example set before them!”<br /><br />The Writer rolled his eyes. “Look, Waldo, what do you want? A scary story or a witnessing tract?”<br /><br />Waldo frowned. He liked the Writer’s attitude more with every passing minute. His went easy. “Well, I can see an excellent story coming together right in front of us! This is all about someone almost violently opposed to Christianity trying to find a way to slip their doctrine before an unsuspecting Christian audience. But notice: in the end our merciful, living God will triumph!”<br /><br />Waldo took a seat again.<br /><br />The Writer’s face had the wide-eyed, slack-jawed appearance of total shock. “Do you really think that’s what’s going on here?”<br /><br />“The Bible says, ‘Ye shall know them by their fruits.’”<br /><br /> “Y’know, I’ve dealt with plenty of other Christian publishers and no one, no one acts like you! So what? I didn’t write what YOU thought I should write and that makes me ‘violently opposed’ to Christianity?” His shock melted into anger as the sound of his voice skipped a decibel. “And then you have the guts to throw a Bible verse at me?”<br /><br /> Waldo sat back. “Now, now, in the name of my Lord, calm yourself.”<br /><br /> “What?”<br /> “You have to admit, yours is not a Christian story.”<br /> “It’s my story!”<br /> Waldo paused. “Your story?”<br /> The Writer spoke, his voice low, breaking, “Yeah, the names are changed to protect the innocent. I had to come to a really low place in my life before I realized I needed to change. I was hoping if somebody could read about it and see where this stuff leads, it might spare them the trip.”<br /><br /> “Or…” Waldo said, gently, “…it could draw more people to evil…”<br /><br /> Eyes shining, the writer whispered, “Maybe…”<br /><br /> “Please,” Waldo said. “I can’t use this story, but please take it. Spend time in prayer and ask the Lord God what it is He really wants you to write about.”<br /> The Writer silently took the manuscript from his hands and left.<br /> A few minutes later Waldo pulled out a cell phone and punched in a number.<br /> “Yes,” he said to the man on the other end. “I believe I’ve devastated another one. Tell the Elders our coven’s plan is working perfectly….”M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-63158694994749705002008-09-05T08:44:00.000-07:002008-09-05T08:48:48.096-07:00Innocent Blood<span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Published in Perpetual Magazine/ August 2008</span></span><br /><br />According to dispatch, this one was messy.<br /> <br /> Hank Broward stepped out of his car, pulled out a cigarette and lit up. He thought the old townhouse looked like something out of one the magazines his ex-wife used to read, all painted and well-kept. But this one held something terrible inside.<br /><br />He blew out a stream of smoke.<br /><br />A police officer stood outside the front door. His face was pale. He stared straight ahead.<br /><br />Broward stepped across the crime scene tape, and flashed his badge.<br /><br />“Mitchell inside?”<br /><br />The guy took a breath. “Yeah.”<br /> ”This one as bad as they’re saying?”<br /><br />“Worse.”<br /><br />“This your first corpse?”<br /><br />The officer shook his head. “Naw, I fought in Iraq, man. I never saw anything like this. Someone killed her and then kept killing.”<br /><br />“I did a tour,” Broward said as he stepped inside. “Do me a favor. Stay out here. No reporters get near this place, okay?”<br /><br />“Got it.”<br /> Sergeant Brad Mitchell met him in the living room.<br /><br />“Heard it was gruesome.”<br /><br />Mitchell’s face was stone. “You’d have thought the killer had a huge paper shredder. I’ve seen some sick sights, but…damn.”<br /><br />“All right. I need to get pictures. You find any sign of entry yet?”<br /><br />Mitchell frowned. “What? You want me to take your pictures, too?”<br /><br />“Throw me a bone, man. Hey, I’m getting’ too old to spot all the details.”<br /><br />Mitchell bit his lip. “There’s one thing, and I mean only one. And this could be the fault of a lazy plumber. There’s a drain pipe in the basement floor with the cover off. But if that’s the entry, the killer is pretty damn small and doesn’t mind crawling through a sewer.”<br /><br />Broward huffed, “Lemme look.” He followed Mitchell to the room with the body.<br /><br />“You might want to cover your nose.”<br /><br />Broward didn’t ask, but yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over the lower half of his face.<br />Mitchell opened the door. Even with the handkerchief, the coppery stench of blood made its way to his nose.<br /><br />“Yeah,” Mitchell said, misreading his reaction. “Sick aint it?”<br /><br />“Who the hell does this crap?”<br /><br />Hank shook his head, took out his camera and snapped his pictures.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Back at the station, Broward sat across from Daniel Delaney. Delaney was young, head covered with thick brown hair, good smile, married, one kid, one on the way.<br />Delaney’s eyes stared at the mountain of paperwork.<br /><br />“Sounds like some kind of hit, either that or somebody really hated her. But damned if I can figure it out. We got Angela Simpson, 38, divorced, no kids, works at the children’s library.” Delaney scratched his head.<br /><br />“I dunno. I get sick of paying alimony. Maybe her ex went over the top.”<br /><br />“Can’t be. He’s dead. Two years ago. Cancer.”<br /><br />Broward grumbled over his own stack of papers. “Hmmm, and just the one set of smeared prints. I gotta wonder if this isn’t some kind of cult killing. There were patterns of marks and indents in the carpeting…”<br /><br />“Glad to see you, Broward,” Captain Zeph said, as he strode toward them. “Heard you had a horrible headache and couldn’t get your ass in here this morning. What was it, the flu or a bad case of Jose’ Cuervo?”<br /><br />Broward’s voice was toneless. “Flu.”<br /><br />Zeph nodded. “Yeah, thought so. You know, next time you get the flu you should try a nice Bloody Mary in the morning, it should help.”<br /><br />“Thanks. I will.”<br /><br />“I hear this ones coming up as empty as the case last week.”<br /><br /> Broward raised an eyebrow. Yeah, well, last week Myra Klinsky sure as hell wasn’t shredded. From all reports she spent her forty-five years helping the poor and apparently the cosmic reward for such service was to end up as an empty skull full of half-dissolved teeth. That and a Medic Alert bracelet dangling from one of her bound wrists gave them her identity.<br /><br />But her death, like Angela Simpson’s, was gruesome, dramatic. The acts were just sick enough to be the same M.O., whatever that M.O. might be.<br /><br />Without a word, Broward opened the Klinsky file. After an initial read through offered nothing new, he looked up and told Delaney. “Get your coat, we’re hittin’ the neighborhood.”<br />#<br /><br />Three houses down from the Simpson home, Delaney and Broward stood on the porch of Teresa McKenzie as Ms. McKenzie sucked her cigarette and gave her armchair appraisal of Ms. Simpson’s life.<br /><br />“Oh, yes, I remember all the way back when she was still married,” Teresa said, pushing back her dark curls. “A great girl. A little bit wild in her younger days, though. Lemme tell you something,” she blew a puff of smoke and dropped her voice to a low, gossipy level. “Fifteen years ago, she got pregnant while her husband was in the Navy. She comes to me begging to drive her to a clinic to get rid of it. She was so upset, I just drove her to that place over on Michigan Avenue.”<br /><br />Teresa’s face twisted with discomfort. “We didn’t really talk much after that. The whole thing was just so weird, ya know? But who knows? Maybe that boyfriend came back and finally decided he didn’t like what she did, or maybe even her ex-husband found out she was fooling around while he was off risking his life for his country and gave her paybacks. What do you think?”<br /><br />“We’re not sure yet, ma’am,” Broward said. “But thank you, you’ve been a big help.”<br /><br />Broward’s mind uncontrollably wandered back to the night he caught his wife naked with another man. It was the first and only time murder ever seemed like the right move. She screwed around, and he still got stuck with alimony.<br /> No freakin’ justice.<br /> His cell phone rang and Broward drew it from his pocket. “Yeah?”<br /><br />“Broward? Zeph. We got another one.”<br />#<br /> Broward thought ground zero for the next murder was more like a three ring circus.<br /><br />Outside the Elm Tree Oasis Apartments, the ME and police personnel had to fight their way past news vans and camera’s. He saw the KOAX news van pull up. Red-haired Gina hopped out, tailed by her cameraman.<br /><br />Broward groaned.<br /><br />“Broward! What’s up with you not letting me in the loop?” she cried. In her perfect imitation of someone who gave a crap, she lifted a hand and added, “These murders are vicious, the people need to know! You gotta give me something!”<br /><br />Broward showed her his back and headed for the building, Delaney with him.<br /><br />Sergeant Mitchell, eyes darker than yesterday, looked up and gave a weary exhale. “We gotta quit meeting like this.”<br /><br />Broward asked, “What’s with all the press?”<br /><br />Mitchell scratched his head. “Well, a delivery boy found this one. He calls every media outlet he can think of and then calls us. Big freaking hero, right?”<br /><br />“What kind of a mess are we talkin’ about, Mitchell?”<br /><br />Mitchell eyes were steady. “Someone took a pair of scissors, lodged them in the base of her skull and tried to scrape out her brains.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />Back at his desk, Broward looked over the new file. Madeline Smith, 40 year old African American, single, never married. She had worked as a care giver at the Greater Chicago Retirement facility.<br /><br />He drummed his fingers on the desk top. This time they found the marks again: strange patterns poked into the carpet. Aside from someone walking around purposely gouging the floor with a stick, he had no clue what caused it or why.<br /> A nurse in an old folks home. Nothing stolen, no known enemies…<br /><br /> His head began to ache as he read the files one more time. On the surface, all of the victims sounded like innocent, caring, women. Broward’s eyes wandered over to Delaney’s desk, to the picture of his chubby-cheeked two year-old.<br /><br />Innocent women, innocent children.<br /><br />He weighed the idea back and forth. Was somebody trying to make a point?<br /><br />Terrorists? A crazed ex-boyfriend?<br /><br />Somebody who feels really screwed-over.<br /><br />That was a feeling he understood. What with Jennifer having to live ‘her life,’ and ‘find herself.’ But she sure had no qualms about taking his money.<br /><br />Freakin’ whore.<br /><br />Maybe, like Angela Simpson, they weren’t all that innocent.<br /><br />“Hey!” Zeph appeared at his desk.<br /><br />“There’s a big protest on the avenue right now at the Lake Michigan Women’s Center.”<br /><br />Broward shrugged. “I guess it sucks to be them.”<br /><br />“Yeah, well, the guy leading the protest is telling everyone and his mother he knows who killed your victims. So why are you still here?”<br /><br />#<br /> To Broward, the scene outside the abortion clinic looked like a cheering squad from hell. A group of over forty people, mostly women, lined up the legal distance away from the clinic. Directing their cries with a bullhorn was a guy Broward recognized. Rev. Hammer. He dressed in black from head to foot, the dark making a perfect contrast for the gold chains and huge, silver, jeweled cross he wore around his neck. The hand he gripped the bullhorn with was encrusted by gaudy rings.<br /><br />“Who’s going to hell!” he shrieked.<br /><br />The crowd pointed towards the clinic and thundered,<br /><br />“They are!”<br /><br />“When are they going?”<br /><br />“Now!”<br /><br />Delaney’s jaw dropped. “All we need is Rod Serling.”<br /><br />Posters with outrageous profanities were waved by gray-haired grandmothers, housewives, and businessmen. Broward noticed a few of the tamer ones said, ‘Keep your legs together, sluts!’ and ‘God hates whores!’<br /> “Yes! Let’em hear you in there as they kill their children: God hates whores! God hates whores!”<br /><br />The crowd picked up the chant.<br /><br />“GOD HATES WHORES! GOD HATES WHORES!”<br /><br />Broward suddenly pictured the plaque of Jesus his mother hung in his bedroom when he was a child. It depicted the Shepard King sitting on a log watching, smiling, as children and lambs frolicked. This scene was 180 degrees removed.<br /><br />He muttered to his partner as they headed into the street. “Who was this guy’s Sunday school teacher? Charles Manson?”<br /><br />“GOD HATES WHORES!”<br /><br />The hyper, sweaty little man, glanced up as they strode forward.<br /><br />“The established order has come to take me away! No matter what man does to me! Don’t give up the fight…”<br /><br />The noise pounded against his head. Broward raised his voice, “Reverend!”<br /><br />Rev. Hammer lowered his horn, straightened his shoulders and held his head high. Broward could see he was proud to be, hoping to be a martyr.