Sample Of Works

Table of Contents 1. Second Coming - crime drama novel(pages 1-12) -----------------------------Pg. 3 2. Goot’s Mittens - children’s book(pages 1-6) ----------------------------------Pg. 15 3. Footsteps - photography/poetry(pages 1-6) -----------------------------------Pg. 21 4. Eight Hours - short story/suspense(pages 1-6) -------------------------------Pg. 27 5. Cross Country - short story/humor(pages 1-12) -----------------------------Pg. 33 6. Postcards From My Mind - poetry(pages 1-11) ------------------------------Pg. 45 7. Dreamality - short story/suspense(pages 1-6) --------------------------------Pg. 56 8. The Cabin - short story/horror(pages 1-6)-------------------------------------Pg. 62

These are free previews of many of my books. The full books are available on any of the websites listed at the end of this collection. Thanks for reading!

Day 1 – Wednesday April 12th

The sound of birds cheerfully singing echoed off of the walls of the bedroom. Quiet snoring could be heard coming from the queen-sized bed in the center of the room during the moments in between chirps. Only the glow of a nearby streetlight brightened the room, Detective John Sullivan was sound asleep. Loud ringing of the telephone snapped Detective Sullivan out of his dream. Through the darkness of his bedroom he knocked several things off of his night stand before finally reaching his cordless phone. It had rung four times before he answered. “Hello,” he said in a deep sleep-filled voice. “Sullivan, this is Reynolds, there has been another murder,” the voice said. This voice belonged to Inspector Sidney Reynolds. It was the third straight morning that he had awakened Detective Sullivan from his sleep with news of a murder in downtown New York. “That’s three murders in three days,” Sullivan whispered, “great a fucking serial killer, good goddamn morning Inspector.” “How soon can you be down here John?” “Give me ten minutes to pull myself together, I will be there ASAP,” Sullivan moaned. He was already half out of his bed as he hung up the phone. He stretched a long ‘wake-me-up’ stretch and let out a scream “Aaaaaahhhhhhh shit!” His feet hit the cold hardwood floor and he recoiled in shock. Detective Sullivan stood up, dressed only in his black boxer briefs, his body cut from stone, thanks to years of police training. He turned and looked back at his unmade bed, it seemed to be calling for him to come back, but he resisted. There was something very serious going on at the station. Sullivan, barely awake, fell into his clothes he had worn the day before, sprayed a little cologne on his white undershirt, and stumbled out of his apartment, and into the darkened third floor hallway. While trying to finish buttoning his shirt he gripped the rail near the stairs tight, it was cold and the shock opened his blue eyes wide. He carefully made his way down the three flights of stairs and into the lobby of his Williamsburg apartment complex. Williamsburg was a suburb just east of New York City on the Long Island side. The freshly cleaned floors shone under the lobby’s lights. He pushed through the front door and onto the concrete walkway. The neighborhood was black; the street lights were still lit. The clocks had just been turned ahead so the sun did not rise until nearly 7:00, and by John Sullivan’s watch it was only 6:30. The short walkway to the sidewalk was dotted with small lights to lead the way in the dark; John followed them toward the parking lot where his car was kept. The parking lot on the side of the building was not well lit and John often envisioned himself having to fight off an attacker in the dark one night, but it had not happened yet. He tried to always keep his car within view of the street, just in case. He unlocked his red Mustang convertible and slumped into the front seat. He let out a yawn and a quick shiver; it had been Spring for nearly a month yet unseasonably cold all week. There was even some frost on what little grass lay around the parking lot; it shone like blades of silver under the streetlights. John turned the key, the car struggled a bit. “Come on you piece of shit,” he yelled at his car as he banged on the steering wheel. Sure he drove a Mustang, but it was three years old, not exactly old but it was starting to give

him troubles every now and then. On the second turn the car started up fine, he turned the heat on which normally did not fully kick in until he had nearly made it to work. Sullivan pulled out of the exit and headed toward the police station. John’s apartment was only a ten minute commute from the Williamsburg police department where he worked. He had only been working there since the first of the year, before that he had spent five years working in New Bedford, Massachusetts. John had become a sought after commodity when he helped capture a wanted killer the previous summer. He had been featured prominently on television and in magazines with the key to the city after nailing the man callously nicknamed the “Bedford Baby Killer” even though only one of his nine victims, the first, was indeed a child. His family and co-workers knew it was only a matter of time before he was offered a higher profile job. John knew it too, he had always figured New Bedford was a stepping stone to bigger and better things, he dreamed of working in a large market city like New York or Washington D.C. He wanted to be the man to capture all of the “big fish” swimming in those cities, he had a relatively large ego, but also had a boatload of arrests made to warrant it. He tried his best to be respectful though thanks to his strong Irish family upbringing, but it wasn’t always that easy. His first two and a half months had been relatively quiet, for New York City that is. That all changed about three weeks before when there was a report of two suspicious fires at two businesses downtown only a mile apart. There was little evidence linking the fires except for the fact that both were owned by Jewish families. He remembered the interviews with the owners; they both did not have any enemies they knew of. These people were not well known in the community, they did not have tons of money, so it was hard for local police to figure out a motive. The cops told the two families they would keep their files active, but they had no leads. It seemed as though the cases would fade into the background. Then a week later, there were three house fires in a largely Jewish neighborhood just outside of the city. Inspector Reynolds had said there was no doubt all three fires were arson, and all three were likely set by the same perpetrators. Luckily in all three cases nobody was killed, though the homes were total losses. As with the business fires the week before there were no leads, but with all five crimes having been against Jews the police started to think about hate crimes, and began looking at groups who would commit such acts. Background checks were performed and several known members of a local chapter of a hate group calling themselves the “White Americans” were brought in and questioned. Three members cooperated and answered all questions; they had no knowledge of any hate crimes recently committed by their group. The other member, Steven Roles, a high ranking member, was a little more belligerent. He was the stereotypical racist with a shaved head, pale-white skin and looking very gaunt. Clad in shabby leather pants and a sleeveless plaid shirt he sat, feet up on the sergeant’s desk, smugly folding his arms as if he had somewhere more important to be. “Mr. Roles,” the Sergeant began, “do you have any knowledge of the rash of fires targeting Jewish homes and businesses?” Roles smiled and cracked his neck side to side in a disgusting fashion. “Hey man we had nothin’ to do with those fires,” Roles smugly shouted, “but I am still happy those fuckin’ bastards are gettin’ their shit torched; it makes me smile.” The Sergeant

shook his head angrily. “So there’s no word on the street about someone else maybe,” the Sergeant continued, “I figured you might want to rat out someone who’s working on your turf.” “Nah, killing Jews is fine by me whoever does it,” Roles responded after coughing up some phlegm in another stomach turning display, “but trust me, if I decide to get in on the act, you’ll know about it.” He stood up and pointing a finger in the Sergeant’s direction and asked if they were done. There was nothing to hold any of them, so of course they were free to go. John remembered staring at Steven Roles long and hard as he walked past, he had always wondered what the thought processes were of these hate-criminals. In his neighborhood in Brockton, Massachusetts growing up he never knew of racism or prejudice. His friends came from all walks of life, all races, religions, and nationalities. As he got older he did notice that not everyone was as open-minded and tolerant as he was, that was probably what led him into the police force. John wanted to be there to help those in need; he vowed never to let anyone influence his beliefs. Things were quiet after the “White Americans” had been questioned. Some cops figured they must have been the perps and the heat on them had caused them to lay low for a while. That all changed three nights before the current frosty cold morning with a homicide; it changed for John the following morning when he received the first wake-up call from Inspector Reynolds. “John, it’s Inspector Reynolds,” he said, “we need you in here ASAP.” “Why,” John sleepily replied, “what’s going on?” “We’ve got a homicide on our hands.” Those words had got John out of bed and to the station fast. When he arrived there was a crowd of people in and around Inspector Reynolds’ office. John had to weave through them to get in the door, bumping and pushing as gently as he could. When he stepped in the Inspector was at his desk looking at photos that appeared to be of a crime scene. There were several black and white 8x10’s scattered across the desk, mostly of close ups of a face that John assumed was the victim. The Inspector had one in his hand at the moment that he seemed to be trying to get a grip on, staring at it like a ‘Magic Eye’ painting. “What’s the word Inspector?” Reynolds barely moved his eyes from the photo. “Do you speak German, Sullivan?” It seemed to be an odd question. “Uh no, why?” He handed John the photo. It was of a phrase written in German on a wall at the crime scene. It said ‘Juden Müssen Sterben!” Of course John had no idea what it meant. He shrugged his shoulders and tried to force himself to understand. “That message,” Inspector Reynolds blurted out, “it’s written in the victim’s blood.” John looked again at the photo, he had to take the Inspector’s word for it since they were black and white shots. There were murders all the time in and around New York, John wondered why the Inspector needed him at the station so badly. “Excuse me sir,” John asked, “but what makes this so important though that you called me down here?” Inspector Reynolds looked up at John then went searching through the pile of photos. He found the one he was looking for and handed it to John. The glossy paper caught the lights and made it hard for John to see at first, he had to move around in order to see it clearly. In the photo was the murder victim. It was very brutal, the man appeared to have had his head bashed in with some sort of blunt object, blood and brain matter was all around his body on the living room floor. John was shocked at the brutality, but it still didn’t tell him why it was a

special case. “You wanna know why you’re here? That man in the photo, his name is Adam Goldsmith, a local restaurant owner. Goldsmith, he’s Jewish. Whoever had been setting those fires has stepped up their attacks.” John felt chills up his spine, he had thought the fires were the end of the crime spree, but this murder made anything possible. At that moment a young college student who worked at the station as an intern knocked on the office door. “Inspector,” the student began meekly, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I thought this was important.” “What is it kid,” Reynolds replied loudly, “we’ve got a lot going on.” He stepped into the Inspector’s office with his head down seemingly intimidated by the two officers. “Uh it has to do with this murder,” the student continued in a voice barely above a whisper. The Inspector rolled his eyes with impatience. “Yeah, what’s up?” He spoke sarcastically feigning interest. “I have taken German in college,” the student professed, “that message on the wall, ‘Juden Müssen Sterben,’ it means ‘Jews must die.’” Both Sullivan and the Inspector looked at each other with a look of confusion and worry; they were now both taking this intern very seriously. They deduced that if this killer or killers had taken the time to write a message like this that probably meant that these crimes were not over. Still they were not sure if they should send out a warning to anyone Jewish to beware of anyone suspicious after dark. They did not want to cause a panic, so they decided to go over the evidence again and see if there was any direction it pointed them. The intern backed out of the Inspector’s office and the two men began to pour through the photos and reports on his desk. The evidence led nowhere, no forced entry, no fingerprints, and most of all no witnesses. It was a big gamble that the police took in not putting out any sort of bulletin that night, and it would cost them not too long after. It seemed to be déjà vu all over the next morning for John Sullivan. Early in the dark morning the phone rang, Inspector Reynolds was on the line, there had been another murder. His voice sounded far less shocked than it had the previous morning. In much the same fashion John stumbled into the station, pushed his way through some people and into the Inspector’s office. He was at his desk and there were a few photos in front of him again. “Do we know for sure that this is the same killer?” John broke the silence and cut right to the chase. He wasn’t sure what answer he hoped for more, different killer, or serial killer. “I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy,” the Inspector answered in a tired and weary voice, “all the signs point to it.” He passed a photo similar to the one from the day before over to John. In the photo there was another message written on a wall at the crime scene. This one was the German word ‘Ausrottung.’ “Have you figured out what it means?” The Inspector only nodded once affirmatively. “Yeah the college boy just let me know,” he said, “‘Ausrottung’ means ‘extermination.’” “Look Inspector,” John said firmly, “I think we need to put out some kind of warning, before this gets out of hand!” The Inspector shot him an angry look. “Shit man, this is already way out of hand! We’ve got five cases of arson, and now two murders, and not even a shred of evidence to point us to a suspect.” He let out a deep breath after his long-winded answer. “What about those bastards in that ‘White Americans’ group, get their asses back in here.” The Inspector shook his head.

“It’s not them,” he stated. “What? How can you be sure?” John threw his hands up. “Because we got that piece of shit Roles and another of his boys last night for a home invasion,” Reynolds angrily shot back, “they’re sitting downstairs in a cell right now.” John fell silent; the activity from the main lobby could be heard through the Inspector’s closed door. “Well, what can we do?” John waited for some sort of answer. “I’m gonna send out extra squad cars to patrol largely Jewish areas in this district,” the Inspector replied softly, “maybe this guy will screw up before he strikes again.” He leaned back in his chair, it squeaked a bit under his ample frame. They were in between a rock and a hard place, they knew they had to do more to protect the people, but they weren’t sure what. John had a long day working, his mind was not on his regular work, it seemed as if he was floating in some sort of a dream world for most of the day and into the evening. All he kept thinking of was this mystery killer. ‘How many people will die before this guy messes up? If he does mess up,’ he thought to himself during one moment of lucidity behind his bulky brown desk. He did not sleep well that second night, as if having visions of the future John even thought about setting his alarm for when the Inspector had been calling. Sadly he figured the killer would strike again, and he was right. John walked into the station much the same as he had the past two mornings. On the third morning though there was no crowd of people, in fact the station was rather quiet. He cracked the Inspector’s office door and knocked. “Come in John, sit down,” the Inspector said in between sips of some steaming hot coffee. John took a seat in front of the desk on one of the poorly padded wooden chairs. He noticed there were no photos today, and the Inspector was dressed in his heavy police jacket. “Uh, so what’s the plan?” “We’re going on a field trip today,” the Inspector said with a smile, “to the latest crime scene ourselves. I want to see if I can find something that maybe the usual crime scene investigators are missing.” John had to borrow another jacket as he had left his apartment in such a hurry that he only grabbed a light windbreaker. The two men hustled out of the station bringing along one of the Inspector’s closest friends and partners, Sergeant Richard Littleton. Littleton would be mostly in charge of photography, he sat in the front seat with his digital camera in a big black case on the floor in front of him. The Sarge was a heavy set man, bordering on obese. His large frame had buckled the passenger side of the car when he had sat down. They took one of the unmarked cars so as not to draw too much attention on their way to the crime scene. John didn’t speak much on the drive, he was preparing himself mentally for what he was about to see. Judging by the photos of the previous two victims, the killer had a very vicious and sadistic rage toward his prey. The newest victim lived in an apartment complex on the Lower East Side, once the largest Jewish neighborhood in the New York area but not so much anymore. The drive from the station to the crime scene was uneventful; the traffic was minimal as it was still before 8:00 am. The sun was bright in the sky and John had wished he brought his sunglasses with him from his Mustang’s glove compartment. The Inspector had been in touch with the crime scene investigators and made them promise to not disturb the area until they had a chance to see it for themselves. As they got close to the site a few unmarked cars were already