<br /><br />It would probably double his donations.<br /><br />“Have you men come to arrest me?”<br /><br />Delaney told him, “No.”<br /> The man’s shoulders slumped.<br /><br />“We need to ask you a few questions, Reverend.”<br /><br />“Leave the Reverend alone!”<br /><br />“Don’t abuse him!”<br /><br />Reverend Hammer lifted a hand and the crowd went back to chanting, with new fervor, “GOD HATES WHORES!”<br /><br />He set the bullhorn on the ground and folded his arms.<br />“Yes, gentlemen?”<br /><br />Broward rubbed a temple, “Reverend, get your people to quiet down. Now!”<br /><br />Rev. Hammer thrust his nose in the air and waved for quiet. The crowd didn’t completely hush, but at least the noise level was livable.<br /><br />“What do you want?” he spat.<br /><br />“Sir, we’re investigating the murders in the area.”<br /><br />“Oh! Yes!” his head rolled back as he spoke. “I can help you find your killer right now!”<br /><br />He thrust a finger across the street. “There!” he cried with all the drama of a stage actor. “Abortion killed those women! The killer is God’s avenging spirit come to take the lives of all those who spill innocent blood!”<br /><br />Broward glanced at Delaney.<br /><br />This guy is nuts.<br /><br />A grim smile curled the Reverend’s lips. “You men don’t believe me? Here, look at these and then ask the pampered slut who runs that place if there isn’t something wrong!”<br /><br />A smug, triumphant sneer spread across his face. Hammer reached into his breast pocket, pulled out three sheets of paper and waved them in Broward’s face.<br /><br />Annoyed, he snatched them away.<br /><br />In his hands were receipts. One at a time he handed them to Delaney. There was one for each victim. Each woman had terminated a pregnancy at the Women’s Center.<br /><br />“Reverend? How did you obtain this information?”<br /><br />The Reverend’s eyebrows levitated to the sky. “Oh! I told you, God knows what’s going on! He called me to be part of His plan! He put this information in my hands!”<br /><br />“How?”<br /><br />Rev. Hammer smiled as he tugged a postmarked envelope from his pocket. “It came by US mail.”<br /><br />Broward and Delaney exchanged glances. “Sir, I’m afraid it’s not legal for you to have these private medical records in your possession.”<br /><br />Rev. Hammer’s eyes darted back and forth, nervous.<br /><br />“You said you weren’t here to arrest me.”<br /><br />Broward saw realization dawn in the man’s eyes: he was in trouble.<br /><br />“Uh, detectives?’ he said. “I-I really did get those in the mail.”<br /><br /> <br /><br />#<br /><br /> Hammer turned out to be a huge disappointment. During his interrogation, his nose shot back into the air. “Do what you will! I am an instrument!”<br /><br />“An instrument?”<br /><br />“That’s right! An instrument of the Almighty! No other pastor in the entire city has the courage to preach what I preach!”<br /><br />The interview ended when he lowered his voice and in a tone that sounded like a man tottering on the edge, hissed, “Don’t you feel eyes on you, Detective? Don’t you feel you’re being watched?”<br /><br />Outside the room, Broward sighed, “Delaney, the women’s center is the one thing all three victims have in common. We might as well check it out.” <br /><br />Delaney grumbled, “And what if we don’t find out anything?”<br /><br />“Zeph is going to toss Hammer in the lock up. We’ll see if he’s ready to talk after he’s been hammered in the ass for a couple of nights.”<br /><br />Delaney gave a short, mirthless laugh, “Yeah, he’ll be an instrument all right.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />As they entered the Lake Michigan Women’s Center, Broward could feel depression like a blanket wrap around him. With the murder of babies going on in back, this could never be a very happy place.<br /><br />In the waiting room, seated in hard plastic chairs were young women. A few held the hands of older ladies, another girl, teary-eyed, sobbed next to a nurse. They looked up with gazes that were haunted, embarrassed, a few simply cold.<br /><br />On the walls, cheery posters of famous women from all walks of life, gazed out at him. One picture portrayed a fit, beautiful, bikini-clad woman with a dazzling smile, striking a victory pose on a sandy beach. Above her blazed a single word: CHOICE! Broward couldn’t picture any of the girls in this room ever taking her place.<br /><br />Broward noticed the clinic looked awfully ‘lived-in.’ The floors were scuffed, the walls, fingerprinted. He thought it looked like the sort of wear and tear done by children.<br /><br />The crying girl began to sob louder and the nurse took her hand and directed her to the back.<br /><br />“No, honey, no,” he heard the nurse say in a hushed voice as they rounded the corner, “it’s not a baby. It really isn’t human yet…”<br /><br />Her words made Broward flinch. He looked over at Delaney. His eyes were trained at the floor.<br /><br />In a wall of glass brick at the front of the room, a window popped open. “May I help you, gentlemen?” A beautiful, smiling receptionist peered out.<br /><br />Broward flashed his badge. “We’re here to see Carolyn Johnson.”<br /><br />“Oh! Oh yes! Hold on, just a moment. I’ll buzz you in!” She pointed to the left. “The door, over there.”<br /><br />The door buzzed and Delaney shoved it open. Broward could see by his stony expression how little he wanted to be here.<br /><br />In a barely audible voice, he asked, “You okay?”<br />Just as quietly, Delaney hissed his response. “I love my kid too much to be okay.”<br /><br />Before them, the hallway floor was stripped down to the concrete. A woman came breezing down the hallway toward them.<br /> “Get it together,” he whispered. “Or get out.”<br />Delaney nodded and stayed put.<br /><br />The woman was tall, blonde, with a white lab coat whisking about a perfect set of legs. As she approached, she extended a white hand that looked and felt as soft as butterfly wings. Her nails were buffed and rounded. Broward noticed a diamond wrist watch. He glanced at Delaney and could almost read his mind.<br /> “Gentlemen, I’m Carolyn Johnson, I’m the owner and director here. Please excuse the hallway, the carpeting was supposed to be replaced today. I assume you’ve come about that horrible Reverend Hammer?”<br /> “Partly,” Broward said and introduced himself and Delaney. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, ma’am.”<br /> “Of course, we’ll speak in my office.”<br /> She led them to what must have been the cleanest spot in the entire building. Her office was tastefully decorated in shades of pink and green. Her degrees lined the walls. The carpeting in here looked fine.<br /><br />Broward settled himself into one of the leather chairs in front of her desk and commented, “Nice office. I’ll be honest with you ma’am. When I first walked in, I thought the place looked a little messy for a medical facility.”<br /><br />He made the statement, and then watched her. Her eyes grew huge with indignation for a moment and then she broke into a high, nervous, laugh, “Oh, my God! Thank you! Some one else agrees with me! The kid that cleans here stomps around in football cleats. I told him not to, but he says he doesn’t have enough money to but a different pair of shoes right now. I should fire him, but he’s a really young, orphan kid. Just got out of high school, so I’ll keep him, but I guess I better get him some shoes myself.”<br /><br />“The cleats tore up the carpet?”<br /><br />“Oh, it was destroyed! There were tiny holes punched in so many places, we had to get rid of it.”<br /><br /> All of the hair on the back of Broward’s neck stood. He paused, wondering if Rev. Hammer had managed to utter a madman’s prophecy, because suddenly he felt as if he were indeed being watched.<br /><br />For a moment he studied Miss Johnson’s face. “You have an address for the boy? I’d like to ask him some questions.”<br /><br />Carolyn blinked. “Well, he’s coming in early to wash the outside windows. He should be here in just a few minutes. Brian isn’t a bad kid. He has no police record at all. And trust me, we checked, too, because his eyes gave us cause to wonder.”<br /><br />“What do you mean?”<br /><br />“His eyes are black. There’s no color in his irises at all. It’s very disconcerting at first, but,” she said with a shrug, “it’s just how he’s made. He wears sunglasses a lot to hide them. He’s also a little immature. But he doesn’t seem to have an axe to grind over what we do here. So I guess I’m saying my complaints about him aren’t ‘throw-him-in-jail’ serious.”<br /><br />“I’m sure he’s fine,” Broward said. “I just have questions.”<br /><br />Carolyn took a breath. “Well, I assume the main reason you gentlemen are here though is because of that awful Rev. Hammer…”<br /><br />“Does Rev. Hammer seem to concentrate on your clinic or does he go after all Women’s centers?“<br /><br /> Carolyn frowned. “You’ve no doubt had plenty of time to listen to Rev. Hammer and his rumors. I hope you didn’t believe all of his garbage.”<br /> Broward’s eyebrows shot up. “Maybe you could you tell me your side of the story?”<br /> “It was a long time ago and we don’t talk about it. But I’m sure you’ll be able to find it on your cop computer or whatever you people use. And-and really it was an incident we handled and it’s over and done with. Do you understand?”<br /><br />He nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I do. But since I don’t have one of my fancy cop computers here, and since I’m working a triple-homicide investigation where every second is crucial, and since you have information I need that you’re not willing to share–I may have to call a judge and get a warrant for your arrest on the grounds of hindering my investigation. Do you understand?”<br /><br />She pressed her lips together, not wanting to talk, then finally, “About thirteen yeas ago we had a man working here and…and we discovered he was selling whole fetuses to different places, genetic labs, even cosmetic companies.”<br /><br />Cosmetic companies?<br /><br />“What happened?”<br /><br />“We had him arrested, but he had a break down. He’s been at the Shaker Heights Rest Home ever since.” Carolyn looked a little green. “Of course, when Rev. Hammer heard about this he began telling his people we trafficked in human fetuses. He even visits our old employee at the mental hospital then runs around telling people the man swears he hears fetuses talking to him at night.” She shivered. “It just gets gruesome, you know?”<br /><br />Broward nodded. “Sounds like it.” His mind ran a million different directions.<br /><br />“I’d like to look into the companies he dealt with. You wouldn’t think there’d be a market for that sort of thing.”<br /><br />“There’s a market for everything.”<br /><br /> ‘Splat’<br /><br /> The sound of a wet brush hitting her office window caused them both to jump.<br /><br /> Carolyn gave a nervous laugh. “Speak of the devil. There’s Brian.”<br /><br /> Broward took a good long look at the boy as he stood outside scrubbing the window. Brian Scoggins was tall, Broward estimated maybe a full six feet and a very slender 150 pounds. His skin was so white it was nearly translucent. Stringy, black, hair hung around his head, and as Carolyn warned, he used a pair of dark sunglasses to cover his eyes. Broward thought maybe that was it. Perhaps not being able to see his eyes caused the immediate impression of untrustworthiness.<br /><br /> Brian moved with the precision of the damned. Even when he pulled out a squeegee to knock the soap and water from the windows, Broward watched each stroke happen, quick and carefully, then precisely repeat until the window was dry and clean.<br /><br /> He rose from his chair and extended a hand. “Well, I’d like to thank you for your time. I’ll round up my associate, we’ll have a word with Mr. Scoggins and be on our way.”<br /><br /> Carolyn smiled prettily, “Anytime, Detective.”<br /><br /> Outside, Delaney stood with one ear to his cell phone, while both eyes stayed focused on the kid.<br /><br /> “…Yeah, Lieutenant, Broward’s coming out right now. I really think we’ve got at least one more person to talk to here. Call you back.”<br /><br /> Delaney pocketed his phone and kept his voice low. “That kid shows up, goes inside, comes out with his window washing stuff and a gear bag he dropped down by the first set of windows he did. Walks past me twice, never says a word. Okay, so maybe he’s just not friendly. I start walking toward him and he looks up at me so fast, I felt like I was trying to sneak up on a fly. So I thought I’d wait for you.”<br /><br /> “You’re a wuss.”<br /><br /> “Yeah, I know. But check out the glasses: he’s working on the alley side of the building, in the shade, wearing sunglasses. The guy already acts weird so is he on drugs? And check out the shoes, they’re over-sized football cleats. The carpets at the crimes all had patterns of holes or indents. I say we both talk to the kid.”<br /><br /> “Lead the way, man.”<br /><br /> As they walked down the alley toward Brian, the boy’s head swung upward and Broward understood what Delaney meant. He moved with preternatural speed. And Broward didn’t like the dark shades he wore. After nearly twenty years as a cop, he was used to having people’s eyes tell him stories long before words made it to the mouth.<br /><br /> “Brian Scoggins?”<br /><br /> The boy let his squee-gee dangle from his hand.<br /><br /> “Yeah?”<br /><br /> “I’m Hank Broward, this is my associate, Detective Delaney,” he showed his badge. “We’re with the Chicago PD. If you don’t mind, we want to talk to you a moment.”<br /><br /> Brian gazed at the ground. “’Bout what?”<br /><br /> “Just gathering information. You’ve heard about the three women who were murdered recently?”<br /><br /> Brian kept his face aimed at the ground and gave a slight huff. “Yeah. Real freak show. What about it?”<br /><br /> “All of the ladies had procedures at this clinic, so we’re talking to everyone connected with the place.”<br /><br /> For the first time, Brian raised his head. “’Procedures?’ They only do one thing here.”<br /><br /> Broward paused. Fishing for more reaction, he asked, “You got something against abortion?”<br /><br /> Brian’s voice was toneless. “Aw, hell no. Why would I? All they do is kill humans. Sure it bugs me, but now you’ll think I must be the killer because I work here and don’t like abortion. Well, fuck you. I can do both.”<br /><br /> “Don’t get so offended. How about that guy who used to sell fetuses from here? That’s pretty sick if you ask me.”<br /><br /> “Yeah, heard about him. That religious dude talks about him all the time. But what the hell, if you don’t have a problem killing babies, why would you have a problem turning them into a cash crop? People pay big bucks. At least, that’s what I hear.”<br /><br /> Broward had to admit, as creepy as the kid made him feel, he had a point. <br /><br />He changed tact. “You always wear those sunglasses?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Mind taking them off?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />Brian took them off and gazed back down at the ground. “You know, I bet my mom would have come here. I bet if she knew what I’d look like, I bet she’d come here and kill me. I bet she would…my carcass would pay a lot of rent.”<br /><br />Broward felt the goose bumps traipsing up his neck as he and Delaney exchanged glances.<br /><br />The kid was nuts.<br /><br />“Son,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Let me see your eyes.”<br /><br />Brian kept his head down and muttered, “Okay.” Then with that same lightening speed, popped his head up and announced, “There. Happy?”<br /><br />Broward held his expression. Delaney raised an eyebrow. Scoggins’s eyes were nothing but black pools, not a trace of an iris, not even the slightest hint of color to break up the darkness.<br /><br />Brian went back to staring at the ground. <br /><br />Broward asked. “You live with your parents?”<br /><br />“I don’t have parents. I got a room.”<br /><br />“What do you mean? Are you an orphan?”<br /><br />Brian shrugged. “I don’t know who my father is and I guess my mom is alive. I kinda look for her in my spare time.”<br /><br />“Hmmm, need help with that?”<br /><br />“Uh…naw. I only know the year I was born and that I’m from Chicago. I don’t really expect to find her.”<br /><br />“Let me know if you change your mind.”<br /><br />“Uh…okay.”<br /><br />Delaney glanced at him. Broward knew that sounded like a closing out line, but it wasn’t.<br /><br />He partially turned as if about to leave. “There’s one thing your boss mentioned. A box of thirteen year old records went missing last month, about the same time you started working here. Know anything about that?”<br /><br />Suddenly, Brian’s hand twitched and wrapped around the skinny side of his long, thin squee-gee. Broward casually lifted his hand as if slowly scratching an itch on his clavicle, putting him in position to instantly draw his gun.<br /><br />“You sure she said everything in that box was thirteen years old?”<br /><br />Broward’s whole body went on alert. He could sense the kids emotions crank up. Those black, souless eyes found him and he saw his knuckles turn white as they gripped the squee-gee. One more push, one more shake to the tree and he knew the kid would reveal one way or another if he was their boy. Broward stepped out with another statement that he knew implied the impossible. But if the kid were crazy, maybe it would work.<br /><br />He stared back into his eyes and said carefully, “I think one of them was at least eighteen.”<br /><br />It happened so fast there wasn’t time to stop him. Brian gave a strange, high-pitched shriek and plowed the squee-gee towards Delaney’s middle. At the last second, Delaney ducked and dodged, but Scoggin’s caught his shoulder and rammed the squee-gee in to its handle. Delaney cried out and stumbled forward. Broward whipped out his Ruger and immediately fired on him. On an average day, he was an excellent shot. At close range, he should have nailed him. But in half a heart beat, he was watching Scoggins hurtle down the alley. He fired again, but could have swore Scoggins saw each shot coming and dodged appropriately. He was impossible to hit.<br /><br />“Dan!” he cried and scooped his partner into a sitting position. The squee-gee stuck freakishly out of his shoulder causing a maroon flower to blossom all over his coat.<br /><br />Delaney caught his breath, his forehead sprouted beads of cold sweat. “I…I…hit 9-1-1…on cell…get him. Get the little bastard…”<br /><br />Broward gripped his gun and took off just in time to see Scoggins, already at the end of the alley, with gear bag over his shoulder, toss a manhole cover to one side. Then he vanished. <br /><br />As he drew closer, he noted the discarded cover. Just like the Simpson basement.<br /> Below him he heard someone run through shallow water. His suspect was getting away.<br /><br />“Damn!” he holstered his weapon and climbed into the black hole. At the bottom, he found himself at the intersection of four pipes and looked around. About an inch of water ran beneath his feet and in the dim light he searched for wet footprints to tell him direction his perp ran. To his horror there was nothing but slight wet marks scattered before the opening of each pipe as if someone dipped the end of a stick in the water and tapped it hundreds of times, straight down, onto the dry parts of the cement. Marks like on the carpeting.<br /><br />“What the hell?”<br /><br />He peered down each pipe. Dim light dragged itself down the end of one and he could hear movement that same direction. Broward’s heart pounded. There was no guarantee the perp went that way. There was a better chance he was hiding in one of the dark pipes, waiting for him to take the lighted way where he’d make a spectacular target. He considered firing down the other three tunnels, but the mix of fumes in the air, and the possibility of alerting others nearby, made him lower his weapon.<br /><br />Broward took a breath and headed into the lighted tunnel.<br /><br />Hunched over and straddling the inch or so of water that ran between his legs as he ran down the pipe, Broward moved along awkwardly.<br /><br />The temperature around him dropped the closer he drew to the end and a thick smell of sulphur hung in the air.<br /><br />Suddenly, he was back creeping through the alleys of Iraq. The dark windows watched him like soulless eyes and the enemy was anywhere and everywhere. Waiting, hungry. He had that same sensation now, of being sized-up for a kill. Mouth dry, heart pounding, he inched forward.<br /><br />The activity at the end of the tunnel increased. The invisible eyes never left him and he constantly glanced over his shoulder, nervous. But he saw nothing.<br /><br />Ahead, he heard more movement and high-pitched, screeching sounds. He carefully, very carefully, hazarded a peek.<br /><br />The pipe emptied into a small cave and half-way across the ground appeared to bubble in black, rolling waves, like a pot of boiling water. Then Broward felt his jaw drop and his face contorted in sheer horror and disgust. It wasn’t the ground that moved. A massive swarm of huge, soft, centipede-like, worm-like, disgusting creatures swarmed through the filth, and mud; their fat, pulsating, bodies tangling violently with each other. He could make out tentacles that waved and curled as they fought, some ending in things he thought looked very much like hands. The other appendages ended in blunt points, like centipede or spider legs. Judging from their size, they were heavy enough to leave an imprint.<br /><br />Broward glanced up and gasped. Five more of the worm-like creatures flew out of a pipe at the end of the cave and landed squarely onto the other monsters.<br /><br />Oh my God! They came through the pipes!<br /><br />The creatures continued to make their weird, screeching noises that sounded at first like finger nails on a chalk board. Broward’s heart seized as he realized they were speaking.<br /><br />“More! Give us more!” The cry began and the others quickly picked it up.<br /><br />“More! More!”<br /><br />From around a bend in the cave, pieces of red meat went flying into the swarm and the beasts scrambled insanely to devour it.<br /><br />Broward didn’t move, he could barely breathe. A single word came to his mind: Abomination.<br /><br />Suddenly, he realized his cheeks were wet with tears.<br /><br />What are they eating? Dear God, what are they eating?… Who’s feeding them! Dear God, is it Brian?<br /><br />Fsssshoooh…<br /><br />Broward froze, then gripped his gun. The strange hiss was at his back. Instantly, he spun and opened fired and for a single moment, a tiny flash of time, he saw one of the creatures and even as he emptied his Ruger, screaming out his fear and terror, Broward knew that if he lived, he would never be the same. He saw a face. Not a normal face with smiling lips and shining eyes, but something that looked like a human being trapped in a balloon. He even cackled as his own hysteria lead him to think, He’s trying to escape with his nose! If he shoves his nose hard enough against the skin, it will cut him open!<br /><br />The creature grabbed at its wound and fell writhing to the ground.<br /><br />Broward felt a rumbling begin beneath his feet. He didn’t stop to consider what it could be, but climbed and kicked his way over the creature and prayed to God he had enough of a head start.<br /><br /> Don’t straighten up too fast…don’t straighten up too fast..!<br /> He couldn’t afford to hit his head or pass out or…They were already at the pipe. Broward ran faster.<br /> There were wails. Movement stopped at the body, but only for a moment.<br /> Broward burst through the pipe at the other end and threw himself onto the ladder. Like lightening, one of the creatures appeared behind him.<br /> Broward shrieked, “Jesus! No!”<br /><br />The figure screamed something inhuman at him and Broward felt it leap onto the ladder, it’s tentacle ‘hands’ grasping for his legs.<br /><br />He shrieked, “No! No! No!”<br /> Face as drenched in sobs as his body was with sweat, Broward banged his legs against the ladder as he kicked away the creatures hands and frantically scrambled up and out of the hole, panting, gun drawn, ready to shoot anything that climbed out after him.<br /> But nothing did.<br /> His vision swam. He saw Zeph running towards him and his words sounded like he spoke through molasses.<br /><br />Broward drew his weapon and shrieked at Zeph to stay away. <br /><br />The next thing he knew several men were holding him down until a pinch on his arm dragged Broward into darkness.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Broward slowly opened his eyes. The scent of alcohol and Lysol hung in the air. He was in an adjustable bed and a puny TV hung on the wall. Delaney sat in a nearby chair watching a game show, his arm bandaged and in a sling.<br /><br />Broward’s mouth felt like the Sahara, but he managed to whisper, “Hey…”<br /><br />Delaney’s head popped up and he grinned. “Hey, he’s back!”<br /><br />Broward tried to sit up and found he couldn’t. Three heavy straps held him firmly to the bed.<br /><br />“Huh? What the…?”<br /><br />Delaney looked apologetic. “Yeah, it sucks. But Zeph said the doctor wasn’t sure how’d you react when you woke up. I’ll go get him. Heck, ya’ look fine to me.”<br /><br />“Wait…” he said, curiosity getting the better of him. “What did I do? I don’t even remember.”<br /><br />Delaney gave a short laugh. “From the sound of it, you got a little high on those sewer fumes. I heard there was some sort of small gas leak down there that shouldn’t have been. But I guess we’ve learned that you sniffin’ fumes equals visions of mutant, half-human, bug-morphing creatures. Man, you really know how to freak.”<br /><br />“Oh, my God,” Broward gasped, his memory creeping back. “That’s right! The fumes! And-and sulphur. I must have been higher than a kite!” He closed his eyes. “Thank God! I’ve never been more scared in my whole damn life.”<br /><br />“Well, you’re okay now, man. Everyone understands. Sounds like your head just needed a chance to clear. Scoggins got away, but at least we know who we’re looking for now. I’ll get the Doc.”<br /><br />“Hurry up. I gotta take a leak.” <br /><br />Shortly, Broward’s restraints were removed. But the doctor informed him he wanted a few more tests before discharging him.<br /><br />‘A few more tests,’ thought Broward. Right. Translation: needs another yacht payment.