there, they had set up a few barricades to keep curious crowds out of the building. The three men flashed their badges and proceeded to enter the building. They slowly climbed four flights of stairs to the fifth floor where the victim had lived. Apartment 5-C was taped off with the door wide open. Even from the hallway you could see the signs of a struggle evident on the floor. Papers were scattered, a chair lay broken in pieces, most likely used as a weapon in the crime. “Okay you guys stay behind me to start,” Inspector Reynolds requested, “so we don’t disturb something before we note it and photograph it.” The three of them tore the tape from across the door frame and took a few steps into the living room. Sgt. Littleton turned on his digital camera and began to snap photos of anything and everything. There was a smell in the air, as if something had been cooking at the time of the murder and it was left burning. John stepped into the kitchen; it wasn’t more than a stove, fridge, cabinets, and about three feet of floor space. There was a pan in the sink, inside it was some sort of canned soup, this was the smell. It appeared that the killer had taken the time to turn off the stove and even remove the burning food. John thought to himself that this killer wanted his handiwork to be seen, because if he had left the food burning eventually it would have cause a fire that would have severely damaged the apartment. Sgt. Littleton was right behind John snapping photos of the sink and stove, the clicking was almost rhythmic in John’s ears. Inspector Reynolds had gone into the bedroom, here he found the victim. He called to the other two men to join him. “Hey guys,” he shouted from the bedroom, “I found our victim.” Lying on the floor at the foot of a twin bed face down was the body of a middle-aged man. He was in a pool of clotting blood, but it appeared as though his wounds would not have been enough to kill him. “Hey check this out,” John said. He had been checking the closet and night stand area and found a used syringe wrapped in a paper towel. It was carefully wrapped but hardly hidden from view. “Don’t touch it,” the Inspector yelled, “the lab guys will have to take it and test to see what was in it. Hey Rick, while you’ve got the camera handy, how ‘bout taking a picture of the wall there.” The Inspector was pointing at another German message scribbled in blood on the wall. This one said ‘Es beginnt wieder.’ John wrote it down on a small pad of paper he had purchased, normally it was forgotten in his car but John grabbed it on his way into the station this morning. He figured the college boy at the station would help them translate the message later. After putting the paper back in his pocket John bent down and picked up a black object off of the floor. It was the man’s wallet next to the night stand; inside of it he found photos of a young girl, probably his daughter. She looked like a teenager with light brown hair, and freckles. He turned it over; written in blue ink was “Jenny, age 17, 1999.” John then found the man’s driver’s license; his name was David Cohen, 48 years old, in his bad license photo he had receding brown hair and brown eyes. Unfortunately now his skin had a pale yellowish tint to it. John felt sadness for this man, his eyes moved back and forth from the license photo to the body on the floor, being this close to the crime affected him more than if he had only seen the photos at the station. He could only shake his head and walk back out into the hallway. He stood with his back against the wall, peering left and right down the poorly lit hallway. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of person this was that could kill someone so brutally and with such bravado that he would leave all sorts of evidence lying around. John had always been told by family, and fellow co-workers that he had too much of a conscience, that he

let things get to him much more than he should. His father especially had told him that he needed to become desensitized to the horrors of police work, that it was the only way for him to be successful. Still it was this same quality that had allowed him to catch the ‘Bedford Baby Killer’ and make him a much respected name in the state of Massachusetts. The killer had sent numerous threatening letters to the New Bedford police warning them to scale back their efforts to capture him or the killings would increase in number and brutality. His refusal to stop searching for the sake of the victims and their families was what eventually led him to the door of the killer. Even the killer himself had marveled at the young detective’s will and determination. When he was cuffed and taken from his home the man did not even struggle, he only asked to see the man who was so unwavering and strong-willed that he could not be shaken. John remembered raising his hand and smiling as the man passed him on the way to the waiting cruiser. It was the greatest moment of his life up to that point. About ten minutes had passed with John alone with his thoughts in the hallway, he could hear the Inspector and Sgt. Littleton talking and making their way around the rest of the apartment trying to find any other items of interest. The Inspector’s voice was of normal volume while the Sarge naturally had a booming jovial voice which made him perfect for Santa Claus at the yearly Christmas party. John heard the sounds of people coming up the stairs, it was the evidence team, three men and a woman each with their own small bag of equipment for testing and collective the evidence at the scene. They had been detained long enough and now needed to do their jobs. One of the men approached John as the team stopped in front of the door to apartment 5-C. “What’s it like in there?,” the investigator questioned as he put on a pair of white latex gloves. “One male, mid-40’s, dead in the back bedroom,” John replied frankly, “blunt trauma to the head, and one used syringe found in the closet. I put it on the night stand.” “Which killed him?” “We won’t know until you guys run some tests on that syringe,” John assumed, “that’ll probably determine where we go from here.” “Okay guy thanks for keeping the place warm for us,” the investigator answered, “we’ll get back to you at the station with anything of interest.” The man waved his other team members inside behind him. “Have fun,” John called after him, “and tell the Inspector and Sergeant to stop playing with each other and get moving, I’ll be waiting in the cah.” Despite being born and raised in Brockton, John had only a small ‘Boston Accent;’ on a few occasions it would come out and car would come out as ‘cah.’ During his first few weeks on the job it became a source of humor at the station, the longtime cops would often ask him to say something with his ‘Boston Accent’ for laughs. He would reply with the standard ‘Pahked my cah in Hahvahd Yahd.’ A few seconds after the crime scene crew went in the Inspector and Sgt. Littleton emerged. “Playing with each other huh? You can walk your ass back to the station man!” He smiled and gave John a hard slap on the back which made him wince. “Did you find anything else interesting in there?,” John inquired. The Inspector stopped

walking and put his hands on his hips. “It seems like there was no forced entry again,” he said puzzled, “it’s like the killer knocks on the door and the victims just let him in. Maybe he’s posing as someone less threatening. Are there any witnesses in the building?” “Probably not,” John acknowledged, “the man living next door is 87 years old with severe hearing loss. He’s on assisted living, but his nurse’s aide usually leaves by 9:00 pm. She’s over there right now if you want to talk to her.” “Nah that’s not needed,” he replied, “but see if you can get her name and the old man’s name. We may need to get statements from them later.” John agreed. Inspector Reynolds and Sgt. Littleton left for the car while John knocked on the door. Momentarily John had visions of his younger days where he would fantasize about a beautiful nurse giving him sponge baths and other ‘treatments.’ He imagined the door opening with a bright light and fog pouring from the room, a gorgeous woman standing in her very small nurse’s outfit begging him to let her take care of him. When the door opened his hopes were dashed, the nurse was heavy-set, and at least 50 years old, the sponge bath idea faded fast. John came out to the car no more than five minutes after the Inspector and the Sarge. He closed the door and put his head down in embarrassment. They both asked him how she looked once he got in. “Did ya get her name?,” Reynolds asked with a smirk. “Yeah Sheila Edwards,” John responded quietly, “and the old man is Terrence Post; neither saw or heard anything. She said she left right after 9 and the old man was already asleep.’ “So did she take you in the bathroom,” the Sarge asked with a boyish giggle, “and check your temperature?” John frowned and gave a horrified shiver. “No, but she did ask who that cute couple was leaving the apartment,” he sarcastically replied, “she said they looked so in love.” “Shit man,” the Inspector shouted in anguish, “if I was gonna go gay I would hope I could do better than his fat ass!” This offended the Sarge who put both of his hands over his expansive belly. “Hey damn it I don’t have time to exercise like I used to!,” he cried. John and the Inspector looked at each other surprised and broke out in loud laughter. “Christ Rick I should get you a dress and some lipstick,” Reynolds contended with a bewildered look. He stared at the Sarge while starting his car shaking his head to keep the joke running. They did a u-turn in the street and headed back to Williamsburg. Upon arrival at the station John sought out the college boy who had been so good at translating the last two German messages from the killer. He found him working on a paper jam at the copy machine, very important work. “Hey kid,” John said after clearing his throat, “sorry to bother you but I got another message for you to translate for me, forget that stuff and come over to my desk.” The kid got up and practically ran over to help. They both sat down and John produced the paper with the German phrase from the crime scene on it. The kid looked at it for a moment, put it on the desk and slid it over to John like he was getting cards in a game of Blackjack. “It begins again,” the kid said in a hushed tone. “What?” “That’s what ‘Es beginnt wieder’ means,” the kid answered louder, “‘It begins again.’”

John wrote the translation down underneath the German phrase, folded the paper and put it in his pocket. John smiled with satisfaction. “Thanks kid,” he said, “hey what is your name anyway?” “My name is Chris, Chris Michaels.” “Thanks Chris, I appreciate it.” Chris got up and headed back toward the paper jam while John focused his attention on the three separate messages. “Jews must die,” “Extermination,” and now “It begins again,” they were very sinister sounding. John decided it would be best to let the people in the city know what was going on, so at least those in danger could take the proper measures for their safety. He got up and went into the Inspector’s office. He was thumbing through the new photos that had been taken by the Sarge at the crime scene that morning. “Hey Inspector, I think we have to put out a statement to the media,” John said confidently, “let the people know what’s up so they can protect themselves.” “Yeah you’re right,” Reynolds responded with a sad look on his face, “I just wish we had some kind of description or any witnesses. People will be looking for this person everywhere, anyone that knocks on a Jewish person’s door after 10 will be thought of as a suspect. We have to say just enough nothing more.” “I’ll call the Times and a couple of the TV outlets, and set up a press conference for you at, say, 3:00?” John pulled out his small notebook again and started noting who he would contact. “Yeah, fine,” the Inspector conceded, “hey any idea of when those crime scene folks will have the test results on that syringe?” “Nah, I’ll call down to the lab and see. I am also going to call the daughter of the victim today and let her know. Oh yeah and the kid told me what that message was on the wall today.” “Yeah?” “Uh-huh, it says ‘It begins again.’” The Inspector furrowed his brow while recalling the other two messages, trying to piece them together. “What do you think it all means?” “This person obviously hates Jews,” John replied stating the obvious, “so any warning we put out should mention that first. Besides that, I am still working on it.” John shut the Inspector’s door behind him as he walked out. He pulled out his Rolodex from his top desk drawer and wrote down a few more phone numbers of media outlets. He then grabbed the phone book to look up Jennifer Cohen, the daughter of David, the man murdered that day. There were many Cohen’s listed in the metro area, so he decided to use his police privileges and go through the public records to find her. He remembered the photo from the man’s wallet, in it ‘Jenny’ was 17 in 1999, so that meant she’d probably be 24 now. John decided he had better contact her before this press conference, surely after that info about the victims would leak out. After calling the four Jennifer Cohen’s listed for the metro area and even a couple of the J Cohen’s, John decided to use his police privileges and check the police databases and public records sites on the internet. His search was very successful, finding a Jennifer Cohen of matching age in a Connecticut town called Naugatuck located about an hour from the city. He got the number and called her. “Hello?,” answered a friendly sounding voice. “Hello,” John said, “is this Ms. Jennifer Cohen?” “Yes it is,” Jen responded, “who is this?”

“My name is John Sullivan,” he said getting to the point, “I am a detective with the NYPD out of Williamsburg. It’s about your father, David Cohen.” “What’s wrong with Dad?” John heard the friendliness disappear from the voice, immediately replaced with a trembling anticipation. He paused perhaps a little too long, not sure how to say what he had to say. “He’s dead ma’am. Uh we found him in his apartment this morning,” John paused again, “he was murdered.” Jennifer gasped and John could hear her begin to cry. He had only called a family one time to tell them a family member had been murdered; he hated the feeling of helplessness he felt as they fell apart on the line. “We’d like you to come down to the station if possible,” John gently asked, “so we can get some information and maybe a statement from you, if that would be possible.” “What? Information? My father was murdered,” Jen’s voice grew angrier with each passing word, “can I have some time to digest that before I get interrogated officer!?” “Um, actually it’s Detective,” John retorted feeling sheepish the instant the words escaped his lips. “Fine,” Jen snapped back, “Detective, whatever you want to call yourself.” John did not want to be combative, he took a deep breath and tried to put himself in Jen’s shoes. “Gosh I’m sorry ma’am, I didn’t mean it to come out so heartless. Your father was the latest victim of a serial killer, it’s kind of got everyone stressed.” “You’re stressed? I think I am the one who should be stressed, you think?” The conversation was going downhill, John decided to let her be and try again maybe the next day. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” John said sounding deflated, “if you change your mind about coming to the station I can give you the number here.” There was a long silence on the line. “Okay, give me your address,” Jen said surprising John, “I can be there in two hours, if that’s okay?” “Yeah, yeah,” John answered with a little too much happiness, “if you have a pen and paper I’ll give you directions.” John gave her the info and hung up. He felt that he had handled that conversation badly, but he didn’t have time to worry, he had to phone the Williamsburg branch of the NYPD crime lab and get the results of the chemicals in the syringe from the apartment this morning. He called and asked for Detective Ashley Rose, she was the head lab technician. “Hello NYPD crime lab,” Ashley said upon answering. John knew her voice right away, plus he knew she never trusted anyone answering ‘her phone’ as she called it. A small portable was often stuffed into her lab coat. “Hey Ashley, it’s John Sullivan. I was wondering if you guys had any test results from the syringe we sent down from the Cohen crime scene down on the Lower East Side today?” He could hear shuffling of papers and a few grunts from Ashley. “Hold on, I am not sure where I put the results. I remember there was something about them that was weird. Ah here we go, the results came back positive for two substances, sodium cyanide and hydrochloric acid.” John raised an eyebrow at the results, he had thought it might be some sort of illegal drug like heroin. “That’s an odd combination for sure, what was it about them that you wanted to tell me?” “Well with this killer seeming to be going after only Jews I started checking come of

those scumbag Neo-Nazi websites and get this,” she paused for an effect, “by themselves those two substances are bad enough, but during the Holocaust they were routinely mixed together to form hydrogen cyanide.” John did not understand the connection. “Yeah? What does that have to do with this killer?” “Well that chemical combination was used to exterminate Jews in these camps. This guy, whoever he is, has been doing his research. All the German messages, now using a chemical mix the Nazi’s used during the Holocaust. I think he’s more than just some whack job.” “I’ve had that same feeling,” John stated, “but there are so many Jews in the metro area that it’s difficult to predict where he might strike next. Right now we’re at his mercy; all we can do is get the word on the streets.” John shook his head at his own choice of words, he sounded like a bad movie cliché. “Good luck John,” Ashley said hurriedly, “I’ll have these results sent over to the station as soon as I can. If you need anything else just let me know, I’ll put the boots to these guys over here, ha ha ha!” “Yeah Ash, I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you sooner than later, bye.” After hanging up John sat at his desk, resting his head on his hands. He stared a hole in his large desktop calendar allowing himself to drift into thought, wondering what the next piece of the puzzle was going to be.