<br /><br />“If you want, Detective Broward, feel free to shower and relax.”<br /><br />Hank took him up on it. It was good to wash away the ‘second skin’ sensation sweat and dirt left on him. And although the memory of his horrific visions still played in his head, he could deal with them. They were what they appeared to be: drug dreams, nothing more. As he scraped the layer of stubble from his face, Broward had to admit, he felt like a new man.<br /><br />Then he heard a strange sound in the shower. Broward cocked his head and listened.<br /><br />He heard it again.<br /><br />Still unsure, he walked over to the stall and waited.<br /><br />No, it’s the water dripping…It’s water rushing through the pipes…It isn’t…<br /><br />The sound came again and Broward dropped to his knees, eye’s bulging from their sockets. He pressed an ear to the drain pipe. His breath quickened as he waited all the while praying silently, Please God, no, no, nononononono…<br /><br />But he heard it again. It was a sound most people would have mistaken for mere noise, but Broward knew better. Echoing up from the pipes was a word that made him recoil and scream. Over and over he heard the creatures calling, “More…more…”M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-56425357060806359402008-09-04T20:18:00.000-07:002008-09-05T06:57:09.031-07:00Pensacola Harbor: Circa 1962<span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Appeared in Perpetual Magazine 3/2008</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span><br /><br />…<span style="font-style:italic;">not that it matters, but this story is based on an actual event…<br /></span><br /><br /> You’d have thought everything in the world was going to go just right. The sky was crystal clear, the waters in the Gulf of Mexico were a shimmering emerald green and a light fresh sea breeze kept us all just cool enough.<br /><br />Yeah, were we ever fooled.<br /><br />The year was 1962. Me and three of my friends, Vick, Jack and Marty were bored with summer jobs and girls that said, ‘no’ too much. We decided to spend a day out snorkeling in the waters off Pensacola’s beach. <br /><br />We packed up the cooler with as much beer and water as it would hold, stuck it in Jack’s big, inflatable army raft and headed out for the Meyer Mancel, one of the oldest wrecked ships in the bay. I think it went down around the time of the not- so- Civil- War and a good chunk of the hull still breaks the water’s surface. Amazing, you wouldn’t think it would still be there.<br /> <br /> It wasn’t a bad time, lot’s of talking and drinking, laughing about who was and wasn’t making it to college in the fall; who’d got laid and who was lying about it. You know, the usual crap.<br /><br /> But this was before the days of Doppler Radar and the weather man was some guy who relied on aches in his big toe to make a prediction. So there we were, yucking it up and this storm comes out of no where and hauls us out to sea. We wound up way closer to the wreck than the shore. But then, as the storm ended, the fog rolled in and that’s what gave us pause. We couldn’t hear the water on shore from where we were and couldn’t make out any land marks. Worse yet, it was getting dark and we worried about paddling the wrong way.<br /><br /> “Shhh!” I can still see Vick standing there, waving for us all to hush up, just like we were going to be rescued. “I hear something!”<br /> <br />Silence. The water lapped against the raft and splashed out in the gulf, but that was all.<br /><br /> “What was it?” I asked.<br /><br /> Vick shook his head. “I don’t know. I thought maybe…”<br /><br /> And then we heard it: a long low hiss out somewhere in the fog. It chilled my heart. I heard it and thought, I’m going to die.<br /><br /> Jack’s eyes were the size of dinner plates. “What the hell?”<br /><br /> “SSSSSSSSsssssss…..”<br /><br /> I froze, petrified. The sound was big and close and like nothing I had ever heard before or since.<br /><br /> My mouth fell open, my heart raced, cold sweat beaded on my brow.<br /><br /> “Guys,” Vick whispered. “Grab a paddle and let’s get the hell out of here.”<br /><br /> Good idea, but too late. From out of the fog I saw a creature straight out of hell. Its neck rose a full eight feet out of the water, its head was like a blunt triangle. I remember seeing a dark ridge on the top of its skull. I couldn’t scream, I could barely move. All I could do was watch this creature glide towards us. In its last few feet, great flippers rose out of the water and the beast gave itself an enormous push forward. It never stopped; there was no mercy, no compassion. The monster opened a gaping mouth and with a deafening roar dove onto the raft.<br /><br /> I shrieked, “Jump!” and leaped into the water. I swam as far away from the thing as I could until my nerves backed off. I stopped. The guys were gone. I didn’t want to lose them, not like this.<br /><br /> “Vick? Jack?” I called into the fog, “Marty? You guys out there?”<br /><br /> “Here!” I thanked God. I didn’t want to be out there alone. “I got Marty with me, Steve! I…I…I don’t see Jack.”<br /><br /> I was sick. “From-from where I am,” it was hard to talk all of a sudden, “I can see the wreck. Follow my voice and we’ll swim for it.”<br /><br /> Vick’s choked response was, “Yeah, yeah…”<br /><br /> I heard them swim towards me and rejoiced for a second when I saw their faces. But it was only a second. The monstrous head split the surface and suddenly Marty was gone. <br /><br />Vick screamed. I grabbed him and shouted, “SWIM, DAMMIT!” I shoved him forward, but it did no good. The long neck came up again and crashed down on Vick.<br /><br /> I made it to the wreck, and managed to find a little space in the bow where I wedged myself in and waited.<br /><br /> You know what it’s like to be hunted by a big animal; something that would rip your insides out while you’re still screaming for help?<br /><br /> I prayed a lot before morning, I begged, I pleaded and I guess God heard because the thing finally went away.<br /><br /> The Coast Guard got me the next morning, shivering and jabbering and took me home. I spent six nights in jail because no one believed my story and they thought I killed my friends. But they couldn’t keep me forever. No bodies.<br /><br />Besides, they all thought I was crazy once I told them what ate everyone. It was a dinosaur. Yeah, go on and laugh. But that’s what it was. I know they’re not supposed to be around anymore, but that one didn’t get the message. Tell me different all you want, but I know what I saw that night.<br /><br />Man, I need a drink.M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-31252720995410017562008-09-04T20:16:00.000-07:002008-09-05T06:58:35.268-07:00Sound Byte from the end of the World<span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Appeared in The Bohemian Alien Feb. 2008</span><br /></span<br /><br /><br />The new moon had already risen seven days earlier when a fist pounded on my door. I cursed as I opened it and saw not only Ahmet, but his worthless pig of a son, Tomis. Together they are as attractive as half a cow, but they do not smell as good. Black mustaches drip off their lips like rancid oil.<br /><br />I sneered in their filthy faces and spat, “What do you want?”<br /><br />Ahmet folded his great slabs he had for arms and grunted, “My rent, Marye. NOW!”<br /><br />I threw my hands in the air. “What? I go out and get stiffed by your miserable friends and so now you expect me to have money! What am I? A magician to pluck it out of the air? I don’t have the money. That’s all!” I reached to slam the door in his face, but his fat hand lurched forward so swift and hard, I was knocked back onto the floor.<br /><br />Nodding to his son he muttered, “The daughter is in back.” And Tomis lumbered off.<br /><br />Horrified, I bolted upright, “You can’t! My daughter is with child!”<br /><br />Ahmet shoved me back with his boot and I swore at him with greater fervor.<br /><br />“Shut-up” He growled. “Why would he hurt her? Next month we may have to take her in trade for your rent once again.” Then raising his arms, indicating I was to undo his sash, he hissed, “Get busy.”<br /><br />Despite my daughter’s cries, it went very well. I know she was uncomfortable, but what can either of us do? It is how we are forced to live in this pig sty of a town.<br /><br />In an hour we had paid the rent in full. Relieved to have that behind me, I changed my dress, combed my hair, told my daughter to grow up and went into town.<br /><br />In back of the café where I often find employment, people were gathering to peer out the rear window. A couple of gray-haired old men began taking bets on whatever activity was going on.<br /><br />Two traders were shouting in the alley way. One was Joseph. Tall, powerfully built, his long wavy hair tied back, he looked like he had to but step on his opponent to win this battle. The other was Samekh, a small, dark, greasy, weasel of a man. I did not see much of the fight because while they were at each other, I went from pocket to pocket, lightening the patrons of their burdens. Ha! Gold and silver are so heavy after all!<br /><br />From the alley came such loud cries of pain from Joseph I craned to look out of sheer surprise. Samekh, the cheat, the weasel, had several of his friends in tow and they were doing…things to Joseph. Ah, it was a business dispute, and if I sought help for him or tried to step in, it would only cost me my life and they would have continued on with Joseph, so what should I do? It was not my affair. It kept the café entertained long enough for me to fly out the front door. I intended to head for the dress makers. It had been a hard day already, I deserved something for myself. But I was interrupted once again.<br /><br />“Marye! You evil whore!” the screams of Ahna, the baker’s wife followed me down the street. “You stay away from my husband or I will slice you!”<br /><br />I screwed up my lip and sneered, “Oh, you want to slice me like bread? Perhaps you should stop your screaming and take care of your man. It is not MY fault you do not please him. You are ugly, I am not.”<br /><br />Ahna is a hefty woman, very strong from carrying babies on her hips and kneading bread. She snatched up the large, wooden bread paddle they use as if it were a feather and came charging after me like a great, angry, she-bear. Panicked, I pulled out the dagger I keep strapped to my thigh and held it out. “I will slice you, Ahna! You know I will!”<br /><br />She stopped, but still held the paddle like a weapon and we stood circling each other in the street, one waiting for the other to drop her guard.<br /><br />“I HATE YOU!” shouted Ahna. “You are poison, you are cow dung. You are everything wrong and then more.”<br /><br />“Oh? And you are so pure? Who cheats their customer’s, a loaf here, a copper there? You are so good?”<br /><br />Ahna’s answer was to lunge forward with a great roar. She swung and struck the side of my face. The earth spun and I staggered, in the mean time, she struck me again and again…<br /><br />“STOP!” A man’s voice cried out and with some relief I saw it was Ben-Wazzeem, one of the herb traders in town. “Ladies! Ladies! I’m sure none of us want the Law to come,” he said reasonably. “Now Ahna, everyone knows your husband goes to this harlot and now you’ve made your point to her, so stop worrying about it.” He put a companionable arm over her shoulder trying to cheer her. “Look at it this way, it could be worse,” he said a grin splitting his face. “He could be visiting a goat!” They both laughed at my expense.<br /><br />He took her hand and patted it gently, “Your husband still provides, still takes care of you, so he is a good man at least, no?”<br /><br />Ahna thought about it and nodded, “You are wise. And you are right: Marye is at least better than a goat.”<br /><br />“That’s it. Now back to your babies.” She spat at my feet and walked away like a pacified elephant.<br /><br />I was still panting from the encounter, still enraged by their exchange. Wazeem looked me over and cocked his head. “I am surprised you are still here in town.”<br /><br />I gasped, “Why?”<br /><br />“‘Why?’” he echoed, incredulous. “The circus! There is something happening out there. I was on my way before running into this cat-fight! She would have beaten you to death; you know that, don’t you?”<br /><br />I felt my bruised sides and nodded.<br /><br />“Well, then,” he clucked. “I think you have at least a couple of minutes for the man who saved your life. My alley is empty.”<br /><br />I followed him, still desperately gripping my dagger. In the alley, he turned, put his hands on my shoulders and lightly pushed down, but instead of going to my knees, I rammed the dagger into his belly and yanked it up toward his breast bone.<br /><br />I have killed men before, and as they die, they all look the same. Eyes wide and amazed that I would dare hurt them and words of ‘why’ on their lips. Wazeem was no different. Before the light died in his eyes, I told him, “You compared me to a goat.”<br /><br />My revenge satisfied, I headed for The Circus.