Morning On Boxberry Lane

The sun shined brightly over Boxberry Lane. It was late-September but the air had the feel of summer to it still. Nana had just sat down with her newspaper and morning coffee; the aroma filled the dining room. The morning was full of life; yellow finches and sparrows chirped in the rose bush in the front yard, children laughed and played in the street as it was a Saturday. It was the kind of morning that made anyone want to wake up early; anyone except for Goot the cat. She lay tucked deep beneath several blankets in her round, wicker cat bed. Not even a hurricane could make Goot get out of her bed before noon, and there hadn't been a hurricane in those parts for years. Still, Nana did not approve of the many hours Goot wasted in bed, and she knew the secret weapon to raise her pet’s sleepy head. Nana shuffled into the kitchen, her shoes squeaking on the freshly waxed linoleum, and she reached into the cupboard . She shook Goot's box of dry cat food with a smile, then she waited. Not a sound. She shook it again, louder this time, and waited. Again there was no sign of her lazy friend. "Goot," Nana called out, "come and get some nice breakfast!" From inside her bed Goot’s eyes slowly cracked open; she rolled onto her side and tossed her blankets onto the carpet. She was a chubby grey and white striped cat, quite normal except for one trait that made her stand out. Her two front paws were double in size, like she was wearing baseball gloves on her feet. Goot rubbed her eyes. Being a hefty cat it was sometimes hard for her to stand up, she rolled back and forth like a big furry turtle until she had made it onto her feet. She stretched away the sleepiness and took a few wobbly steps, then sat down and stared at the bedroom door. It was closed. Goot's eyes grew wide, her stomach growled inside, she stretched her big paws high toward the door knob but couldn't reach. Goot scratched and clawed at the door and cried out for help. By the third "Meow" Nana came to investigate. She opened the door and Goot rushed past her feet out into the kitchen. She buried her face in her ceramic dish with ‘Goot’ written in black marker on the side. Nana came back out and shook her head with a smile. "Good morning to you too," Nana said sarcastically. Once Goot's belly was full she rubbed up against Nana's leg. "Oh now you want to be my friend?" Nana laughed. Goot purred a little to show Nana that she cared. "The day is beautiful," Nana continued, "you need to go outside." Goot stopped purring and thought about running, she knew what that meant, her quality time asleep had all been spent. Goot lowered her head in surrender as Nana swung the squeaky front screen door out into the bright sun. "Go on now, you’ve done enough sleeping, now go have some fun." The front step was hot on her feet and Goot jumped back, but Nana's foot met her furry behind and nudged her out before she had a chance to run. The screen door swung shut and Goot sat on her rear pouting and swatting ants with her big paws. "Why did she make me come out here?" Goot thought out loud. "I can see all of this from the window sill." She heard a sound behind her and turned her head to see Charlie the Catbird land on the iron railing along the steps. He stared at her with his small black eyes and shook his head. "What are you whinin' for? I heard you all the way up in my nest." Goot was used to these sorts of lectures from Charlie, he was the elder statesman of the neighborhood and often liked to give advice by comparing today with 'how things used to be.' He was also very ornery if he felt he wasn’t being listened to, so as usual Goot humored him. "Nana made me come outside when I wanted to sleep," Goot replied. Charlie puffed up his dark blue feathers and let out a couple of hoarse "meows" as cat birds do. "You know I don't understand," he said, "when I was young whining was illegal. In fact I

remember an old friend of mine being sent away for years because he complained about his mother's cooking. You know what I mean? So what if it was worms every night, you ate it and were thankful you had it!" Goot had no clue what Charlie was talking about but nodded just so he would leave her alone. "All right then," he continued, "quit your whinin' Goot, life ain't so bad." When he finished Charlie flapped his wings, let out another "meow," followed by a couple of hacking coughs, and took off up over the roof of Nana's house. Goot went back to moping on the front step until she heard another familiar voice call out to her. "Hey Goot!" She looked up, it was Mystery the Cat. She lived across the street. Mystery was skinny and orange, very sweet and a bit naive; she was a few years younger than Goot. She was what Goot like to call her "groupie" because everything Goot did Mystery loved. "I was waiting for you to come out," Mystery said with her usual awe. "I was sitting in the top of the big arborvitae next to my house watching your door." "What if I had never come out today?" Goot asked. Mystery's face looked confused. "Uh, I don't know," she stammered, "I guess I would have kept waiting." Goot rolled her eyes, sometimes Mystery's devotion went overboard. "What if I never came outside again? What if I lived inside forever?" Mystery looked confused which made Goot feel bad. "Okay," Goot said, "never mind that; let's take a hike to the cranberry bog. I could use a roll in the muck." The two cats began their march to the cranberry bog a half mile up the road. Along the way they passed another familiar face. Cindy the Dog, a black and white Labrador Retriever, was chained up in her yard and began yelping when she saw her two friends passing by. "Hey, hey, guys!" She yipped as she hopped with excitement on the front lawn. Goot and Mystery stopped walking. They wandered up on to the lawn and sat just a few feet out of Cindy's range. Yes they were her friends but sometimes they liked to have fun at the expense of the slightly slow-witted canine. Cindy kept on barking and jumping, fully expecting the two cats to come over to her. "Oh hi Cindy," Goot said calmly, "Mystery and I are heading up to the bog to hang out, you wanna go?" Cindy's face lit up and she began to leap and yelp even more uncontrollably. "You wanna go? Huh, do ya?" Goot asked again with a slightly higher tone which riled up the poor dog even more. The cats let Cindy leap and jump for a few minutes until she grew tired and lay down in the grass panting. "Nah," Cindy breathlessly said, "I am too tired to go. But thanks for asking." "We'll bring you back something nice, a stick or something," Goot responded. They continued on their way leaving Cindy collapsed in a heap in the shade of an oak tree.

Cranberry Bog They came to the end of Boxberry Lane where they had to cross busy Cow Yard Road. The cautious Goot began looking side to side over and over. Mystery, however, blazed across the hot asphalt leaping as far as she could up on to the dirt hill on the other side. "C'mon Goot," Mystery encouraged, "just shut your eyes and go!" Goot was not that brave and continued looked back and forth. She could see the heat lines rising off of the street and her feet already ached at the idea of getting burned. Mystery had already started down the path to the bog and Goot didn't want to be left behind so she took yet another look both ways and ran as fast as her legs could take her. She crossed Cow Yard Road easily but tripped as she hit the dirt on the other side; a big cloud of dust rose into the air around her. Goot's normally grey and white fur was shaded brown; she pulled herself up to her feet and shook wildly trying to get the dirt off of her. Once satisfied with her appearance again Goot looked down the path, she could see the wide open space of the cranberry bog waiting. Mystery was waiting too, sitting on the edge of one of the bog's rivers that encircled it. Goot slowly sauntered down the path in the shade trying to reclaim her dignity after her fall, but once Mystery saw her appearance she burst out laughing. "What happened to you?" Mystery asked gasping for air from laughter. Goot frowned and walked past her sitting down next to the river. She ignored the continued snickering from Mystery and began to dip her large feet into the water and wash off the dirt. The cool water felt good on Goot's fur, when a breeze blew it made her shiver. Goot closed her eyes and lifted her head up to feel the sun beaming down, as usually was the case Goot's anger at Nana for making her go outside was gone; she loved Nana and knew that she only wanted the best for her. She heard a cough and whirled around. Mystery was close by coughing and shaking her head. She then sneezed loudly and twitched a bit. Goot chuckled which caught Mystery's attention. "Sorry," she said sheepishly, "I ate too much grass. Then I kicked up some dust when I coughed." Goot walked over and gently brushed the dirt from Mystery's whiskers; they made their way down toward the other side of the cranberry bog which had been flooded for harvest. Since the water level was high the two cats went over to the water's edge and drank a little. Of course they had to use their paws to brush away the leaves and berries first. It tasted terribly, even by cat standards, but running in the warm sun had made them thirsty. The afternoon moved on, Goot and Mystery sat along the bog and talked. It was a carefree time, but then again most times are carefree for cats. Hours passed, Goot and Mystery had fallen asleep along the water in some tall grass. A loud shout startled them awake. "Cannonball!!" The voice shouted. That was followed by a splash which soaked Goot and Mystery. Both of them looked out into the water and saw rippling waves but nothing else. Goot looked confusedly at Mystery who had her head tilted to one side. When the ripples began to die down the cats cautiously walked to the water's edge. The water was like a mirror; the cats, especially Goot, enjoyed looking at their reflections even with her fur now dripping wet. From under the surface a black object shot up frightening them. "Woo hooo!!" A voice yelled. "Did you guys see that jump?!" The voice belonged the Gus, a black cat from Boxberry Lane. Goot and Mystery's hearts were beating hard from the scare, they looked angrily at Gus who was also dripping wet and pulling himself up out of the cranberry bog water. Gus was a fun-loving adventurous cat, he would often disappear for days at a time, roaming around leaving his family worried sick. Then he would return with tales to tell of his adventures across the highway. Goot always wanted to accompany Gus on one of his journeys but was always too afraid to go further than the edge of the cranberry bog.

It was Teddy the Dog who had told her the story of a cat he once knew when he was a young pup that had crossed the highway never to return. He had told Goot that a monster that lived in the woods on the other side of the highway had made the cat into soup. Being somewhat naive and gullible Goot believed every word that the much older Teddy told her. Gus always insisted that the monster story was not true, but Goot played it safe. "What are you doing out here Gus?" Mystery asked curiously. Gus was now sitting in the grass next to the two girl cats licking his paws and rubbing them on his head in an attempt to clean himself up. "I just got back from my latest adventure across the highway," Gus replied. Goot was excited to be one of the first to hear of the latest Gus tale. She moved in closer and listened intently, trying her best not to stare at Gus' missing left ear. Oh he didn't mind the stares, Gus loved attention; in fact he often made a point to draw attention to his mangled ear while cleaning himself. He had said that he lost part of his ear in a fight with a coyote a few years back. That story only helped to cement Gus' legendary status around Boxberry Lane. "What did you see across the highway Gus?" Mystery asked impatiently. Gus cleared his throat loudly and exhaled slowly to build the anticipation. "Well, I walked south along the highway once I crossed," Gus began, "and after what seemed like an hour of thorn bushes and poison ivy I came to a clearing. There was a farm, a small farm with only a few animals that I saw. These animals were vicious and mean, they came after me thinking I was there to steal food." Goot and Mystery were shocked that such a place existed, they were amazed that Gus had made it out alive. "What happened then? How did you escape?" Goot asked while nervously rubbing her large front paws together. Mystery slid closer to Goot as if she was afraid these animals might show up at any time. Gus, gave a cool steely glare at his two listeners. "I took them on one at a time," Gus announced confidently, "and by the time I had knocked around the second animal the rest backed off and let me go on my way." He then sat up straight and lifted his head toward the sun waiting for the adulation to begin. Gus was a natural born story-teller, he had a way with words. Mystery and Goot looked at each other in wonder. "Wow, that's incredible," Goot gushed. "Yeah, you're so lucky that you know how to handle situations like that," Mystery added, "I'd be scared and trying to hide." That made Gus raise his eyebrows momentarily. He patted Mystery on the back in encouragement. "Don't worry my young friend," he explained, "someday you will be brave like me and there will be nothing that you can't do." He put his right paw up like he was on stage acting. Mystery smiled in gratitude. "Now let's head back to Boxberry Lane, it's almost dinner time and I've got some eating to do!" The three cats headed back up the dirt path out of the cranberry bog toward Boxberry Lane. Gus naturally was a few steps ahead, leading the way like a brave General leads their troops. He stopped them at the edge of busy Cow Yard Road by sitting up and holding his front paws out like a scarecrow. "What is it, Gus?" Goot asked. Gus turned his head to the side in a very exaggerated way to show them that he was listening for something. After waiting a moment he turned his head the other way and did the same thing. "It's all clear," Gus announced, "let's go." With that he started across Cow Yard Road without even looking either way, he did a confident half-trot like a horse in a parade until he made it to the other side. He turned and looked but Goot and Mystery were not following, they were still looking side to side. "Come on you guys, it's safe," Gus shouted. They looked nervously again and began to step cautiously onto the asphalt; the two cats walked slowly. As they crossed Gus shouted to them again. "Hurry you guys, there's a car coming!" Goot and Mystery, scared out of their minds, raced in a mad dash across the street. They leaped up onto

the grass, did a couple of rolls, and whirled around to see...nothing. There was no car, only the sound of Gus cackling and rolling in the dirt. Out of breath and dirty again, Goot and Mystery were not amused by Gus' trick. "Thanks a lot Gus," Goot cried breathlessly, "it'll take me hours to get my breath back!" Gus sat up and tried in vain to stop his chuckling. "Hey, it got you moving though didn't it?" Gus cracked. He started down Boxberry Lane, the two girl cats followed, but this time a little further behind muttering to each other the entire way. In the distance they could see what looked like a couple of big trucks close to Goot’s house; there was a commotion going on. As the three cats approached the action ahead they passed by Cindy the Dog again. She began leaping and jumping and tugging at her rope tied to the oak tree. "Hey guys, guys," Cindy shouted, "what's going on down there? I can’t see from here." "We don't know," Goot replied, "but we're going to find out." Cindy kept gnawing at her rope in an attempt to free herself. "Can one of you untie me so I can come too?" They all looked at each other perplexed; none of them knew how to untie a knot and the definitely didn’t want to try to chew through the rope for her. "Sorry Cindy," Goot kindly soothed, "we'll come back after and let you know." Mystery and Gus had continued on and Goot took off after them to catch up. The house where all the commotion was sat diagonally across from where Goot lived; it was directly across the street from the house where Teddy the Dog sat. Fearing the imposing moving vans that sat in the street the three cats gravitated toward Teddy instead. Teddy was an old English Sheepdog who had lived in the neighborhood since before Goot was born. He spoke in a sort of mumbled Cajun drawl since he had been born in the South. When speaking to him the other animals had to really listen hard because sometimes they'd miss whatever words of wisdom Teddy was giving. He was sitting stoically, unleashed, in his front yard. His once white coat was covered with patches of brown and gray; he stared at the moving men unimpressed. He had seen his share of new neighbors through the years. Goot and Mystery were hesitant to break Teddy's trance-like state, but Gus was more brazen. He stepped in front of Teddy’s line of sight and began firing questions at him. "What's going on over there Ted? Have you seen any people yet? Do they have any animals?" Gus waited for any response, Teddy slowly opened his mouth. He let out a loud belch which cause Mystery and Goot to laugh. Before Gus could say anything Teddy spoke up. "Been sittin' out here close to 'round an hour, mmm hmm," Teddy explained in his mumbling drawl, "ain't seen nuthin' but the backs of them there fellas when they’s takin' in the dang ol’ furniture." The three cats sat silently as if still processing what had just been said to them. Instead of asking Teddy to repeat himself they lined up and sat beside him, joining in the staring at the moving men coming in and out of the open garage door. Twenty minutes had passed and there had not been a sign of the people who had bought the house. Goot grew hungry and headed home for dinner, shortly after Gus and Mystery also went inside their respective homes to eat leaving Teddy sitting and keeping watch like a sheepdog is known for.

Eight Hours

Life never turns out the way you think it should. If it did, everybody would be millionaires living in lavish mansions on hillsides. Everyone has dreams, but only a few have the courage and the drive to chase them down. Life is full of tests and challenges. It’s full of ways to make you prove how badly you want to succeed. Some people sail on through the storms smoothly and make it to paradise. Some people roll with the punches; they get knocked down but keep getting back up. Still others get knocked down enough and decide it would be easier if they just stayed down. That’s where I come in. My name is John Gerard and I recently got knocked down again by life. I sat and waited for half an hour in a small interview room. I stared blankly around at the glossy photos of local Philadelphia celebrities that adorned the office walls. It was there at the offices of WPHI Channel 9 in Philadelphia that I had planned on making my miraculous lateround comeback in the fight I called life. I was there to interview for the job of Producer’s Assistant. I held onto the hope that my two-year degree in Broadcast Journalism from Newport Community College in Rhode Island would be suffice for experience. The longer I waited though the more I began to quiver and perspire. An early-September heat wave had turned my black Ion into an oven; I still had not fully dried off and was now sweating again. By the time the receptionist motioned me into the office of the Director of Management Personnel I was desperately trying to wipe myself down graciously using nearly an entire box of Kleenex on a waiting room table. The man I was to be interviewed by, a Mr. Daniel Stokes, was seated behind a large black desk. His desk and chair were both slightly elevated; all the better to let him ‘look down’ upon those who wished for employment. The room was brightly lit with a pair of Cameroon floor lamp and had a cozy feel to it which was the exact opposite of the appearance of Mr. Stokes. He was a grumpy looking older man; I would have guessed early-60's. The kind of man who would give food to the poor on Christmas, but would tell them to ‘go to Hell’ the other 364 days. I stood before him nervously waiting for the permission to sit. Once he let me dangle for a moment he motioned me to sit and the interview began. “So Mr. Gerald,” he began after clearing his throat. “Uh, it’s Gerard, sir,” I corrected. Beginning the interview by making the man appear to be stupid did not help my chances. He peered closed at the resume sheet before him and after exhaling loudly through his nose he began to speak again. “Yes, Mr. Gerard, I apologize for the mistake. It says here you worked at Paludes Italian Restaurant in Providence?” “Yes, sir,” I answered nervously. I was beginning to think too much about everything I was going to say and had already said. Mr. Stokes looked up from the resume at me from behind thin-rimmed silver glasses. I feared that my anxiety was noticeable. As he moved his head the lenses caught the light from one of the Cameroon floor lamps on either side of the room. The reflection made it appear that he had small flashlights for eyes. It gave Mr. Stokes an even more intimidating look. “So what brings you all the way out to Philadelphia for this job?” “Well, I have always dreamed of working in television. I went to school for Broadcast Journalism.” “I see here,” he said sounding condescending, “two years at Newport Community College, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” I could sense the sand running out of the hour glass and was desperately hoping my enthusiasm would win him over. “Well Mr. Gerald,” he said, “I do not think your experience is sufficient enough for this type of work. I mean you’ve never had any sort of media related job at all.” “I understand sir, but...” “I am sorry,” he interrupted with an air of finality, “but I don’t think we’ll be able to use you at WPHI. I do appreciate you coming up here from Providence though. Good luck.” Mr. Stokes stood up from his chair and reached his hand out across his desk. I stood up, very numb from the conversation, and shook his hand very weakly. I had never had a chance. “Uh, thank you...” I never made eye contact with him as I left feeling unworthy. I could overhear him on his P.A. system as I exited the office. “Send in the next applicant, Sandra.” I passed the next man to be interviewed, he was clean and dressed in a freshly pressed grey cotton suit. He appeared confident, carrying a leather briefcase in his right hand as he entered Mr. Stokes’ office. I, on the other hand, looked ragged and worn. Tired from the long drive it took just to make it to the interview and unkempt after sweating in nervous anticipation, I was eliminated from consideration before I had even said a word. I understood the ‘picture’s worth a thousand words’ phrase very well after my meeting with Mr. Stokes. I staggered in a daze to the elevator, some people stared at me and my haggard condition, but I paid no attention. On my way down from the fourth floor to the lobby the gravity of my situation, my failure, began to sink in. The elevator door chimed as it opened. I wandered out into the lobby; the freshly waxed floor shone brightly under the florescent lighting. The receptionist at the front desk wished me a ‘nice day’ but I gave no acknowledgment to her. I could only push my way through the doors and outside into the oppressive heat and humidity. I shuffled slowly across the parking lot, passed fifteen rows of luxury cars and SUV’s belonging to employees of WPHI, until I reached the peon level, my level, of the parking lot and my black Ion. I practically fell into my front seat, my head bounced gently off the steering wheel. I was exhausted from the interview, from the emotional toll that the past eight plus hours had taken on me. To make matters worse I had left my windows rolled up and the early afternoon heat had turned my car into my own slice of Hell. I began pouring sweat like I was back in Mr. Stokes’ waiting room. I turned the engine on and cranked up the air conditioning before resting my head back down on the steering wheel. “What do I do now?” I whispered to myself. I had been turned down for jobs before in my thirty-three years on Earth but this time was different. This time it reeked of conclusiveness, the last stop. You see I had taken a very large leap of faith on that September day, or more accurately the night before that September day. I had awakened before 4:00am in order to have adequate time to get ready for my job interview at 2:00pm. I needed that much time because it was an eight hour drive to get to WPHI in Philadelphia from my second floor apartment in a suburb of Providence, Rhode Island. By now I imagine you are wondering what in the world I was thinking driving eight hours for a job interview, right? It turns out it was a simple mistake in the local newspaper. A mistake that was made in the classified section where the job opening at WPHI was placed in the wrong paper. The local Providence paper was owned by the much larger Philadelphia Daily News so sharing news, especially national news, was common. This mistake, however, I took as a sign. I thought it was divine intervention telling me that going to Philadelphia was my destiny. I always

had believed in fate, in things happening for a reason. This time I was wrong. I sat with my head on the steering wheel for a few minutes, until the air conditioning had beat on me long enough to quell my sweating. It was only a little after 3:00 according to my radio’s digital clock. That meant with the eight hours it would take to drive back to Providence I would have spent over sixteen hours driving for an hour at the WPHI studios, of which only ten minutes were actually spent being interviewed. Although I wanted to sit in my black Ion as long as I could an feel sorry for myself I noticed what appeared to be a parking lot security guard eyeballing my car. Rather than end the day by getting thrown out of the WPHI parking lot I sat up and buckled my seat belt. I put the car in reverse but didn’t take my foot off the brake. I watched as the man, satisfied that I was on my out, began to head toward the entrance of the building. I looked out over the sea of shiny new automobiles. Inside I felt an overwhelming crush of sadness; I put the car back into park. “I can’t do it,” I moaned to myself, “I can’t go back. There’s nothing to go back to.” I hung my head. It was at this time that I realized what I was saying. Back ‘home’ in Providence I faced a difficult, uncertain future. My live-in girlfriend, Gwen, had moved out a couple of weeks before, leaving me to pay the rent on my own which I could not afford. I had been fired from my job at Paludes because my depression over Gwen leaving coupled with my anger at my own failures had left me nearly unemployable. I was estranged from my immediate family. The only family member I could count on, Grampa Sammy, had died just after the Fourth of July leaving me with no one to confide in. The job at WPHI was going to be my silver lining, my saving grace, but now I was alone. I feared being alone. I had been trying in vain to pick up the pieces of my life for the last time. Now I would let those pieces drift away. I knew right there in the WPHI studio parking lot that I had to end it all. Suicide. The word always struck fear in my heart. Being a spiritual man I knew the story that those who committed suicide were to be condemned to Purgatory for eternity. I had gone to church and Sunday School growing up and even though I was not a regular at Mass anymore I still remembered many of the important lessons I was taught. I feared death and hated pain which didn’t bode well for an exercise such as suicide which incorporated both. In my weakest hours I had thought like this before. In those time I had learned of one way that I could get what I wanted at presumably no cost to my soul. That would be to coax someone else into ending my life doing it for me. The term ‘suicide by cop’ was I believe what it was called. It seemed simple enough: buy a toy gun, find a police officer, threaten said officer with the toy gun and voila! The officer shoots me in self-defense, kill or be killed. By the time the officer realized my gun was fake I would be dead and happy and the officer would have had ‘probable cause.’ It was a ‘win-win’ situation. I put my car back in reverse and maneuvered my way to the exit of the studio parking lot making sure to check for the suspicious parking lot cop on the way out. I took one last look at the imposing office building as I pulled out onto the four-lane main street. “God damn it,” I said under my breath. “Fuck you, WPHI.” I knew that the people in that building were not fully responsible for my short-comings, but it had been the final straw. I was about to cross over a line you couldn’t step back over. Death is forever. I reached across the passenger seat for a folded sheet of white paper which had the directions I had printed off of the internet for myself to get to WPHI. I began to follow them from the bottom up, winding my way backwards through the jammed city streets. I kept the radio off so as not to break my concentration; I did not want a change of heart at this point. My

a/c hummed and the engine of my car groaned from constant slowing down and speeding up. Though it was not rush hour the traffic on the streets of Philadelphia was much more congested than anything I saw in my Providence suburb. I knew the first and most important step I needed to take was buying a gun. When I was a child I remembered playing ‘Cops and Robbers,’ or ‘Cowboys and Indians’ with plastic toy guns, the kind that fired off rounds of caps which made loud popping sounds. All of the neighborhood kids would run around the yards firing and shouting; it made me feel old when I realized that kids in this day and age were not able to roam freely through the neighborhoods anymore. Nowadays the parents’ had to fear their children being assaulted or kidnapped. Those toy guns were timeless even in the very politically correct world we were living in post-9/11 I knew that they were still sold in almost every drugstore. I was meandering slowly down a busy main street in downtown Philadelphia when I spotted a possible answer: a Walgreens pharmacy. They were a store that would most certainly still carry the cheaply made plastic gun I required. I reminded myself that it only needed to appear real enough to warrant a police officer firing upon me. I did not need to be too picky. I crossed two lanes of oncoming traffic pulling into the Walgreens parking lot. I left my car windows open a crack before entering the store not wanting to deal with the sweating epidemic that I had been going through on that day. I entered through two automatic sliding doors the second of which had a bulky cream colored security camera staring me in the face. I looked up and could see my grainy black and white image entering on a closed circuit television bolted to the ceiling. The aisles were all clearly marked overhead and the toy section was not hard to find. My sneakers squeaked slightly on the linoleum floor as I made my way across the front of the store to where ‘Aisle 9,’ the toy aisle, was located. I had been forced to wear sneakers to my interview at WPHI when my black dress shoes went missing. Being pressed for time in the morning I decided that feet would not make or break my interview; I wondered if the sneakers had made a difference. The upper third of the walls around the store were mirrored as if to let a potential thief know ‘we are watching you.’ Being slightly paranoid as I was by nature the mirrors and the security camera got my heart pumping a little faster than I had wanted. Once past the baby formula and diapers I came upon the half-aisle toy section. It was a mish-mash of retro toys and cheap knock-offs, the kind of stuff I remembered using my video game tickets on at the old arcades. Barbie’s were called Betsy’s and so on. I did not have to look hard to find what I was looking for. Located below a set of ‘real’ handcuffs and two rows of ‘Hot Wheels’ miniature cars was a plastic, cap shooting, gun. The label read ‘sounds real,’ and ‘fool your friends.’ The inordinate use of exclamation points after each phrase coupled with the tooth-filled smiles of the cartoon boys on the package was a good enough sell job for me. I grabbed one and headed up for the cashier.

Cross Country

“I’ll give you twenty-five bucks for the tv,” the short, dirty man said from behind the counter. He held the nineteen-inch color television in his hands. His stubby, greasy fingers were barely able to keep the appliance from crashing down onto the glass counter of the pawn shop which held an array of cameras and knives. David Andrews looked sadly toward his brother Stanley; he knew they were not going to get a better deal from any of the other pawn shops in Las Vegas. “Okay,” he replied pitifully, “I’ll take it.” With the twenty-five dollars for the television David had amassed over two hundred dollars for the belongings he had brought down from his apartment three blocks away. It was not a lot of money but it would be enough for the bus ticket he needed to purchase. “Thanks for your patronage,” the pawn dealer said trying to sound as respectable as he could. The stained white tank top shirt and broken watch on his right wrist said otherwise, however. David folded the wad of slightly soiled bills into his wallet and shook his head in annoyance. Stanley took a brief look at some of the rings in the glass case before following his younger brother out the caged screen door. “You think Martha would like one of those rings?” He asked his brother, but David was not in the mood to speak. A large rent increase by new ownership was forcing him to leave the city he loved and move back home to the small seaside town of Haddock Bay, New Hampshire. The only solace he could take was the promise he made to himself to return as soon as he had saved enough money. The two brothers sat momentarily in the front seat of Stanley’s black minivan; the warm Vegas sun heated the interior of the van enough that it made them forget that it was the middle of January. Winter barely ever showed its face in the desert, and even when it did it was in the form of a slight frost melted away shortly after sunrise. That was one of the main reasons David loved Las Vegas, the year-round warm weather. Although the gambling was not too bad either; it was hard to avoid it when places as mundane as supermarkets and convenience stores were littered with slot machines. Stanley started the van and they exited the pawn shop parking lot. The reason they had decided to stop at that particular pawn dealer was not the money they offered but the fact that it was located in an area very close to a police barracks. The last thing David wanted was for whatever items were not sold to be stolen from him in the parking lot. In the back seat of the van was a box of such items that the short and dirty pawn dealer had no use for. David said he would dispose of them later. It was late-afternoon and the two brothers decided to make a stop off at Chuck’s Lounge, a small, local bar which was normally filled with regular working folk and not the tourists who flocked to the city for the bright lights and casinos. They took their two normal seats at the bar directly in front of the monstrous highdefinition televison on the wall behind the bar. On the televison was one of the football playoff games, this event packed the bar more than normal. David, though, was not interested in who was playing, all he wanted was to have one last beer in Las Vegas before he faced his inevitable exit that night. “Don’t feel too bad, Dave,” Stanley said while crunching on some of the peanuts in a small bowl in front of them. “You’ll go back to the Bay, earn up some money, and bam! It won’t take you more than a couple of months to get back here.” David took a long sip from his bottle of beer and stared off toward the rows of sparkling wine glasses hanging over the bar. He did not dare touch the peanuts that Stanley was inhaling as he had worked in enough bars in his