<br /><br />It is not really a circus. We have all called it that for many months since the carpenter began bringing creatures in to populate it. But it is so odd and so many strange things happen there, it is something to see.<br /><br />I took the walk over the first, then second hills outside of town and though I have seen the circus many times, the site of it still made me gasp. It is the largest, single structure I have ever seen. The sons built it at the bequest of their mad father. Yes, he must be mad. This building is larger than the king’s palace. It is long, and made from lumber treated to become gopher wood. Yes! You may ask why a building is made with gopher wood. Why would it need so much protection from moisture and dampness? That is the true madness here! The carpenter, a fool named Noah, calls it a boat! And who but a mad man spends a hundred years building a boat so huge, so far from the sea?<br /><br />Then the animals began to come. Creatures the likes few have seen. Even great long neck dragons came here, laid their eggs and the young clambered on board. Beautiful birds, young, snowy white bears, baby elephants . . . they all came to Noah’s boat. His huge gangplank lays open and he constantly calls for us to join him, but then, he is mad and there is enough madness about.<br /><br />I ran where much of the town had gathered. It was a carnival as men drank their wine and cavorted, singing songs about Noah and his lunacy. Two men began to dance naked and called out, “Noah! This is what we think of your God!” One of them urinated and cried, “Oh, look! The rain came!” The crowd, including my self, laughed.<br /><br />But there was silence when Dhalet the High Priest of the Sun joined us. He wore a dazzling, white robe, his headdress was lined in pure gold, on the end of staff was the golden image of the fish god. Flanked by his priests, he stood before Noah’s boat and cried out, “Noah! You will speak with us! Speak with us, now!”<br /><br />I waited, suddenly forgetting all that had happened today. Noah . . . I had not seen him in years. Some said that now lightning flew from his eyes, some said he spoke to spirits. Not for the first time since coming to this place, fear pierced my heart.<br /><br />Above us all, striding out onto the fruit of his insanity, Noah stood on the deck of this boat, this ark he calls it. He was very old, but he is still a man’s man and I felt my body ache with desire for him.<br /><br />I could easily picture him out cutting and carrying lumber alongside of his sons. His beard was long and white, but even from this distance, you could tell that here was a man with fire in his soul.<br /><br />“My neighbors!” He cried. “The Lord has spoken to me! He will send the rains in one week. I beg you! Please do not be left! There is room! Come! Anyone!”<br /><br />There were chuckles and snickers, but not a soul moved toward the plank.<br /><br />“Noah!” cried Dhalet. “In the name of our holy gods, I ask that you listen to reason and come out of there! You must see the insanity here! Let us use this lumber to build homes for your neighbors! We will slay the animals for offerings and feast for many weeks! You will be a hero! Revered and loved! It is I that implore you! Come out! Come out now.”<br /><br />“There is ONE GOD!” Noah bellowed in a voice that seemed to shake the hills. “It is His will that I do! His alone! Repent of your evil and come with us before it’s too late!”<br /><br />“Enough!” Dhalet cried. “All of you! Tear that ark apart! His lumber is our lumber!”<br /><br />Like many of the men, Orzet, another carpenter from town, cried, “About time!” He joined the throng of men heading for the gangplank.<br /><br />Then, that is when the Great Thing happened. This gangplank, this creation of wood and sweat, so thick I have seen several heavy animals walk up its path with scarcely a creak; this large, heavy door lifted from the ground. Not a single man touched it. Not one rope was tied to it. The men ran back in fear as the door lifted to close of its own accord. Slowly, it rose, closing, closing . . . a resounding ‘thud’ haunted the air as it shut with a finality that made me afraid. Not even Dhalet could make anyone raise a hand against the ark after that. They were too fearful.<br /><br />We left The Circus a much quieter group that day.<br /><br />I have watched the faces of people this week and part of me has felt like I am watching the walking dead. But the sun still shines, the breezes are still cool and sweet, and I remind myself Noah is a religious madman, nothing more.<br /><br />But it has been seven days and now the rains have started. And it is not a mere shower; the water is falling in torrents. Even still, this should not be a surprise. The autumn rains are often heavy, except the rains aren’t stopping. The storm should be slowing, but this one grows stronger. Right now it is night and my daughter sleeps in back as always. The rains aren’t stopping and I know what I must do. While there is no one to stop or ridicule me, I will make my way to the ark. I would take my daughter, but in her state, she would not make it and waking her would only cause her pain and fear. To leave her is merciful.<br /><br />I will go to the ark and pound on the door. I will scream, claw if I have to. I will promise anything, as long as he allows me in. And he will let down the gang plank for me. He has to. I will MAKE him.<br /><br />I must hurry. The water is seeping under my door.M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-8493396889583921602008-09-04T20:07:00.000-07:002008-09-05T07:02:55.227-07:00On Suing The undertaker in an Election Year<span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Appeared in The Bohemian Alien August 2008</span><br /></span><br /><br /><br />I look at the letter in my hands and even now, I can’t believe it. I’m being sued.<br /><br />I’m an undertaker, so, go ahead and imagine all the reasons I might be getting sued. Did I dispose of a body improperly? No! Did I fail to follow one of the fifty-gazillion guidelines the state imposes? No! Did I even, at any point, act like an insensitive jerk towards any of the survivors? No way!<br /><br />You want to know why I’m in trouble? You won’t believe it, but here’s what happened.<br /><br />My name is Louis Michaels, I live in the tiny town of Golden Cove, Florida. We’re on the bottom edge of the everglades and so far south that any farther and we’d be in Key West. Like my father before me, I run Michaels Funeral Home and Cemetery, the only such place in town.<br /><br />Dad retired two years ago, staying on just long enough to make sure I had everything under control and then he and mom moved to Arizona. I tell people it was for that cool, northern weather.<br /><br />My staff consists of my assistant, Bob, and a secretary, Christie. She’s my age. I figured if she was brave enough to work here, then maybe she’d be brave enough to date me, one of these days.<br /><br />Maybe I brought all of this on myself, because the day things started, I was sitting in my office going over the books. I’m not proud to admit this, but we were getting behind and well, as I sat staring out the window at the fine circular drive that leads to the front door of the Home, I kind of wished someone would die. I know, that’s terrible, and really, it’s not a usual desire of mine. But at that moment, I couldn’t help it. I mean, Michael’s has been in this town, in some way, shape, or form, since the Spanish owned Florida. The remains of many people’s great-great-grandparents, including my own, are in this graveyard. I didn’t want to see it fall into financial ruin under my watch, and well, for my business to prosper…what can I say? I’m sorry.<br /><br />All I can think is that God must have been listening in on these horrible thoughts because almost instantly, the door to my office banged open and Bob and Christie bounded inside like two kids on Christmas morning.<br /><br />“Louis! Louis!” Christie shrieked. “We just got a call from Sheriff Hunt! He’s bringin’ over a body!”<br /><br />My jaw dropped. “That’s…” God forgive me, I almost said, ‘Great!’ “Uh…who is the poor soul?”<br /><br />Bob banged my desk. “Aw, c’mon, Louis, we really needed a funeral”<br /><br />“No, we need money,” I corrected him. “During these bouts of good health we can open a car wash if we have to, but I refuse to say, ‘Hooray, somebody died.’” I rose to my feet, ready to chastise them both. “If you’ve lost focus of that, you need to get it back right now!”<br /><br />Bob waved me off. “Okay, okay, but let me tell you who is coming over!”<br /><br />“Alright, who is it?”<br /><br />“Herman Saunders.”<br /><br />I sank back into my seat letting the name settle in. Herman Saunders, richest man in town, owner of half the town. He founded a wildly successful chain of Cajun eateries during the sixties called, ‘The Blackened Shrimp,’ which, not only made him millions, it also helped him marry a former Miss America and send his two kids to big name universities. One of those kids, Senator Jack Saunders, was currently on the campaign trail, running for President of the United States.<br /><br />I jumped up. “Christie, are we stocked with everything?”<br /><br />“Yes, sir!” she gave me a little salute.<br /><br />“Good, make sure we’ll be able to pick up anything extra we need at a moments notice.”<br /><br />I hurried out into the hallway with both them at my heels. “Bob, I know the workshop is in order, but go give it a once-over just in case…”<br /><br />Looking a bit too gleeful, Bob rushed off.<br /><br />I had no idea what to expect or how big this memorial could be. During an election year, who can tell? Senator Saunders might want to keep things small and dignified or, he might make it a political three-ring circus. I wanted to be ready.<br /><br />Christie and I spent the fifteen minutes I knew it would take for the body to arrive walking through the public side of my home making sure there wasn’t a hair out of place. In a few minutes, Bob re-joined us, in another few minutes, we heard the sound of a large vehicle rumbling up the driveway.<br /><br />“What the…?” I muttered and peered out the window blinds. A big, white, semi came to a halt right on my driveway. Blazed on its sides was a company logo announcing to the entire world a single, solitary word.<br /><br />“‘Beer?’” Bob read. “Louis, there’s a beer truck in the driveway.”<br /><br />“I can see that!”<br /><br />“What do we do?”<br /><br />The air brakes on the truck let out a huge, prolonged hiss.<br /><br />I blustered, storming toward the front door, “I’m going to find out what the hell he’s doing here!”<br /><br />Outside, in the bright, south Florida sunshine, I saw the Sheriff pull in right behind the truck and I was glad. His presence would make it easier to shoo this guy out of the way for the ambulance, I was certain, would show up carrying Herman Saunders’s body.<br /><br />I was wrong.<br /><br />Sheriff Hunt climbed out of his squad car a broken man. He hitched his pants up over his gut and wiped a tear from his blotchy face as he slowly set his beige cowboy hat on his head.<br /><br />I straightened my black suit coat and reminded myself not to let this incident throw me. I stepped toward the man.<br /><br />“It is very good to see you, Sheriff. Wish the circumstances were better.”<br /><br />“Yeah, me, too,” the big man said, letting out a sob. “Durned old Herman. He didn’t have a wicked bone in his body, but didn’t he like to play? Knew it would get him one of these days.” The sheriff whipped out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Just wish it weren’t today. We were goin’ fishin’ t’night.”<br /><br />The Sheriff hadn’t so much as blinked at the beer truck and it was beginning to bother me. “Maybe while we’re waiting for the ambulance, you can tell me what happened? And please excuse this truck, it just pulled in, I don’t know why.”<br /><br />The Sheriff’s big head wagged back and forth. “Naw, there aint’ no ambulance. Doc Woods was with me earlier and he confirmed Herman’s death an’ everything. I got the certificate in my car.”<br /><br />I raised an eyebrow. “What was the cause?’<br /><br />Sheriff Hunt gave a great sniff as he walked forward and laid a hand on the side of the beer truck. “Cause of death: hypothermia.”<br /><br />My jaw dropped as the situation dawned on me.<br /><br />“No way!”<br /><br />“Yep, hate to say it, but it’s true. Danged ol’ Herman. Best I can piece it together is this: Herman had all the stinkin’ money in the world, right? But he liked to fool around. He’d hate to pay up front for beers; he’d rather steal ‘em off the truck, y’know? Course, he’d always end up sending the company money for ‘em, but the quirky ol’ fool did it just for the adventure, I guess. Since his missus passed away he’s been a little off. I’ve gotten after him a few times myself, but he didn’t never listen.”<br /><br />From around the corner of the truck, the driver appeared looking wide-eyed and pale.<br /><br />The Sheriff continued. “This weekend starts the last fishing tournament of year and all the stores wanted to make sure they got their share of brew on the shelves. I figure Herman climbed in the semi while this young fellow was haulin’ in a palette of suds, but he got back before Herman could get out of the truck…”<br /><br />Wringing his hands, the driver cut in. “Yeah, if I’d a known anyone was in there…I-I-I-I n-never would have left anyone inside! Not ever! He must have been hiding! I was supposed to head to Miami this morning with the rest of this load, but it was real late so I just slept. Then this morning the cooler inside sounded like it was runnin’ crazy high…s-s-so I looked in and…”<br /><br />The guy looked like his legs were going to give out. I took him by the arm and had him take a seat on the curb. “Don’t worry, man. It’s going to be alright.”<br /><br />“Yeah, you didn’t do nothin’ wrong, boy,” the Sheriff said. “It aint your fault.”<br /><br />My brows wrinkled as I nodded at the back of the truck. “He’s in there?”<br /><br />“Yep. The driver called me. I called the Doc, and then I called the Senator. He’s up in Naples campaigning. Gonna be here soon. He said to just take him over t’y'all.”<br /><br />I glanced over at Bob, whose carefully set expression warned me he might excuse himself, run back into the home, and laugh himself silly.<br /><br />“Let’s have a look,” I told him.<br /><br />We opened up the back and climbed in. The chilly air inside the truck immediately mixed with the warm humidity we let inside and transformed into clouds of mist.<br /><br />“He’s at the front,” Sheriff Hunt called from the door. “I think he tried to get the drivers attention while they were on the road and he must have kicked the cooler into high gear. Some of the bottled beers even froze over.”<br /><br />Sure enough, through the swirling mist, first I saw the legs, then body and face of one Mr. Herman Saunders, deceased. His hand remained wrapped around an open can, his aging face froze in a position of smiling, pleased revelry, and a band of empties scattered about his remains.<br /><br />I shook my head. “Yeah, that’s a dead guy in a beer truck alright.”<br /><br />“You know what they say, Louis,” Bob said. “This bod’s for you.”<br /><br />“Shut up.”<br />##<br />Senator Saunders didn’t go the quiet dignified route.<br /><br />The last time I actually saw Jack Saunders, I was in the second grade and he had just graduated from Princeton. We were in Golden Coves only Dairy Queen, I was having a burger with my dad and Jack flounced in with a girl I recognized from McHenry’s Trailer Park. Her eyes were larger than the halter top she wore; her jeans were the kind my mother would have said came spray painted on.<br /><br />“Ja-aaack,” she said in whiny, little kid voice. “I thought when you said we were goin’ out it would be to some place nice, you know, like that Hilton hotel in town where they have the ice sculptors…”<br /><br />He playfully grabbed a fistful of her hair. “Ah, c’mon sweetie, this is our play day. Neither of us are dressed to go in there. Why, if I went near that place without a tie, I’d be shot on sight. Besides, you always take such good care of me, I gotta do something nice for you.”<br /><br />The girl beamed.<br /><br />When they were out of earshot, my dad looked at me and said, “When you grow up don’t act like that. When you deal with ladies, act like a man.”<br /><br />At the time, I wondered what else I would possibly act like. I just told him, “Yes, sir.”<br /><br />The Senator sat across from me, his hair perfectly styled and his blue-eyes somber. I noticed his suit carried a designer label.<br /><br />“Senator, let me say up front that I am very sorry for your loss.”<br /><br />Behind him stood a guy decked out in a black jacket, sunglasses and with a walkie-talkie sticking out of his pocket. Jack dismissed him with a wave and told the man to shut the door behind him.<br /><br />“Mr. Michael’s, can I be straight with you? Man to man? And will you promise me none of this leaves this room? Because if I were to suddenly hear some of what I’m about to say reflected in a news story or two, I might make sure your business goes under and you never practice your trade again. Are we clear?”<br /><br />That’s the point where I should have told him to leave. But, like I said, we were getting strapped. I kept going.<br /><br />“You don’t have to threaten me to keep a secret,” I told him. “I keep more secrets than the CIA and I will take all them to my very own grave. I’m not your house boy, Senator. You want to bury your father, then let’s talk. Otherwise, stick your daddy back in the beer truck and hit the road.”<br /><br />His eyes grew. “Well, well, well, this graveyard shift has a live wire. I like that. Alright then, I just wanted to make myself clear and…and…”<br /><br />I gave him my iciest undertaker stare.<br /><br />“…and I guess I did that. Okay, what I want you to know is…” his shoulders rose and fell. “I hated my dad. He was so old school he couldn’t even see straight. One of those old fashioned guys who felt people ought to spend their lives busting their rears instead of enjoying their time on earth. All that did was to keep him away from his family and running after the almighty dollar. You see where it got him: a ride to the undertakers in a beer truck. My god, how humiliating! When I get in office, the taxes I place on corporate spending are going to make life easier for everyone, but enough of that. Let’s talk specifics. I want to have a viewing, and the funeral itself, but most important some type of memorial service where I can speak and make it clear to people what my father believed and that he did his best to pass those traditions on to his children. It will make it easier for voters who still think like him to pull the lever for me in November.” He paid me his best campaign smile and darn it, I think his eyes even twinkled. “My dad had to be good for something in my life, know what I mean?”<br /><br />From that, I gathered that his big secret was to make sure no one knew he was a first class jerk.<br /><br />When we were finished, I had the funds for the most ostentatious funeral Golden Cove had ever seen. There was a ‘guest list’ that included celebrities and politicians of all stripes. I’ve got to admit, I was more than a little nervous.<br /><br />The media began to camp on my front lawn. That annoyed me. I asked them to go please go away that this was a funeral home, not a party house. They just fired questions at me about how it felt to handle such a huge funeral.<br /><br />Fortunately, I saw Christie glance out the window. I caught her eye, nodded and in seconds the sprinklers came on.<br /><br />After they scattered, I disappeared inside.<br /><br />“Louis, I called the rental company and we’ll be able to have all the chairs here tomorrow and a crew to set them up,” Christy said, chasing me with a paper and pen. “So the funeral is Wednesday, and that still looks good because the weather man is predicting no rain, we’ll get it tonight and tomorrow, but Wednesday looks good. And to stay on schedule, you’ll be embalming Mr. Saunders tonight, right?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Alright. The local hotels have been notified and…is there anything else you need me to do?”<br /><br />“Christie, you’re doing such a good job, I almost hate give you anything else…”<br /><br />“Oh, it’s okay,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Looking after you is my job.”<br /><br />I admit, I liked the sound of that. I smiled back. “Well, uh, could you take my suit to the cleaners?”<br /><br />“Which one?”<br /><br />“Let me see… maybe, the black one? Or how about light gray?”<br /><br />Her eyebrows peaked. “‘Light gray?’ You’re living wild now, Louis! Much as I applaud your fashion sense, I think you ought to stay with the traditional black for this. I’ll pick up extra deodorant and baby powder.”<br /><br />“Are you going to dress me, too?”<br /><br />“Sure, I’ll powder you down. With this job you need to have someone make sure you don’t have white dust all over your black clothes.”<br /><br />“Y’know, I’m not hatin’ this.”<br /><br />She looked into my eyes and rolled hers. “I’ll see you later, you.”<br /><br />##<br /><br />Later, I met Bob in the work room. It was time to prep Herman Saunders for his big day. Rigor mortis left him in the same up right position in which we found him. It made storing his corpse a little awkward, but we figured it out.<br /><br />We slipped into our black, rubber aprons and gloves. Bob turned on the small TV on the upper shelf. The talking heads at CNN were busy praising Senator Saunders for being such a devoted son.<br /><br />“Jeesh, get me an air sick bag,” Bob said as we hauled Herman out of the cooler and set him on my table. “I’m telling you Louis, that guy’s phony as a three dollar bill.”<br /><br />I sighed and grumbled, “Yeah, I know. Makes me feel sorry for the old guy. I remember when we were kids, he used to pass out baseball cards and gave really cool candy at Halloween. I kinda liked him.”<br /><br />Bob grinned. “Yeah, me too.”<br /><br />“Well, let’s cut his clothes off and straighten him out.” A picture flashed through my head and I laughed. “Hey, what if we left him sitting up like this, stuck a fresh beer in his hand and just sort of set him in the vault?”<br /><br />“Bet he’d like that.”<br /><br />The TV changed views to an in-depth interview with the Senator.<br /><br />“Senator Saunders, you’re having a really heart felt memorial for your father in his home town. Golden Cove isn’t a very big place, how are the locals dealing with all the extra visitors?”<br /><br />“Oh, you have to remember,” Saunders said, smile in place, “these are the salt of the earth, decent people my father lived and worked with everyday. I realize it’s a lot and yes, I’m over-taxing the poor Funeral Director…”<br /><br />I paused from snipping off a pant leg, shot the TV a glance and growled, “Yeah? I won’t be over-taxed until you get in office, Loser!”<br /><br />“No kidding.”<br /><br />“You know what?” I said as we worked. “We are going to do a perfect funeral.”<br /><br />I didn’t want to say anything, but another plan rattled across my brain. I could take some of what we earned from this massive affair and donate it to a certain lady who lived in the trailer park, no explanation, no nothing. But maybe someone in the press would notice her two kids looked a lot like the Senator.<br /><br />But I could hear my dad warning me about not seeking revenge and decided to send her the money whether anyone noticed or not. From what I heard, she could use it.<br /><br />We had just stripped his clothes away when a giant rumble of thunder shook the room. A bolt of lightning flashed outside the window.<br /><br />“Aw, dang it,” Bob groaned. “I didn’t get the lightning rod put back up.”<br /><br />I shot him a glance. “What?”<br /><br />Bob lifted his hands. “I’m sorry. After that last storm…I just forgot man.”<br /><br />I sighed. “We better get out. If lightning strikes anywhere near the roof…” I started packing up Herman as I spoke. “The joists are all metal. It will travel in here and…” I wordlessly gestured at the room. Everything in my shop is metal. This was as safe as standing in a pool of water holding a live wire. “We’ll give it half an hour.”<br /><br />“Okay. Sorry man.”<br /><br />“Forget it. Let’s just get out…”<br /><br />‘BOOM!’<br /><br />Overhead, thunder pounded the atmosphere. A sharp, blinding, light flashed over and over for several seconds. Bob shrieked and grabbed me like a girl. Above, the work lights exploded. We dove for the floor.<br /><br />I saw it. The terrifying blue charge of a lightning strike whipped down the west side of the wall. Instantly, I knew it was following a set of wires.<br /><br />I hauled Bob out of the way, yelling, “MOVE! MOVE!” The light zinged past us and collided with the pump at the back of my work table.<br /><br />Sparks flew and for a second the entire surface glowed a horrible blue.<br /><br />Bob screamed again and I didn’t blame him. Silhouetted in the dimness, Herman’s body had collapsed backwards, completely limp.<br /><br />When the charge grounded out, Bob and I were on our knees in the dark. My heart pounded, I could hear Bob panting. There was a scent of ozone in the air and, much to my dread, the smell of burnt hair.<br /><br />“Oh, no,” I whispered. “I think it fried Herman.”<br /><br />“Oh crap. We better find a light. I stuck a flashlight in the drawer behind us. I’ll get it.”<br /><br />I slowly rose. Whatever damage Herman incurred, I knew we could fix, but, well, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing it.<br /><br />Bob fumbled around behind me feeling his way to the flashlight and while he did, I noticed something strange. I thought it was the air conditioner running oddly at first or maybe wind from the storm. Then out of the darkness, came a sound so unexpected, it sent Bob flailing to find me in the dark.<br /><br />A man cleared his throat.<br /><br />“Anyone seen my pants?” the man asked in a deep, southern drawl.<br /><br />Bob shrieked and grabbed me again. I pulled the flashlight from his hands.<br /><br />“Somebody there? Man, if you’re pissed about the beer, I’ll pay you back. I just need my pants.”<br /><br />For a moment, after hearing him speak so clearly and sanely, I froze. You’ve got to understand, this was like a reversal of gravity, like watching pigs fly or making snowballs in hell. It was practically a law of physics that when someone landed on my table they never, ever asked about their pants. Or anything else. I was, frankly, awestruck.