day to know just how many dirty hands had probably been in that same bowl. “I don’t understand how this can happen,” he said, “I mean these new owners nearly doubled my rent! It seems like there should be somebody I could get in touch with about this, right?” “I’m sure there is, but I think it’s better for you to cut ties here for now, and come back later on as a fresh start. I mean honestly, once the restaurant closed you were basically on borrowed time anyway.” The Desert Lounge where David had worked for the past two years had closed down in early November due to a lack of business which stemmed from the boss carelessly selling beer out of the back of the restaurant to a group of whom he thought were underage kids. They turned out to be undercover cops who just happened to have baby-faces. Shortly after losing their liquor license business died and they were forced to close. David spent the past two months floundering around between jobs, the rent increase was sort of a fitting end. “You’re right,” David replied sadly, “but I feel like I’m leaving the greatest place in the world to go back to a cold, boring little town. I never thought I’d see that place again except for in photos.” “How’s Kevin taking it?” Kevin was David’s twenty-one year-old son who had moved out to Las Vegas from Haddock Bay not much more than a year before. He had, much like his father, grown tired of the slow-paced Northeastern town and was dreaming of the bright lights and excitement that Las Vegas brought. Kevin had quickly learned that visiting Las Vegas and living there were two totally different things. “Oh, he’s fine with it,” David answered, “he is excited to see all the family back there.” The bartender passed by and David put up two fingers signaling a fresh bottle for each of them. He then sucked down the last bit of foam and slid the empty toward the edge of the overly-shiny wood bar. “Well, Brian is pretty bummed about you guys leaving.” Brian was Stanley’s thirteenyear-old son, he was very close with Kevin and was taking their departure harder than anyone not named David. “Tell him I feel his pain, I don’t want to head back to that icebox either.” The bar erupted as a touchdown was scored in the playoff game but the noise barely fazed David. They began to notice that they were having to yell just to be heard and it was getting on their nerves. The two brothers quickly and quietly drank their fresh beers and exited the bar through the back door. There was still much to be done before departing on the bus for the east coast just after midnight. Back at the apartment Kevin was finishing packing his large black suitcase and his carryon bag which looked more like a college professor’s leather satchel. Many of his really important things had been shipped ahead leaving him with only clothes, a portable cd-player, and a couple of notebooks. The clothes were what filled his suitcase while the notebooks and cdplayer he kept to bring in his carry-on satchel. He was being helped by his cousin Brian who had been brought by his mother, Martha, to say goodbye. When he found out that his father was going to be dropping David off he begged her to let him stay until he returned. She relented after five minutes of constant badgering. Kevin, done with his packing, stepped out onto the balcony of the second floor apartment. It was seasonably warm but still was dark at 5:30; the sunset times were one part of winter that could not be avoided. Off in the distance Kevin spotted the bright beam of light which shot from the top of the pyramid-style Luxor hotel and casino. It was almost like the North Star of Las

Vegas, you could tell which direction you were headed from the position of that beam of light. Brian stood next to Kevin on the balcony, down below were several people passing by. The apartment complex where they lived seemed to Kevin like a normal place, although he was wise not to venture too far off late at night as he had heard from a couple people that some of the gangs of the area commiserated under some of the carports then. At this point it seemed to Kevin like he was in a dream, as if everyone he saw was only a figment of his imagination. His mind was already back in Haddock Bay. “Do you think you’ll ever come back?” Brian asked in a sweet and sad sounding voice. Kevin gazed off toward The Strip, it was always as bright as daytime in that area, but in his neighborhood it was not much different than any other mid-sized town. “Who knows? I mean I know that I can’t make it here on my own right now, so I really have no other choice but to go with my Dad back to New Hampshire.” Brian looked down to the parking lot below at the group of people congregating, he was not happy with Kevin’s answer. Being young still he could not fully grasp the concept of financial independence, and it was something that Kevin could not really make him understand. While the two cousins stood on in the cool evening air, David and Stanley entered through the front door. Kevin poked his head back inside. “Oh, hey Dad,” he said. David gave a half-hearted salute with two fingers against his brow. Normally a very funny and jovial person, David had not been the same since he had come to the realization that he would have to move out of Las Vegas some two weeks earlier. Brian made sure to come inside also to let Stanley know he was there. “Hey, what are you doing here?” Stanley asked in surprise. “Mom was bringing me over to say goodbye,” he began, “and when she heard you were going to be bringing Uncle Dave back she let me stay.” “So how’d it go at the pawn shop?” Kevin asked. David shook his head. “The bum only gave me two hundred. I told him I had some high quality stuff there, like my Three Stooges clock, my autographed photo of Eddie Albert, you know that guy from Green Acres. I also had my set of antique paper clips. He only liked the television, microwave, and a few other small things.” “What are you going to do with the rest of the stuff? Not to mention the stuff still in here?” Now David gave a smirk. “Oh, don’t worry about that, son.” He said with a devilish grin. “All of the stuff we can carry is going out to the dumpster.” Kevin looked around, the living room still had a couch and chair, not to mention the dining room table and chairs. “Oh, what are you going to do with your food, and plates, and such?” Stanley asked inquisitively. Dave shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know? Do you want them?” Stanley smiled widely and motioned to Brian. “Come on Brian, we’re going shopping!” Stanley made his way to the kitchen and grabbed a thick black trash bag from a box under the sink. “Hold that, boy,” he said handing the bag to Brian. Still dressed in his school clothes, Brian held the trash bag as far away from his as he could to avoid getting any sort of mess on them. The first place Stanley checked was the refrigerator; he had hoped to find some stray beers but there was no such luck. It was pretty slim pickings but he did manage to take a couple sticks of butter and a jar of mustard. “What the hell do you want with the mustard?” David asked in disbelief.

“Hey, it’s not just mustard, it’s Dijon, ooh la la!” He thought about taking the ice cube trays but that seemed a bit tacky even to Stanley. One by one he went through the cabinets quickly whipping them open and closed. He tossed a loaf of white bread into the bag, along with two bags of potato chips, one opened and one unopened. While the supermarket sweep was going on Kevin made his way into his room to check if there was anything that needed to be thrown away. The room was pretty barren as Kevin had been slowly but surely emptying it out over the past few nights. He grabbed his clothes hamper and laundry basket first and headed back toward the kitchen. “Do you want either of these?” He asked Stanley. “Nah, a clothes hamper is kind of nasty,” he said as he gingerly lay a bunch of bananas into the steadily filling trash bag. Kevin headed out the front door and down the stairway. It was a narrow squeeze with only a black metal railing separating him from the ground below. Once safely on the concrete walkway he looked back and wondered to himself how they were going to get a couch or a chair down those stairs without killing themselves. There was hardly enough room for two people to stand side by side at the top of the stairway, let alone a tacky, yellow, Twinkie-like couch. The dumpster was located on the far side of the parking lot. Kevin had to pass by all of the cars parked under the carport before reaching the large, green trash container. He dropped his items and very timidly reached for the plastic flap covering the dumpster. He flipped it open and almost immediately the scent of week old trash hit him like a punch in the nose. The garbage truck would not arrive until the next morning. The trash level was close to the top which was heavenly for the hoards of flies hovering in and around the dumpster. Kevin lofted his clothes hamper and laundry basket up and into the container, they did not make any sort of sound thanks to the cushioning of the week’s worth of trash. He did not bother to close the flap as he did not feel like touching that filthy thing again. On his way back to the apartment Kevin ran into some of the people that he and Brian had seen from the balcony before. One of them was Kevin’s closest friend he had made since moving to Las Vegas: Rory Daniels. Rory was tall and skinny with an affinity for leather jackets. He looked rather menacing to most with his thick handlebar moustache and shaved head, but in reality was a very nice guy. He spotted Kevin and waved him over. They shook hands. “Hey Kev,” Rory said warmly, “what’s up?” Kevin stopped to lean against one of the thick, square, metal poles that held up the carport. “Oh, yeah, my Dad and I have to move back home to New Hampshire.” In the suddenness of their planning Kevin had totally forgotten to let Rory know he was leaving. In fact it had only been ten days since Kevin got word that they were going to have to move. He hadn’t even been able to give his bosses at On The Mark Sporting Goods a full two-weeks notice. They were none too happy with him but Kevin could not have cared less, he had spent most of his time there slacking off. He had once remarked to a fellow employee: “If they’re gonna pay me like a 9th Grader then I am going to work like one!” Rory looked shocked at the news of Kevin’s leaving. “Oh man,” he moaned, “that sucks. When are you leaving?” “Tonight.” This revelation sent Rory over the edge. He jumped to attention waving his arms wildly. “What?! Well what if I hadn’t been here? You were just going to go and not tell me?” “Look, dude, it’s not a situation I am too cool with either. It kind of came up in a flash,

the rent increase is a killer.” Rory nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I hear you. It’s a good thing that we rent a room to those two Russian exchange students or we’d be out too.” Kevin was confused as asking about how others paid their rent was something he thought was taboo. “Wait, how does that help you?” “Oh, well, you see we placed a web camera in their room and charge people a fee to watch the live feed on their computer! Isn’t that great?” Kevin frowned in disapproval. “No, it’s not cool,” he growled. “You mean to tell me that all this time I could have been watching hot Russian girls mess around?! Dude, you suck! Why didn’t you tell me?” “I didn’t know if you were into that stuff. Plus if they ever found out I’d lose my cash cow and be out on the streets like you, no offense. Hey I tell you what, I’ll give you the web address and you can sign up. I’ll even let you view for free!” “Okay, that’s fair. I have to go grab some more things to toss out.” “So, what time is your flight?” “We’re not flying. We’re taking a bus.” Rory’s eyes lit up. “A bus? Oh man, I’ve always wanted to go on a road trip. Is it cool if I come?” “You mean you actually want to take a bus cross country? My Dad and I are pretty bummed about it.” “Oh God yeah, it would be one of those cool ‘back to basics’ deals. Sort of like camping but not being in the woods.” The odd analogy was lost on Kevin but he could see Rory was very adamant about accompanying them. “I don’t see why not as long as you pay for yourself. My Dad is pretty ripped that he is leaving anyway so he wouldn’t care who I brought along.” Rory jumped in the air and clicked his shoes together like a cheesy cartoon character. “What time do we leave?” “I think the bus leaves at midnight, so we’d probably go a little before that.” “Okay, I am gonna go pack and I’ll be out here at 11:30.” “That sounds fine with me,” Kevin concluded. They gave a quick fist-bump and went their separate ways. When he rounded the corner of the building and looked up toward the apartment door Kevin saw only the back end of the off-yellow couch, without the cushions, wedged in the doorway. He trotted up the stairs, his feet making a hollow ‘ping’ on each of the hollow metal steps. “Grab the end of the couch, Kevin,” David hollered from inside the living room. Kevin didn’t question it, he just grabbed hold wherever there weren’t lose nails and where his hands fit and tried to pull. The couch squeaked from the strain against the metal door frame. “Dad, I think it’s gonna bust, or bust the doorway,” Kevin told him. By this time Stanley was on the other end pushing, it left Kevin stuck between the end of the couch and the railing. He gave up his end once he felt a little give in the railing. He did not feel like spending his last night in Las Vegas exploring the inside of a hospital. “What are you trying to do?” He yelled over the top of the tacky off-yellow couch. “I am trying to get this beast of a couch outside,” David said succinctly. “I figured that, but there’s no way you’re gonna be able to turn it and head down the stairs.” David smiled. “Oh, I am not looking to push it down the stairs,” he uttered, “this baby’s going over the railing.” Kevin put his hand to his forehead in disbelief.

“You don’t think that’s dangerous?” “No. Now get the hell in here and help us push.” Rather than waste time arguing Kevin hopped onto the couch and into the living room in one quick motion. Brian was standing behind the two adults seemingly in a daze watching their brilliant plan unfold. David and Stanley were positioned on either side, Kevin was in the middle. Together they gave a mighty push; the couch squeaked loudly but it moved. Soon it was halfway out the door pushing against the railing. “All right,” David called out like a football quarterback in the huddle, “here’s what we do. We push the couch up and over the railing.” Stanley and Kevin looked on in anticipation. David frowned. “That’s it. We push it over. What are you waiting for?” The three men pushed and the couch lifted, it stood up against the railing for all to see. Then, before anyone had the chance to think it over, they grabbed onto the wooden frame and lifted. It was a struggle but the couch cleared the three and a half foot black metal railing without tearing it from the concrete. The off-yellow eyesore crashed to the ground below with a loud crack. The wood frame shattered inside the fabric but the couch held its shape. “Quick, let’s go!” David shouted as he flew down the flight of stairs toward the remains of the couch. Stanley and Kevin followed. The three men took their positions and lifted the couch. It was much harder to manage now since the couch had been smashed, it was like carrying an oversized bean bag chair. They waddled as fast as they could toward the dumpster trying their best not to make eye contact with any of the people who had emerged at the sound of the crash. The dumpster lid was still opened from when Kevin had made his run. Stanley, David, and Kevin pushed the couch straight up against the side of the green trash container. As they had done before they lifted the couch up and into the dumpster. The weight of it allowed it to sink down almost halfway into the trash but no more. “Well, that’s not too bad,” Stanley said in an unsatisfied tone. David was already on his way back to the apartment. Kevin followed, but he looked back and couldn’t help but notice how the couch looked like a giant Twinkie sticking out of the top of the dumpster. Some neighbors were standing under the carport looking at the three of them as they passed by. Kevin felt compelled to give some sort of explanation. “That couch was infested with roaches,” he fibbed, “we just found them and had no time to waste.” Given that the average tenant of the complex was not exactly a Rhodes scholar, Kevin’s explanation appeased the crowd without questions and they dispersed. Stanley, David, and Kevin reconvened in the living room. It looked very empty without the couch. “What do you want to do next?” Stanley asked. David looked around at the sparse furniture still remaining and stroked his salt and pepper-colored beard. “Eh, that was a little too close with the couch,” he admitted, “plus it’s getting dark.” “Do you want to just leave everything else?” Kevin asked his father. David picked up one of the three off-yellow couch cushions, slapped it hard with an open hand, and twirled it around gently. “No, I have an idea.” He went out onto the balcony and, without hesitation, tossed the cushion over on top of the carport parallel to the window. It landed with nary a sound and David turned back toward the others and smiled. He walked back in and grabbed the other two cushions, one in each hand, and headed back out. Those were also unceremoniously deposited onto the carport. Next up David strolled down into the bedroom where Kevin had slept and reappeared