<br /><br />“It’s a miracle…” I said in a hushed voice.<br /><br />“‘Miracle?’ It’ll be a miracle if I don’t freeze to death!”<br /><br />“Uh, too late, Mr. Saunders,” Bob said.<br /><br />“What are ya’ talkin’ about? You take my clothes, ya dang homo?”<br /><br />I got a grip and realized the best route was to quickly find something for the man to wear and calmly explain things as we drove him to the hospital.<br /><br />But Bob dove right in. “Man, you’ve been dead almost a full 24 hours! Dude, we were about to embalm you!”<br /><br />“Bob! Shut up!” I found the switch to the flashlight and turned it on and aimed it at my face.<br /><br />“Mr. Saunders, I’m Louis Michaels…”<br /><br />When he heard my name he gave one of those breaths that sounds like someone is trying to suck all the air out of a room.<br /><br />“Holy crap!” he gasped. “You’re the undertaker! Am I in the funeral home?”<br /><br />“Uh, yes, sir. Yes, you are.”<br /><br />In the dimness, I could still make out the slack jawed look of pure shock that stretched across his entire face. “God Almighty,” he slowly whispered. “You think you guys would have an extra pair of pants around here….”<br /><br />##<br /><br />Weird, huh? We did get some pants for Herman to wear and a T-shirt and some coffee to warm him up.<br /><br />Watching him sip his drink, I realized anything is possible.<br /><br />“So, old Hunt thought I climbed in the truck, did he?” he asked after we filled him in on the details of his death. “Guess I can’t blame him. I do have that, let’s see, how did my boy put it? Oh, yeah, he called it my ‘signature eccentricity.’ Bet he learned that at Princeton.”<br /><br />“So, if that’s not what happened, how did you get in the truck?” I asked.<br />“You just gotta do some quick math on this one. Here’s what I know: I’m in Naples one minute having dinner with my son in his hotel room. I fell asleep…and then I woke up here.”<br /><br />For the first time, I saw tears form in the old man’s eyes.<br /><br />“I’m sorry, Mr. Saunders.”<br /><br />He gave his eyes a swipe and sucked in a deep breath. “We had our differences, but I didn’t think he hated me this much. I worked a hell of a lot to give him the things I never had, guess I would have done better to put him to work with me. Would have kept him out of trouble.” He grabbed a paper napkin, blew his nose, then stuck out his jaw. “I wanna go kick his ass so bad it aint funny. I don’t care how many hours I worked, there aint no excuse for this, you hear me?” He squeezed one hand into a fist and slammed it on the table. “No, excuse!”<br /><br />I took a seat and folded my hands a minute. “You wanna get your kid?”<br /><br />Herman nodded his grizzled head. “Yeah.”<br /><br />“The TV said he’s doing a 9 PM press conference from the town hall. Let’s go.”<br /><br />##<br /><br />It didn’t take much. We had the element of surprise on our side, after all. Herman walked into the town hall, bellowing, “WHY, SON, WHY?”<br /><br />Senator Saunders took one look, shrieked, and melted into a blithering, heap whimpering, “I’m sorry, daddy! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have put you in that truck!”<br /><br />That pretty well shot his bid for the presidency.<br /><br />I thought we were done. Thank God the check the Senator wrote me cleared. No way I’m giving it back. I did make that donation to the trailer park lady. I asked Herman about it and he sighed. “Yeah, that’s the grandsons I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know. Heck, I wonder if they like fishin’? I’m gonna find out.”<br /><br />So we were back on track. Except the reporters were replaced with medical experts who wanted to know exactly how Herman rose from the dead. What can I say? If it aint your time, you aint goin.’ God’s got it figured out, not me.<br /><br />Herman has grandkids to look after, Bob still has an excess of personality, and Christie…well, we went on a date. And it was good. That’s all I’m saying.<br /><br />But then, then, I got this letter in the mail. Kid number two, the daughter. Daddy didn’t die, so she isn’t getting her inheritance, so she’s suing me…for malpractice. Malpractice!<br /><br />What is she saying? Her father lived so I screwed up?<br /><br />I know I can get this tossed out, but after I do, I’m having a serious talk with Herman about his kids.<br />Man, do they have issues.M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7175382524096996869.post-16761931035840481522008-09-04T19:53:00.000-07:002008-09-05T07:05:45.356-07:00Ellie<span style="font-weight:bold;">Published in Fear and Trembling Magazine 10-30-2007/ with their original warning label/ Also, appeared in Infuze Magazine's 'Best of 2005' Anthology<br /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">...pray she never attends your school...</span><br /><br />NOTE: This story contains content that may not be suitable for young readers, but it contains a message of caution for those who are mature. It is published as a warning, as an example of how dark some lives become when they ignore the Light.<br /> <br /><br />The morning sunlight had barely touched her when Ellie awoke, a humorless smirk sliding across her lips. This was the day Molly Walker was going to get stoned. Ellie wouldn't miss it for the world. Today she left all seventh-grade resistance to school mornings behind and dove out of bed. On this school day, she dressed and headed for the stairs. She almost barreled down into the kitchen when the sound of her parents' voices brought her to a full halt.<br /><br />"I'm going to be late again tonight," her father was saying. "The boss wants this project out ahead of schedule so the rest of us get to roll up our sleeves and build his good reputation."<br /><br />Ellie backed against the wall and rolled her eyes. That was her father all right. Just a cog in someone else's wheel—a drone, an employed insect. He went to work day in, day out, and some day he would just keel over. Oh, goody, what a life. He was probably getting some on the side there anyway. Why else would he keep working late, really?<br /><br />"Your boss seems pretty incompetent," her mother said.<br /><br />Her dad chuckled. "Before I go, do you need any help waking up the princess?"<br /><br />"No, but for my birthday, I'd like a helmet and body armor."<br /><br />"It's just a stage."<br /><br />"I know. I think they call it the 'turn Mom gray' stage. I'll live."<br /><br />Ellie waited for them to kiss, or whatever it was they did when she wasn't around. They thought they were so cute, laughing at her, putting her down. Yeah, it's just a stage.<br /><br />When she heard the back door close she raced downstairs. Her mother quit stirring oatmeal long enough to say, "You're up early!"<br /><br />Ellie flipped back her long, blonde, beaded mane, and rolled her eyes. Her mother didn't get it; her father didn't get it. Ellie flashed her a petulant sneer. "What's it to ya? It's not like you'd ever notice what time I wake up."<br /><br />"Lose the attitude!"<br /><br />In response, Ellie showed her back and stalked away to get her book bag.<br /><br />"Ellie!" her mother snapped. "You can't go on acting like this! Look at you! Your jeans are sliding down your rear, your shirt looks like it was spray painted on—don't they have some kind of dress code at your school?"<br /><br />Ellie had picked up her book bag, but let it drop dramatically to the floor. "This is the code, Mom. I'm going to school. Later." Irritably, Ellie snatched up her bag again, threw it over her shoulder, and burst out the door.<br /><br />As the screen door slammed behind her, she heard the sounds of her Mom fretting about what they would do with her, what her father would have to do—the normal stuff. Ellie groaned and wished parents just spawned and died like salmon. Mom didn't get it yet, but someday Ellie hoped to make her get it, plain as day.<br /><br />From down the sidewalk she saw Moira Blackman scurrying toward her. "Hey, Ellie!" called the smallish girl.<br /><br />Moira had dark brown hair, which was in the midst of a fading perm, leaving two inches of root area rail straight while the rest of it fuzzed around her face. Moira's long nose and thin faced caused Ellie to nickname her "rat-girl," but only behind her back.<br /><br />"Hey," said Ellie.<br /><br />"Is it true?" Moira asked as she came bouncing up. "Is Molly Walker really going to get stoned today?"<br /><br />Ellie stared at her like a diseased insect, then dropped her jaw as if she couldn't believe the question. Moira was annoying, but safe. This girl would never be able to compete with her.<br /><br />"Uh, duh," said Ellie finally. "About time, isn't it?"<br /><br />Moira popped a hand over her mouth and giggled. "Oooohh! That is going to be SOOOOOO funny! Oh, I have got to be there! I've got to help! She'll be like, staggering around and everything! Do you think that kid, Darmen, is gonna do it with her when she's done?"<br /><br />Ellie felt a cruel smile nudge her lips. "That would be funny."<br /><br />Moira ran a hand through her hair and shook her head. "This day is going to be so freakin' slow now. I might just skip."<br /><br />"Naw," Ellie muttered. "Don't skip." If she was going to school, everyone had to go to school.<br /><br />Obediently, Moira nodded her head. "Yeah, I guess not. Why miss any of it?"<br /><br />"Cool."<br /><br />Ellie found herself feeling light and oddly thankful about Molly's little appointment today. Without the promise of fun and games, this was all one big, hideous drag. In home room, Mrs. Schultz bored them with her good mornings and mindless ode to the earth.<br /><br />Ellie's first class was better though, because she sat by her boyfriend, Dave. The class was science, and the teacher acted like he never saw anything as long as the class stayed quiet.<br /><br />This morning, they were to watch a film on Darwin's Origin of Species. So when the lights were off, and the clankety-clank of a reel-to-reel projector chugged to life, they crept in the back and began making out. And when that got boring, she tugged on Peggy Schotz's sweater, and Peggy slipped into the back row.<br /><br />"Hey," she whispered in Peggy's ear. "Let Dave watch what we do."<br /><br />Peggy shrugged. "Okay." And they locked lips and bodies as much as time and space would allow. Then Dave and his friends wanted in the action and science class turned into an orgy. That suited Ellie just fine. Flickering on the screen in front of the class were images of lions fighting to take over the pride. She smiled in the dimness. Dave had fought tooth and nail for the right to take her and had the scars to show for it. Natural selection, baby, she thought. Strongest male, hottest female.<br /><br />Third and fourth period she spent drawing pictures of what she and Peggy had done to the boys and passed them around. Of course, the only one who didn't smile and laugh when they came her way was Molly.<br /><br />"Molly," Ellie whispered to the quiet girl. "Look at what me and Peggy did. You do know what happens to boys when girls hang around, don't you?"<br /><br />Molly seemed to try and duck so that the teacher wouldn't see her mutter back an irritated, "Yes!"<br /><br />Spotting a chance to get a rise out of her, Ellie continued, "God made boys do this. Don't you want to see what God did?"<br /><br />From behind her Peggy snickered.<br /><br />"Ellie! Peggy!" The teacher, Mr. Thomas, caught them. "The bell goes off in one minute, you both stay after two minutes for talking."<br /><br />Immediately, Ellie's hand pointed across the aisle. "Molly talked, too! I heard her!"<br /><br />Mr. Thomas stepped over to her desk and glared down. She wasn't sure, but she had a strange feeling that Mr. Thomas was a psycho-serial killer in his spare time. His voice was dangerously quiet. "I heard you and Peggy. Not Molly. You two stay."<br /><br />Ellie whined, "But that's not fair!"<br /><br />"Three minutes," he replied.<br /><br />"You can't do—"<br /><br />"Four minutes. Your break lasts ten," he calmly explained. "One more word and I take it all."<br /><br />Ellie fumed, but she said nothing. Thomas was such a major freak. She had a tiny fear that he just might go off on her if she pushed him too hard. Ellie shut her mouth.<br /><br />When she was finally turned loose, her morning break in the girl's bathroom was as raucous as ever. The combination of cigarette smoke and pot left her feeling silly, and she began to bang on the bathroom stalls where she knew lesbian couples were making out.<br /><br />The cat-calls and curse words flew through the air, and she laughed hysterically.<br /><br />"Oh, it's a good thing you're popular!" A short black girl named Tana Buell spat as she stormed over to the sinks. "If anyone else did that, I'd kick her butt!"<br /><br />Ellie couldn't stop laughing. "It's just funny! You guys all mad..."<br /><br />Other girls began meandering out of the stalls, grumbling. Suddenly, the door opened, and Molly stepped inside. All conversation stopped, and the whispering began.<br /><br />"Today? At the quarry?"<br /><br />"She's really gonna get stoned?"<br /><br />"Yeah, shut up and just show up—"<br /><br />"About time..."