with four pillows. Those were abruptly heaved across and onto the carport as well. Kevin could only look on and wonder if his father had officially lost his mind; then he spoke and removed all doubt. “Okay, so here’s the plan,” David said calmly, “the chairs we can carry out and throw away. But the TV stand and the dining room table we can throw over there on top of the pillows and cushions.” He pointed over toward the open slider door. “You can’t be serious,” Kevin said. “Why not? They won’t make much noise.” Kevin looked at Stanley, begging him to intervene. “Uh, well maybe Kevin’s right,” Stanley interjected. “We could just leave all that stuff in here.” “I don’t think so,” David replied, “this is my final goodbye to this place and I want to thank them so much for doubling my rent and forcing me to move out. So I am going to toss my furniture onto the carport whether you help me or not.” Stanley and Kevin bowed their heads; they knew David was not going to budge from his position. “All right, Dad,” Kevin said, “if it will make you feel better, we will toss the stuff out there.” It began easily enough with the relatively light, and poorly constructed, TV stand. It was made of wood but to Kevin it seemed like something you’d make in 8th Grade shop class. It went over the balcony and landed on top of the carport with barely a whimper. Feeling a little more comfortable with the reckless acts they were performing Kevin turned his attention to his halfsized dresser in his bedroom. It was a bit heavier but that was solved by removing each of the drawers and tossing the white object across the three or four-foot canyon that separated the edge of the balcony from the carport. The dresser made a bit of a racket which made all of them cringe. Rather than keep throwing things out they decided to lay low for a bit and carry out the chairs and drawers while the heat died down. They sat on the living room floor and told stories about the old days when Stanley and David were young to kill time; the things they did back then always made Kevin laugh. They resumed their furniture tossing about a half hour later. The only thing David was adamant about getting rid of was the black wooden dining room table. “That damn thing has to go,” he insisted. Kevin couldn’t understand what exactly the table had done to David but he spoke of it like an ex-wife. The table was dragged over to the slider door. It was not possible to simply slide it out and toss it, the legs of the table saw to that. David was not to be deterred, he flipped the table over and began to feverishly jerk at one of the legs. “Come on,” he grunted, “you guys get working on the other legs. I don’t care how you get ‘em off, just yank!” Stanley, Kevin, and Brian each grabbed a leg and began pulling. Kevin’s leg was the first to detach, the wood gave a loud crack before giving way. He slipped back and had to brace himself against the wall. “Well, I did my part,” he joked while waving the slender piece of wood in his hand. After removing their respective legs, Stanley and David helped Brian. He was sitting on the floor grabbing at the final leg looking like he was trying to row a boat. Once the last leg of the black wooden table was removed, the pieces were left in a pile on the floor while they raised the table on its side and slid it out onto the balcony. It was pitch black outside, though the parking area was dotted with lights, so it was difficult to judge where the carport began. The table was lifted by Stanley and David up over their heads. “On the count of three we heave it over, all right?” David asked. Stanley agreed.

“One...two...three!” The two brothers took one step forward and launched the table like they were making an overhead pass in basketball. Off into the darkness the wooden projectile flew. Off into the distance, and right over the carport! The table crashed flat-side down in the parking lot with a horrendous noise. It sounded like somebody setting off firecrackers. David and Stanley gave a wide-eyed look at each other and took off for the door leaving Brian and Kevin to duck down on the balcony so as not to be seen. A minute later they could hear their fathers down below in the parking lot muttering to each other, collecting the table, and heading off for the dumpster. The two cousins crawled back into the apartment afraid to stand up. Soon Stanley came back in the front door. “Come on, Brian,” he said hastily, “we’ve got to go.” “But don’t we have to take Kevin and Uncle Dave to the bus station?” Brian asked confused. “Yeah but we don’t have to leave here until after 11:00, that gives us about four hours to kill.” David by this time had wandered up the stairs, he was keeping a look out for anyone who might have seen or heard the table incident. “So, you guys gonna go?” David asked as he closed the door behind him. “Yeah, there’s still plenty of time before the bus leaves. So I’ll bring Brian home and come back for you guys around 11:00, okay?” “That’s fine,” David replied, “don’t forget your groceries.” He pointed to the black trash bag lying in a heap next to the refrigerator. Stanley grabbed hold of it and exited the apartment with Brian. David and Kevin stood alone in the living room of the apartment which was nearly empty now. Even the floor and table lamps had all been thrown away, only the terribly bright, overhead light remained. “Well Dad,” Kevin said breaking the silence, “I guess we’ve done all that can be done here.” David nodded silently and walked out onto the balcony; this time with nothing but his thoughts. Kevin did not intrude, he understood that his father was hurting. Kevin instead went back into his room where he checked his bags again and sat on the bare mattress of his bed. Eventually growing tired of the sad silence that his father was giving off, Kevin took a walk out of the apartment complex and across the street to McDonalds where he grabbed his ‘last meal’ in Las Vegas. He ate in the restaurant which was sparsely filled. It was not that he minded leaving Las Vegas to return home, in fact he welcomed seeing members of his family he hadn’t seen in a year. Deep down, Kevin felt badly that his father had to leave too. Vegas was David’s dream and he was taking it like a relationship was ending; it was a sad sight. After eating Kevin walked across to the Day And Night convenience store. Along the wall inside was a counter holding four video slot machines. It was so normal for Kevin to see slot machines in nearly every business he entered now that he barely batted an eye. Many times he would go to the grocery store and find himself seated at a Keno machine pissing away his food money. After a couple of times blowing most of his meager pay check on gambling Kevin had realized that Las Vegas was unlike any other city. He bought himself a couple magazines to read on the long bus trip home, one sports card magazine and a gossip-type entertainment magazine. The latter was mostly for the photos of Hollywood’s most beautiful actresses. For old time’s sake Kevin plopped himself in front of one of the slot machines and used the two quarters he had in his change to play a couple of games. After losing the quarters he slid a five-dollar bill into the machine and played some more. The only thing that kept Kevin from playing, and most likely losing all of his money, was the fact that

it was after 9:00 and he needed to get back to the apartment. He had the gambling bug and deep down was glad to be getting away from the temptation. The apartment complex was a block away and it was night time. In many places this would be a dangerous mix, but Kevin always had felt safe walking the streets of his part of Las Vegas anytime. Although he had heard stories of illicit activities in the surrounding area he had never seen in personally so he just turned a naive ear to what was said. He wandered in through a side entrance to the complex and eventually came upon his building. The blinding overhead light in the living room shone even through the closed vertical blinds. Inside the apartment, David was sitting on the floor, cross-legged against the wall, reading the liner notes of The Beatles’ Abbey Road. He barely even looked up when Kevin entered. “Hey Dad,” he said trying to get a reaction from David. “What time is Uncle Stan coming?” “In a couple of hours,” David replied. Kevin decided not to try to force a conversation and instead took his favorite perch leaning against the balcony outside. He looked and found the beam of light from The Luxor and stared at it for a while. He thought momentarily about all of the insane things that were probably happening at that very moment down on The Strip. He figured maybe one day he’d come back and experience them for himself. Father and son stayed silent until Stanley came back. It was just after 11:00 when Stanley knocked at the front door. David had drifted off to sleep still seated against the wall, his head hung down into his chest. Kevin had already read both of the magazines he had bought at Day And Night and was now wondering what he was going to do on the bus ride. He heard the knocking on the door and answered it. “Hey, you guys ready to go?” Stanley asked. He too looked as though he had just awakened. The fact that he was wearing a pair of pajama pants along with his long sleeved windbreaker led Kevin to believe that he had been sleeping. “I think we’ll need just a few minutes,” Kevin replied nodding in David’s direction. “Yo, Dave,” Stanley called out, “it’s time to go.” David rose his head slowly and squinted from the powerful overhead light. “What time is it?” He asked. “It’s just after 11,” Stanley answered, “we’ve got to get moving.” David struggled to his feet and yawned. He rubbed his eyes gently and began searching for his bags. Kevin was already heading out the door and to the black mini-van. As per usual Stanley had left it unlocked which allowed Kevin to toss his black suitcase and leather satchel into the far back seat. He then trotted across the grassy area, which housed the fenced in, and rarely cleaned, swimming pool, to alert Rory that they were leaving. Rory’s apartment was on the ground floor, Kevin knocked as loudly as he could. A minute or so later Rory opened the door. “Hey Kev,” he said, “what’s going on?” “Are you coming with us?” Kevin asked impatiently. Rory gave a confused look. “Going where?” Kevin sighed and shook his head in disbelief. From the other room Kevin could hear what sounded like people watching a sporting event. “What’s going on in there?” Rory looked briefly over his shoulder. “Oh, Yulia and Sasha brought a guy home from a bar and so we’re watching them on the webcam.” He said it as if it was common place. The hoots and shouts were very loud and Kevin

was tempted to wander in and see what all the fuss was about; but he knew time was running out. “Are you going to come with us on the bus back to New Hampshire, or not?” “Oh, yeah, yeah,” Rory replied. He disappeared for a split second and reemerged with a single navy blue duffle bag. “I am packed and ready.” “Sweet, let’s hit the road.” Rory stepped out but paused under the yellow front light. “Hey guys,” he shouted back inside, “I’m going to New Hampshire. I’ll be back in a week or so!” Not one of the guys answered, they just kept on shouting at the computer screen. Kevin wondered how the two Russian girls could not know that they were being watched with all of the hollering and cat calls from right down the hallway. Rory closed the door behind him and followed Kevin toward the black mini-van. Stanley and David were only now coming down the stairs toward the parking lot. David looked a bit discombobulated after being startled from a sound sleep; he stumbled a bit as he walked. Kevin slid the side door open again and Rory climbed in with his duffle bag in hand. David tossed his lone green suitcase in the way back seat with Kevin’s bags, the rest of what he needed to carry on the bus would be kept in the pockets of his slightly off-white Izod winter jacket. David was so out of it that he did not even notice the stowaway Rory in the middle seat when he entered the front passenger-side door. Stanley, however, did notice him right away. “Hey, who’s that?” He asked Kevin. He sat in the driver’s seat and flicked on the tiny, square car light in the ceiling. Rory squinted a bit. “Oh, you know Rory,” Kevin replied, “he’s gonna come with us out to New Hampshire.” Rory smiled in concurrence with Kevin’s story. “You’re gonna go 3,000 miles for fun?” Stanley asked flabbergasted. “Sure, why not,” Rory said, “I’ve got nothing better to do.” David gave a steely glare and Stanley looked as though he wanted to interrogate Rory some more, but knowing that time was short he started up the mini-van and they were on their way.

Forget I will not forget you. I will not forget how you made me feel. I will not forget your eyes. I will not forget how they heated my frozen heart. I will not forget how you could dissect me completely in a word or a wink. I will not forget the way I fell up and down and all around like you were the last car of a rollercoaster. I will not forget how flowers and candy would have insulted your place in me. I will not forget that forever is not that far. I will not forget how I can hear your voice in my mind, how it sings me to sleep like a gentle lullaby in the night. I will not forget the first time, it was the only time I needed. It was the time my faith I conceded, to the higher power able to deliver what I had never before seen. I will not forget the wings, the Aphrodite silhouette, the way you could fly without leaving the ground. I will not forget how I knew you before I met you. How nothing could prepare me for you. How I needed to catch myself before I fell. How I gave in without struggle. I will not forget how you blew down my wall like a house of cards, and melted my armor to scrap with a touch. I will not forget how I broke my own heart for you. How all the signs couldn’t prevent the crash, all the sun’s power didn’t make me blind. I will not forget you. I will not forget how you made me feel. I will not forget love, and how for one shining moment it saved me from myself. © 2001

With Love With love I give you my hand. Around your finger a golden band. With love I pledge eternity. Until forever’s eyes can no longer see. With love, I give love. Only the deepest and purest love. With love I lose my shape and gain my identity. All I have is yours, what I am is all that you’ve made me. With love I stop shedding tears. I cry for the happiness here after so many years. With love I stop chasing and searching. Everything I’ve ever needed is filled by you. With love, so in love, I am found. © 2003

Don’t Believe Don’t believe in God anymore. Don’t believe in what I can not see. Don’t believe in what I’m told anymore. Have no other reason to be. Don’t believe in heaven and hell. Just empty light years of nothing, and hot rock underfoot. Don’t believe in love and hate. It all takes too much and gives so little. Don’t believe there a reason to change, it’s a tightrope over this world, don’t rock it, don’t slip. Don’t believe I deserve another chance. Fucking up is in my plans. Don’t believe in wasting time sitting back a slave to my mind. Don’t want to age, don’t want to stay young. Don’t want to see clear, then there’s no going back. Don’t want to eat my heart out, don’t want it to grow mold. Don’t want you to feel sorry, or tell me it’s all over. I just want peace of mind, to wake up and know what’s mine. To reach out and feel what’s there, to fall down again and again and not care. I just want to be free, from the weight and the fears. To be free from the heavy heavy heart, and wipe clean those sad sad years. I just want to strip down to all I need to get by, rid myself of all the useless worry forcing me to believe. © 2002

Broken Again Here you are again, standing beside me. You’re making me weak again, I’m halfway back to you. So you’re looking at me again, a way I remember. You’re making me think again, I’m lost in the memories. Now you’re talking to me again, about the way that it used to be. Oh how I want to believe it’s true, but I catch myself from falling. You broke my heart. You left me in the dark. You stood me up and kicked me out. I’ve walked back to you a hundred times. This time I’m holding the cards, not showing my hand, I’m leaving you now, I’ve seen the light through you this time. You’re sending me notes again, oh how much you need me. You’re making me cry again, I break so slowly. So you’ve learned from mistakes again, over and over I’m dying. You’re driving me crazy again, I don’t want to see you’re lying. Now here you are again, at my door in the middle of the night, swearing to anyone this time you’ll make it right. You stumble in and hit the ground my heart falls too without a sound, drunken words fill the air, but when you’re dry again, I won’t matter again. Here I am again, staring at myself, will I ever understand. I finish another bottle again, reality and dreams blur and we’re together again. All of the reasons don’t matter, all the pieces traced back to the shatter, my bones like glass under your weight. Here I am again, phone in hand you’re not there. I’ll just let go and pretend not to care, on into the night I tell myself I’ll be all right. Here comes the pain again, here come the tears again, here comes the blame again, can’t look you in the eye again. Here you are again, standing beside me, and here I am walking away. © 2002