<br /><br />Ellie licked her lips and gave some lascivious thought to busting in on Molly and—<br /><br />Crash! The bathroom door flew open so quickly all of the girls jumped. Mrs. Fortimer stepped inside. She was the vice principal, a big woman who vaguely resembled a dump truck. "All right! What's going on in here!" she bellowed. "When I was thirteen, we never would have acted like this."<br /><br />Ellie grabbed her stuff and mockingly sneered. "When you were thirteen evolution was still trying to decide between men and apes."<br /><br />"Ellie!" roared Mrs. Fortimer. "That's enough!"<br /><br />"Oh, I'm sorry!" she mocked. "What I meant to say was, 'Are you still a virgin?'"<br /><br />"GO TO MY OFFICE!"<br /><br />Ellie eyed all the girls in the bathroom, then smirked. "No. My education is way more important." With that, she spun around and started to leave.<br /><br />Mrs. Fortimer's hand gripped her. In one single movement she was hauled around and staring into the V.P.'s fat, ugly face. "I've had enough!"<br /><br />"OW!" Ellie screamed. Then she realized it was a scream of pure joy and immediately changed her tone. She glanced at the hand clamped around her arm, opened her mouth and wailed, "She attacked me! Oh, my arm! My arm hurts so bad! She really hurt me!"<br /><br />Alarmed, Mrs. Fortimer turned her loose. "I didn't hurt you!"<br /><br />Karen Fullsom stepped forward and solemnly informed, "You're not supposed to touch students, Mrs. Fortimer. Not ever. I'm telling my parents tonight." And suddenly righteous cries of "Me, too!" volleyed through the air.<br /><br />Ellie tried plowing out the door, but it was difficult now because her entourage of sympathizers came cooing along, asking if she was all right. She kept holding her arm, crying, "Mrs. Fortimer hit me! She hit me so hard!"<br /><br />"Oh, Ellie!" Karen commiserated. "It'll be okay!"<br /><br />Peggy came running up. "Baby, do you need ice? I'll make someone get it."<br /><br />And as she stood in the hall holding court, Ellie noticed Molly sneak out of the girls room and hurry down the hall. Turning so the others wouldn't see, Ellie smiled.<br /><br />Miss Rainbow, a sympathetic art teacher, came by and quickly directed her, along with Mrs. Fortimer, to Principal Peterson's office, where Ellie spent the next thirty minutes complaining about the VP. Dramatically, she explained how she only wanted to go to class when she was attacked. Then Peterson wanted to go into a bunch of paperwork, but Ellie wanted lunch.<br /><br />"Mr. Peterson," she said stubbornly, "I'm hungry."<br /><br />"Ellie," he said patiently, "you've made some serious accusations, and we need to process your complaint correctly—"<br /><br />"Process it later. I'm going to eat," she said, and she rose to leave.<br /><br />"Young lady!" Peterson exclaimed. "I will not put up with this attitude!"<br /><br />She screwed up her face and asked, "What attitude? I'm someone you're responsible for and you're keeping me from getting my lunch. And I even said I'd come back later and do what you needed. I mean, I don't know why you have an attitude with me!"<br /><br />And she stormed out the door. By the time she made it to the lunchroom, she was feeling angry. The stupid principal couldn't tell her what to do, and it offended her that he even tried. Frowning, she draped a leg over the dingy green lunchroom bench where Dave and everyone else was sitting and crashed her face into his shoulder.<br /><br />"Ellie!" Peggy cried from across the table. "What did they do to you?"<br /><br />"Duh," she snarled. "Nothing. They never do anything. I mean, what can they do?"<br /><br />Dave shrugged. "When I get in trouble at school, my parents make big trouble for me."<br /><br />Ellie gave a cold laugh and swatted his shoulder. "They only do it cuz you're a wuss."<br /><br />Around the table, Dave's friends gave a low rumbling, "Whoa!" and "Dude!"<br /><br />Dave frowned and glared. "Well, why don't you tell us then? Why don't your parents make trouble for you?"<br /><br />Ellie slowly let a smile spread over her lips and waited until all eyes were on her. "I suppose you guys all believe in Santa Claus or something? You must, cuz this whole idea that someone is in charge of you is just like Santa...it isn't real. They give you all this song and dance about how God won't like what you do, or mom and dad, or the police, or whatever. It's just a bunch of lies to control you. But man, I have my own mind, my own opinions about right and wrong, and if those ideas don't match up with my parents', tough! They have to deal with it. And they'd better! You know, I could even kill someone and it would be the 'right thing.' Well, if it was like, something I needed to do, y'know. Adults can only yell, but you just turn around and walk away—"<br /><br />A cheerful voice made them all glance up. "Hey, guys!" Vanessa Youngblood was standing near their table, a stack of flyers in her hand.<br /><br />Ellie felt her lip curl. Vanessa used to be a good friend. Now there she was, still in her jeans, still wearing the safety pin in her ear, but passing out tracts for the school's biggest nerd group.<br /><br />"Party on Friday," Vanessa said as she handed out directions. "Pizza everywhere!"<br /><br />"Yeah, yeah," Ellie grumbled. "Pizza and Jesus. We know." Then sarcastically raising her voice, she said, "So, Vanessa, God is something you can't see, hear, smell, taste, or touch. How come you think he's real? Huh, huh? Please tell us—oh please." Looking away from Vanessa, she flashed the table a small, cold smirk.<br /><br />"Good question, Ellie," Vanessa answered, arms folded, head cocked to one side. "Then again, you've never seen, heard, felt, tasted, or touched your own brain before. How do you know you've got one?"<br /><br />Ellie felt her face flame. Taking a deep breath, she sat back and sneered, "Because I don't hang out with you."<br /><br />"Oooh, good one, Ell," came Peggy's verbal high-five.<br /><br />"Naw," countered Vanessa. "That just means if you have a brain, it ain't workin'. Have a nice day—try not to think too hard." Vanessa smiled and left.<br /><br />"Man, why aren't we taking Vanessa to get stoned instead of Molly?" said Moira.<br /><br />"Survival of the fittest," Ellie said calmly. "You pull down the weak ones first."<br /><br />"What are you talking about?" demanded Dave.<br /><br />Ellie saw he was becoming unhappy with her, so she smiled and told him, "We're talking about something I'm going to do later."<br /><br />Dave's eyebrows shot to the ceiling. "Does it have to do with me?"<br /><br />"I wouldn't want to scare you."<br /><br />Dave grinned at his friends and laughed, "Oh, just don't hurt me."<br /><br />Ellie purred, "I will." And she climbed into his lap and clamped her mouth over his.<br /><br />The cat-calls and cheers that followed made her feel like a rock star.<br /><br />By the time the day came to a close, Ellie was ready. This was the event they had been waiting for all year. Carefully, girls gathered along the way. Molly lived near the quarry so this wasn't a problem. Ellie and Moira leaned against a tree and watched, waiting, until Molly began to make her way home. Then they scooted up behind her and asked, "Hey, Molly! What you doing?"<br /><br />Molly looked at them with large, brown eyes set beneath a shiny forehead exposed by the way she kept her dull, brown hair tied back with a headband. "Oh," she said in a tone of forced casualness. "Just going home."<br /><br />Ellie sounded amazed. "Don't you know what day it is?"<br /><br />"Yeah!" Moira enthused. "We were all going to go down to the quarry. You're coming, right? You do remember, don't you?"<br /><br />"What?"<br /><br />"Hey, look!" cried Ellie. "There's Peggy and Karen and the rest of the gang. C'mon, this will be fun!"<br /><br />The look in Molly's eyes seemed uncertain, and Ellie found herself angered that she really didn't seem to remember, but that was okay.<br /><br />"You guys don't usually want to do anything with me," Molly said, nervously.<br /><br />"Well, that's just stupid of us, then," insisted Ellie. Now the girls began to crowd around them as they walked, sweeping Molly off and into the quarry. Walking to the edge of the rock pit, Ellie had to be careful for all of the loose stones. You could twist your ankle here so easy.<br /><br />When they reached a perfect spot, Ellie stopped and the rest of the girls became silent. Finally, Molly said nervously, "Wh-what are we doing?"<br /><br />Ellie said flatly, "You."<br /><br />Molly gripped her book bag to her chest and took a step back. "What?!" she cried.<br /><br />"You. You never do anything with us. I mean, what—do you think you're better than us?"<br /><br />"I-I-I don't think that!" came Molly's shocked reply. "I pray for you guys."<br /><br />"Oooooh," mocked Peggy. "She prays for us! I know I feel holy!"<br /><br />The circle of girls broke into taunting laughter. Moira leaped forward making kissing gestures in the air. "Ohhhh, do you have love for us? Isn't that what you guys talk about?" She opened her arms and came at Molly, "C'mon, baby! Where's my wet one?"<br /><br />More laughter split the air.<br /><br />Molly pressed her lips together and stood her ground. "No! I know what you're all into, but it's wrong!"<br /><br />"Correction!" Ellie cried. "You think you're better than us!"<br /><br />"I do not!"<br /><br />"Oh yeah, you and Vanessa and the other losers, all of you," Ellie explained. "You think you have some sort of right to say who's good and who isn't. We're going to do something about that cuz we're not wrong! You just think you're right!"<br /><br />"It doesn't matter what any of us think!" cried Molly. "It's what God thinks that counts! He loves you!"<br /><br />"Yeah, you and your Bible..." Ellie sneered.<br /><br />"Ellie!" she cried. "It's true! God loves you!"<br /><br />Ellie blinked and shook her head. "LIAR!" she shouted. "THERE IS NO GOD!"<br /><br />One glance around the circle told her the other girls were becoming unnerved. She dropped her voice to a low, dangerous level and said, "This is survival of the fittest, and you ain't fit. Time to get stoned."<br /><br />Opened-mouthed, Molly sputtered, "I'm not smoking that stuff! You can laugh as much as you want."<br /><br />"Oh, yeah?" Ellie said, raising her eyebrows. "At the beginning of school I told you to try our stuff. I said you'd get about six months, and if you didn't see the light, you were going to get stoned."<br /><br />Molly said quickly, "I didn't smoke it then, I won't smoke it now."<br /><br />"Not that kind of stoned, stupid." She seized Molly by the arm and violently shoved her over the edge of the pit. There was a startled cry that ended with a terrible, broken thud. Ellie peered down to see she had landed in a sprawled and dirty heap. Somehow, her shirt had ripped when she landed, and the headband had fallen off.<br /><br />"Hey, Molly!" Ellie called waiting for the girl to look up. "This sound familiar? 'He who is with sin, pitch as many stones as possible!'" With a loud cry, she grabbed a rock and hurled it at the girl's face.<br /><br />Molly stumbled to her feet, eyes huge with panic, and held her hand over lips as they dripped with blood. "What did I do to you?" she cried, trying to step back from the crowd above. "I...I never d-did anything to you!"<br /><br />"YOU'RE BREATHING!!" Ellie shrieked and heaved another stone.<br /><br />Urging the other girls on as Molly fumbled in the pit, Ellie yelled, "She doesn't like you or anything you do! Her friends hate us!"<br /><br />She pitched another rock and caught Molly so hard in the ribs that she doubled over in obvious pain. Ellie swore at her friends to join in. "WHAT? ARE YOU AFRAID? KILL HER BEFORE I KILL YOU!"<br /><br />With a sudden, blood-curdling scream, Moira rushed up with a huge stone and hurled it at the girl. Then the rest of them began grabbing and throwing until rocks rained from the air.<br /><br />Moira was right. They did get to see Molly stagger and fall. At one point she was writhing all over the ground, twitching with every movement, but after one more good-sized rock to the skull, even the twitching ceased. Darmen hadn't made it, but Ellie would be sure and let him know where to find the body.<br /><br />As the girls began wandering out, putting the quarry behind them, Ellie paused to look down at Molly one more time. She seemed so still.<br /><br />She lived, then died. That was it.<br /><br />No one was home.<br /><br />"Looks like I'm God now," she whispered, still feeling disdain. Then she jogged to catch up with the others.<br /><br />On their way out of the quarry, the girls were quiet but assured.<br /><br />Peggy straightened her hair and said, "I'm really glad we did that. I'm so sick of people who think they're better than everybody else."<br /><br />"Yeah," breathed Ellie. Now that she thought about it, Mom seemed to think pretty highly of herself. Maybe she should get stoned. The thought made Ellie smile. "Whoever tells is the next stony, got it?"<br /><br />Around her, heads bobbed.<br /><br />"Good," she said. "And don't forget. Pep rally tomorrow..."M. L. Archerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15208823407628434751noreply@blogger.com0