A Table By The Sea It’s crazy, that feeling inside. Like a river’s current, I can’t stop this course I’m on. I feel helpless, like a baby in its mother’s arms who can only sleep to escape. I look at everyone, thinking of what’s to become of me, their blank stares grow familiar. It’s uplifting to know nothing is forever. I’d give up everything cause it has no use to me now. I’m just guessing like I thought I was all along. I’m still working on writing the perfect song. Life comes full circle, now I’m under my own thumb. Can’t get out of bed, tired, lonely, kick me in the head. Everyone looks, waiting for time to set me free. Everybody’s looking, nobody’s lending a hand. Everybody’s pushing, knocking me down. I’ve lost all control and night’s all I’ve found. It’s crazy, these feelings coming to a boil while life hibernates. It’s the middle of the ocean and I can’t see land. Everybody’s looking, nobody’s lending a hand. Tossing me around to see where I stand. And you all still think this is something I’ve planned. If it’s over, where did it begin? If I’m already gone is everyday a sin? Walking crooked miles, the bumps find me, changing positions, changing styles. Nothing fits, this skin is on too tight. Seems getting it wrong is all I can get right. Please leave me if you won’t help me through. I’d rather be alone than be a specimen under a microscope’s view. © 2001

Element For so long I thought life was over. That the only thing I had left was getting older. Now I can see the light, breaking through where the clouds once held me. I can see the light shining down into the dark shadows where I lived my life. Have you ever forgotten to stop the pain? Like a leaking faucet where the drain is clogged, eventually it will spill over. Would you forget love if it hurt you so? Could you see light through the heartache? Now I can see the light and I believe it’s here to stay. My love is solid, crack it, but it will not break. My love is forever, I can’t imagine being without it. It’s always been there, I just couldn’t see, it’s everywhere around me. In my everyday, everything I do, it’s the love that remains true. You’re my angel for what you’ve shown, my savior for bringing me closer to myself. I love you for who you are. I love you for what you’ve given me. Have you ever looked in the mirror so tired of what you see? How can you give love if you can’t find it in you? Do you wish for a well where love flows and runs through your fingers? Where is it supposed to be, this everywhere love? It’s the love that I’ve found, that I can never lose. It’s the love I have that always there. My everywhere love is the love inside of me. You may not have the most beautiful love, you may not have the strongest. But it can be all the beauty and strength you need if you believe in it. When your life is beautiful then you’ll find it’s love that made it so. © 2001

Mind Speak When my body is tired and my eyes are heavy The thoughts come in like breaks in a levee. My mind is clear but my soul is cluttered Like a cocoon setting free the butterflies flutter. Read in, write on, the hand knows what the heart wants. Raindrops ignored grow to raging floods. Whispers blocked out become angry mobs. I can not just let pass by, wisdom or fantasy in my mind’s eye. It says to hear me, need me, release me. Don’t forget me, sleep on me, lose me into the night. When the darkness falls, inner vision calls. A conversation where middle never reaches end. A constellation where the words and images do not match. An inspiration to pull me out of my heart and mind, to go deeper inside of me. A reparation of a loose end waiting years to be tied. A separation of true emotions and times where the feelings lied. When my body aches and the sleep is knocking Only the pen in hand can stop my mind from talking. © 2003

Prayer By Candlelight I’m saying a prayer tonight. That in time our sinking ship will right. Each day is tainted, each word is meaningless unless covered in blood. I’m saying a prayer by candlelight. hoping that soon the sun will rise again. The dark is where they hide, where we’re stalked. I pray for the face of fear to be afraid. For the sight of evil to end its life. Hope will never leave us, so long as we’ve reason to live on. I pray to never lose sight of those reasons. The scars will heal, time will prove us right once more. Mountains may fall from the sky, seas may overtake the land someday, our colors will line the world that remains. I’m saying a prayer in the silence of my heart. That we have power to forgive those who are caught in between. Not all of us will meet on the other side of this deep river, some will be swept away. I’m saying a prayer for those gone and those who may join them. Believe nothing we’ve done is in vain, our children and theirs will live in peace. In my eyes none of you are very far, everyday I wake you remind me why. Sometimes the only way to make peace is to fight. Heaven wasn’t created overnight. Destiny, theirs and ours lies on the ground, seas, and air. The shades of gray have been wiped away. I’m saying a prayer tonight. For all of us willing to put up the fight. In time the waters will recede, every mountain can be climbed. I’m saying a prayer tonight, for you, for me, for us. We will overcome, we must never forget, but we must move on. Our futures begin today. --9-11-2001 We Will Never Forget

© 2001

She Came Along Looking at the way things have gone, it’s amazing that I haven’t just shut down. What goes around comes around, it’s like dodging bullets as they fall to the ground. Facing up to the past, making promises I hope will last, it’s all too much, hitting so fast. When it feels like everyday is the last note of a beautiful song. The time is right, but the place is wrong. When I’d given up and packed it in, she came along. If all I knew of her was her smile, a beautiful picture in my eyes would it still paint. If all I could do was wait a while, a thought of what I’d seen would be enough. Afraid of letting go, afraid of holding on. Do I let her in my heart, is she already there? Looking back on things I’ve said and done, it’s amazing I’m not too frozen to move by now. What you give off is what you get back, it’s gluing myself together as I continue to crack. Now I can see that what you wish for you may receive, it’s giving hope to all of the dreamers. With every step I get farther, with every breath I get closer. Planets and stars, the empty glass window the sky lies beyond, the only road I’ve ever needed, then she came along. All I knew of her was she made me smile, something countless others couldn’t find. All I knew of her was she made it easy, easy to do what I thought I’d never do again. If she was ready, could she wear the crown? Cut the strands of sadness holding me down. If she was willing, would she swim the oceans with me? Float on our backs til all the land disappeared. If she was able to turn sand to glass blindfolded, what could she do if she opened her eyes? If she was ready, would I be ready? To fill the emptiness. To light the darkness. If she was willing, would I be willing? To unchain the locks. To free the me inside. If she was able, would I be able? To give her what she needs. To accept her for who she is. Looking back, I’m only looking back as far as my eyes and mind will let me. But in time, I may find, that I never felt like I belonged, until the day she came along. © 2001

There Goes The Sun There goes the sun. Running away to find another day. Where does it go when it’s gone? The light never dies, never disappears. It just takes different shapes when to our eyes it appears. There goes the sun. Though I’d hardly known it was there. I slept late this day so when it was gone it was only noon in my mind. Still I can pretend that sunset has no end. I’ll close my eyes and let it stay in my mind. There goes the sun. Taken for granted til only darkness remains. All we need, all we love, all that is beauty has no face without it. I know I may just say, but tomorrow I swear I’ll pray that the light never leave me again. There goes the sun. There too, goes the day. There goes the sun. All it gave was everything I was too simple to understand. There goes the sun, fading into black. From my mind, fading to the back. Where does it go when it’s gone? Will it rise again? The sun is always rising for someone, somewhere. There goes the sun, and I say it’s all right. -in memory of George Harrison

© 2001

Dreamality

That shrill beeping. The once terrible sound of my alarm clock going off had now become my saving grace. Five straight nights; for five straight nights I'd had the same haunting dream. I had always had nightmares growing up, doesn't everyone? But this was different. I wasn't being chased, or shot at, or eaten by zombies; in fact in this nightmare nothing was physically happening to me. It was the feeling of paralysis, of helplessness that scared me most. I wasn't seeing or hearing terrible things; it seemed that in this nightmare all of my senses were dulled. Sights were blurred, noises were muffled, all I could take from my nightmare was the heaviness. I felt a heaviness holding me down wherever I was; that was the feeling which caused the cold sweats in the morning sunlight. What did it mean? Why was I seeing the same thing night after night? It was times like these that I wished I had one of those dream interpretation books, maybe I was subconsciously telling myself something. I sat up in bed for what seemed like forever, staring at the hardwood floor, trying desperately to pull one more fresh image from my mind, something that would tie all of these loose ends together. Directly to my right was the only window in my bedroom, with the shade down only faint trickles of light were allowed in. I dared not open the shade for fear that I might lose any memory of this most recent nightmare. Slowly I rose from my queen-sized bed upon realizing that it was already after 7:00am leaving me less than an hour to get ready for work. After adjusting my black boxer briefs I tried my best to get ready for work but I was distracted. I guess after five straight nights it was getting more difficult to just forget about it. I was able to pull myself together long enough to wedge myself into my cramped bathroom and brush my teeth and hair. The coffee maker was too slow for my liking and I ended up pouring a cup of steaming hot java while it was still percolating. The flow of coffee sizzled on the hot plate and subsequently streamed onto the counter and the linoleum of the kitchen floor. I was in such a haze from my nightmare that all I could manage to do was unplug the coffee maker and drop a yellow rag onto the puddle of coffee on the floor. I grabbed my black leather briefcase while I struggled to tighten my tie. It was a disastrous scene being so discombobulated I was surprised I was able to turn a doorknob. Once the front door was shut and locked I stumbled my way across the grass, completely ignoring the white sea-shell walkway I had spent so much time creating. I managed to get into my Chevy Blazer but once I closed my door and the silence fell my mind went racing back to what little I could remember about last night. All I kept seeing was a bright blur that hurt my eyes along with muffled sounds as if someone was speaking into a towel; none of it made any sense. I rested my head on the cold steering wheel and closed my eyes. Time must have passed quickly because the next thing I knew my neighbor, Jim Jones, was giving a concerned tap at my window. He was a middle-aged man but in great shape, tanned, but with white hair. He told me that he had been up early mowing his lawn and noticed me getting into the car. When he finished the lawn and saw my car still in the driveway he figured he'd come see if everything was all right. Jim was a very thoughtful neighbor, he and his wife Lorraine often baked me desserts. They treated me like I was their own child. I tried my best to steady my head which felt like it was made of lead. It was bobbing from side to side. I rolled down my window and thanked him for waking me. “Thanks, Mr. Jones,” I muttered, “I was out late last night and I guess I am trying to steal as many Z’s as possible.” I smiled but that didn’t take the concerned look from Jim Jones’ face. “Alright, Al,” he replied, “me and Lorraine have just been concerned about you this past

week. You seem different since Erin left.” Not being able to focus very well I brushed off his comments. “Well, I am running late. Don’t want to keep the boss waiting.” I started up my engine which roared loudly and echoed throughout the suburban neighborhood. I backed out of my cracked concrete driveway leaving Jim Jones waving as he went back to his yard. I shook off the visions of my nightmare as well as the sleepiness that was holding me and crept off to work at a very slow, deliberate pace. Luckily for me the insurance company where I worked was only a twenty minute commute and required no highway travel; in my condition I’d be risking many lives on the highway. On the other side of town lay Horace & Horace Insurance, my job for the past three years. The building was quite impressive and stood out from the other neighboring office building; it was that impressive stature that led me to believe that this was the place for me. I slunk into the parking lot as best I could with a loud SUV and parked in the last row of the parking lot. I had arrived only fifteen minutes late and, though I did receive several awkward stares as I made my way through the office lobby, my tardiness was soon forgotten as it was a rarity. Still, sitting at my desk on the third floor overlooking the rushing cars of the main street, I began to slip back into detective mode like when I awakened. I hated loose ends, and this recurring nightmare was a loose end. The more I tried to ignore it the more the thoughts of the heaviness of my nightmare overwhelmed me. I opened my leather briefcase and lay some papers on my desk in front of me to make it appear that I was hard at work. I made sure that the manilla envelope with the name ‘Anderson’ on it was face-up; the Anderson account was my most important work and nobody would dare to bother me while I worked on that. I rested my head in my hands and zoned out while staring at the neatly typed words which all began running together. Nobody in the office noticed my lack of movement until I began to snore, or at least that's what they said. One of my coworkers, Andy North, gently shook me awake. Andy was also a friend and we often looked out for each other in the cut throat world of Horace & Horace. He was a hefty fellow, a former high school wrestler, but after years of an office job he was no longer in athletic shape. “Hey, I just wanted to make sure you don’t get yelled at by Mr. Horace,” he said in an Andy North whisper, which was a normal speaking voice. “Thanks man,” I said as I yawned, “I was out late last night and it’s still kicking my ass.” I had to keep the lie going because no twenty-seven-year-old man wants to admit that he is having terrible nightmares. “Did you get lucky?” He asked with a not so subtle wink. I looked around at the other cubicles as I was certain that there were people listening. “Nah, it was a dog show last night,” I said chuckling. Andy laughed as well and slapped me hard on my back. After he headed back to his cubicle I tried to refocus on work but was unsuccessful. Seeing that it was close enough I decided to take an early lunch; I thought eating might be a good distraction. At 11:00am the small office cafeteria was quiet. I slipped in and grabbed a Styrofoam bowl of soup and a salad. There were eight small round tables in the cafeteria, it was intentionally too small so that not all of the employees could eat at once. Mr. Horace had introduced little changes in the workplace that I figured were either to increase productivity or were because he was an evil old man.

I sat at the round table closest to the corner to make sure I could see anyone who came in through the loud, wooden double doors. At first my plan worked: Eating calmed my frazzled mind. It did not last. My mind began to drift off into a daydream when out of nowhere in the kitchen area some metal bowls were dropped in a clutter of loud bangs. Shortly thereafter muffled voices were heard conversing. I turned my head to look outside at the man-made garden area; the sun was brightly shining and hurt my eyes. I began to hyperventilate feeling as if I was back in my nightmare. I spun my head around, it felt as if the walls were spinning and then closing in on me. Already edgy beyond belief I put my head on the table and covered my head with my arms while trying to catch my breath. When I figured it to be 'safe' I raised my head. The two cafeteria workers who had been conversing in the kitchen were standing over me looking at me in a peculiar way, it made me very uncomfortable. “Hey, kid,” the heavy, older female with a wiry hairnet over her greying hair said in a raspy voice. “You got something on your face.” I lifted my shaking right hand and proceeded to remove a large leaf of Romaine lettuce which had become stuck to my face after I lay my head down and into my salad. “Thank you,” I politely replied. My face became bright red from the hyperventilation and embarrassment. My lunch break ended soon after. Returning to my desk was not pleasant; I simply could not concentrate on my work and it showed. I would sit and try hard to focus but would have to get up and walk around the office when the visions and heaviness of my nightmare began to overtake me. This nightmare was now leaving the bedroom with me and seeping into every facet of my life. I fumbled and staggered through my paperwork as best I could. For the remaining four hours of my day I would work for ten minutes and follow that up with a long and drawn out trip to either the water cooler or the bathroom. My mind was gone. When the clock struck 4:00pm I packed my folders and files into my leather briefcase to bring home. My shoulders were slumped as I began my walk to the elevator; it wasn’t that I minded doing my work at home I just felt so worn out from worrying about my nightmare. I needed time to decompress but it wouldn’t happen tonight. Before I got into the elevator I was met by a living nightmare: My boss Mr. Horace. He was a short, stocky man with wrinkles like moon craters. He was a man who had seen it all in his 65 years on Earth and had little or no sympathy for anyone's personal problems. I was cornered and had no choice but to take him up on his request of a talk in his office. I was scared to death and was not able to hide it well. Mr. Horace's office was almost always dimly lit to help with his constant migraine headaches; the small green reader's lamp on his oversized desk was usually enough light for him. The monstrous desk he sat at had been brought it the day after he became the majority owner of the company and subsequently fired his brother ten years earlier. I had heard the story of his brother’s reaction when he was fired a million times as if it was Mr. Horace’s crowning achievement. Mr. Horace had not had a warm relationship with his brother and took great pleasure in Fed-Exing him a pink slip and a severance check. The story always ended with a long hard laugh and a satisfied sigh from the crusty old businessman. I sat down in one of the two lavish leather seats which faced his king-sized black leather throne of a chair. It was always intimidating to be in the presence of Mr. Horace, I believed that he set up his office to enhance that feeling. His desk was set up on a riser which put it a foot off of the ground allowing him to look down on his lowly employees. I was not a frequent visitor to

the boss’ office but it gave me the same primal fears as if I was in the principal’s office. I tried my best to hide my fear, but my fidgeting hands gave me away. I waited nervously for the man to speak as he took his time getting comfortable in his chair. “Son, I called you in here for a reason,” he said in a stern yet cracking voice. “I have noticed that your work has been lacking for a little while.” I could feel the cold beads of sweat beginning to form on my forehead. I had a bad feeling as to what was coming next. “I am worried about you.” I opened my eyes wide and quickly snapped myself out of my self-pity. “Worried? Why?” I could not muster up anything else to say. Mr. Horace leaned forward which caused the green desk lamp to reflect off of his glasses making them appear to be flashlights. “A couple of your fellow workers were the ones that brought it to my attention,” Mr. Horace continued after clearing his throat. “They have noticed that your mind appears to be elsewhere.” It caught me off guard that Mr. Horace for once was acting like a normal human being. It made me start to see him in a different light despite the fact that the dim light in his office made him look more like a corpse than a live person. “I am sorry, sir,” I said pathetically, “I will try harder.” He waved a long bony finger at me which stopped my apologizing. “Tell me son, is there anything going on at home? Anything you might want to talk about?” I thought about lying and saying everything was alright, but then that would make my recent string of unproductive days look worse. I decided to come clean. “Well, to be honest sir, I have been having trouble sleeping due to terrible recurring nightmares.” I chuckled a little due to the nervousness of being twenty-seven and complaining about bad dreams. “It’s not something I am proud to admit.” I stared at the floor like a child who was getting ready to be punished but Mr. Horace put my fears at ease in a kind, grandfatherly way. “Everyone has their own problems,” he said with a withered smile, “none of them seem trivial when you are going through them.” He then slipped me a business card with the name James Wilson, psychiatrist, on it. “Dr. Wilson is an old friend of mine, we went to college together. I think he’d be able to help you get rid of you bad dreams.” Just when I had almost completely change my view of Mr. Horace he snapped back to his normal, malevolent self. “By the way, that trip to the shrink, it’s mandatary.” He pointed the same bony finger at me in a more menacing way. I nodded and stuck the business card in my pants pocket. After I meekly thanked him, I slunk my way out of his dark lair leaving Mr. Horace perched at his desk like a gargoyle on a ledge.

The Cabin: Test Drive Pgs: 28-33

The night at the end of my first week at the cabin was filled with the now usual routine. I ate my dinner of Spaghetti-O’s down at the dock. I even whipped out the evil TV tray and brought it with me. As dusk crept in I headed back in to beat the skin-chewing insects that came along with the lessening light. I kept all of the windows around the cabin opened partially, it had been warmer than usual in the Lake Asimmia area the past few days. I played some music on my laptop while trying my best to write a sophisticated journal entry. I cracked open a pair of Sam Adams bottles as a sort of celebration of my first week, and also to drown my sorrows that from this point on I was closer to my vacation being over. Bedtime was 10:00pm as had become routine as well. I felt a small buzz as I brushed my teeth in front of the rustic looking square vanity in the bathroom. Before heading into the bedroom I made a tour of the cabin to make sure that doors were locked and windows were closed; despite my feeling very comfortable with my surroundings I was still wary of bears or other large animals which might come looking for food or trouble. I left the windows in my bedroom open as per usual as I had grown accustomed to the calls of birds and animals, and also the occasional kiss of the Canadian winds to help me sleep. I had no trouble falling asleep, the beer helped greatly with that. I know I had fallen asleep because I was startled out of it at some point during the night. There was a sound infiltrating the room that I had not heard during my first week at the cabin. It was far away, but had been piercing enough that it pulled me from my sound sleep. A little disoriented and still a little buzzed, I found myself sitting up in bed staring straight ahead at the closed bedroom door. What had I just heard? I turned my head to listen but there was nothing. I began to think that it had been something out of a vivid dream I was having that had sounded so real that it had awakened me. I let out a hard yawn and lay my head back down onto the stack of two down pillows I slept on. My eyes began to close. Then, I heard it again. This time I sat up sharply in bed. It sounded like the call of some kind of wounded animal. It was a painful yelp, a blood curdling scream in the far off woods. I knew now that this was definitely real and not part of a dream. The wounded animal screamed again, it seemed to carry on the wind right to my ears, echoing across the clear, crisp July night. It sounded so horrific that I began to feel whatever pain this animal was feeling. In my tired mind I began to process the sounds, trying desperately to link the sound to a mental photo of an appropriate animal. I began to think it might be a timber wolf like Sal had said occasionally roamed the area. He had said nothing about coyotes which this animal sounded like also. The animal screamed again snapping me from my mental Rolodex of animals. This time I threw the quilt off of my body and stepped onto the cold wood floor. Even though the noises were far away from the cabin itself I still found myself creeping quietly toward the opened bedroom window as if this animal might appear before me at any moment. I knelt down beside the window which allowed only my head and tops of my shoulders to be seen. I cupped my hand over my eyes and leaned in until my forehead rested against the mesh screen. The bright moonlight overhead did little to aide my eyes as I stared past the other cabin off toward where I thought the animal’s cries were coming from. I saw nothing. Still I found myself hypnotized, unable to move from my spot. Part of me hoped I would not hear that awful sound again, yet part of me felt this obsession, a need to know what was making those sounds. It had been nearly ten minutes and I had not heard anything. The overwhelming quiet of

the night began to pull me back into my sleep. My head began to bob forward; I was fading. The animal screeched again just as my forehead came into contact with the window sill with a thud. The sound had faded into my ears as I was drifting off to sleep. That sound, coupled with the blow to my forehead, combined to create a sort of electric jolt through my body. I leaped up and smacked my head on the bottom of the window pane. Now I was afraid, curious, and in blinding pain. Groggy I stumbled backward. My interest in the wounded animal faded with the second bump on my head. I closed both windows in the bedroom and stumbled back over to the bed where I slipped back underneath the thick comforter. Despite the fact that the noises had been coming from far away, who knows how long of a distance the screams could have been carried on a clear night, I still slept on my left side. I faced the wall and slept with my head in between the two down pillows; I did not want to see anything that might appear at the window. I hoped for sleep to reclaim me fast, I did not want to hear that horrific noise again. As I drifted away my own mind continuously deceived me, I could hear those wounded cries bouncing around my head until finally I was asleep. I awakened with the sunrise as had become the custom on my vacation. Despite having some lingering pain in my head from the previous night, the morning was bright and full of promise, but my mind kept harkening back to the strange noises I had heard the night before. What kind of animal was making those sounds? Was it injured? I got up and got dressed but did my morning routing a little bit slower than normal. I was deep in thought. While eating my morning cereal, I made up my mind. I would hike off in the direction of Cold Hill which was where the horrible noises sounded like they were coming from last night in order to see if I could find the animal that was making them. Obviously I was not planning on finding a perfectly healthy wild animal. What I was thinking was that I might find a carcass a few miles away that would solve the mystery. I packed a couple of granola bars and my refilled water bottle. I figured that I could basically hike back up the path toward Cold Hill. It would be important to keep my eyes open for any different pathways which might lead me to a dead animal, or worse, lead me to a wounded animal. If I were to find a wounded animal I would have to make a hasty retreat; wounded animals were far more dangerous than healthy ones. I locked the front door to the cabin and hit the trails at just after 9:00am. My mind was so focused on finding the answer to this mystery that I did not even stop to peer in the windows of the neighboring cabin. For the next hour or so I hiked the same trails as I had earlier in the week, scanning the woods on either side for any signs of something out of place. I stopped at the point overlooking Lake Asimmia to take another look around but there was nothing except the usual ducks and geese. I kept on hiking, determined to find something, anything, but not having any idea of what I was looking for, or where to look. For all I knew the animal that made those wailing screams the night before had been ten miles away and a lucky wind had carried the sounds to my window. My legs ached from all of the hiking I had been doing and only got worse as I followed those same paths again. Rather than continue up and down the rolling foothills that led to Cold Hill I took a side route that veered off to the left and followed a steady downward slope. These were the same side paths that I had been too nervous to take before, but I think deep down I was trying to look for the animal in all the wrong places so at least I could say ‘I looked.’ I walked the new path for about a half and hour and still saw nothing besides the towering spruce and pine trees. Once I hit a narrow and seemingly shallow stream I realized that my journey was fruitless. I was not going to find anything where I was headed and I was

not willing to go the extra mile, and start crossing waterways, to find what in all likelihood was a wounded and hostile beast. It had been a two plus hour hike and I decided to sit by the stream to enjoy my granola bars and allow my sore legs to recover before returning up the steady slope to the main pathway. The sun faded behind some high clouds and, with it hidden, the woods became a bit chilly. I finished one granola bar and decided to get moving to warm myself back up. The sun did return but only momentarily when I entered the clearing which surrounded the Twin Sisters Cabins, but it disappeared again soon after and was replaced by mist and light rain. By late afternoon I was bored and once again typing away on my laptop. I had tried to conserve the power just in case and now into my second week of vacation I let loose a little. Just before dinnertime the sun returned again, but I chose to eat inside. There was something unsettling about what I had heard the night before and I felt safer remaining inside as darkness fell. My evening was spent milking another couple of beers with one eye on my laptop screen and one ear listening for any strange sounds. I kept the windows opened in the living room area while I was awake. Part of me hoped that if I embraced the thought of hearing the horrific cries again it might cause them not to occur. It was the sort of strange reasoning that masked my growing fear. It passed 10:00pm and I tried valiantly to stay awake. Soon it became painfully obvious that I would have to go to bed or sleep face down on the dining room table. I had actually considered the latter but the hard wood caused a pain in my neck and I gave in and chose the bed over the table. My laptop was packed away and, as I tried to stretch out the kink in my neck, I slowly made my way around the perimeter of the cabin closing the windows and locking the doors. My eyes were so heavy that I did not remember to close the window in the bedroom which faced the neighboring cabin. I collapsed into bed and was fast asleep. It would not last. I was startled out of a sound sleep for the second night in a row by the horrible wails and cries of a wounded animal. It was much the same as the night before. Like deja vu, the sounds seemed to fade into my ears, bouncing and echoing off of the walls in my mind. I rolled to my right toward the night stand and grabbed my watch, it was a little after 1:00am. Still weary, I rolled off of the bed and landed on my knees on the floor just as I heard another, more throaty scream. This noise made my hair stand on end, it was a more menacing sound than a typical wounded animal. I crawled on all fours to the opened window. I was terrified by what I might see as that last scream had sounded closer than the one before. As I had the night before, I rose up by the window just enough so that only the top half of my head would be visible above the window sill. Sadly the clouds had returned and there was no moonlight to aid my vision in the middle of the night. There was nothing but blackness outside of my window. All I could do was crouch and listen. The next noise was a muffled roar, as if the animal was covering its own mouth while screaming. I tried, as I had the night before, to picture in my mind just what type of creature would be capable of these horrible sounds. Then came the loudest scream of all. I ducked off to one side of the window as that last noise sounded like it had come from just on the other side of the clearing. I knew now for certain that the wounded animal was coming my way! I was terrified, whatever animal this was it sounded like it was in pain and therefore was very dangerous. I thought about closing the window to avoid my scent being picked up by the animal but my curiosity got the better of me. I had already gone this far. I stayed put, hoping to maybe get a glimpse of whatever was making those horrible cries.

Then things took a very different turn. I heard another painful roar but it was followed by the sound of breaking glass. I could not see anything through the blackness but the sounds were amplified in my ears. The animal, whatever it may be, was in the process of breaking its way into the neighboring cabin. I could tell that it had made its way inside by the way that the roars and screams became dulled by the walls of the cabin. I could only squat by my bedroom window completely entranced by the events unfolding some fifty feet away. It began to feel like a movie, like the mesh window screen was a buffer between myself and the immense danger outside. From where I was I could hear the sounds of the animal breaking furniture inside the cabin. Muffled thuds and crashes sounding like rumbles of thunder emanated from the wooden structure. For fifteen minutes the animal rampaged through the cabin eventually shattering several of the other windows. The roars, which sounded even more terrifying by this point, became loud again as they squeezed their way out of the broken windows facing my bedroom. Still, I did not move from my perch, it was as if that faux buffer had me fooled into thinking that this was either not real, or that I was completely safe. The animal growled and snarled as it beat on the walls of the cabin from the inside as if it were trying to break the cabin wide open. That was when I started to get an uneasy feeling. Suddenly my buffer zone did not seem as impenetrable. Throughout the night before and during this current event I had been racking my brain trying to come up with some sort of culprit, some kind of logical explanation for what was happening. I could not think of any animal which made those types of noises, or any animal that was so intelligent and thorough in its destruction as this animal seemed to be. It was as if it knew what furniture and windows were and it knew how to break them. I began to wonder what was I dealing with? Despite my fear growing by the second I remained vigilant. I listened intently as the animal continued its ambush on the contents of the cabin, I had to be ready in case the animal burst through the front door and headed for my cabin. In my mind I had begun to eliminate animals native to the area which could make those horrible screams and also had some sort of coordination enough to break into a building and totally trash it. Sure I had gone through this song and dance over and over with no success, but I kept on believing that there was some animal just escaping my memory and if I thought about it long enough it would suddenly burst to the front of my mind. I had almost immediately eliminated a moose or wolf when I had begun. The only animal that could feasibly do it was a bear and I had never heard of a bear going on a rampage like this. I was a big fan of nature shows and had watched endless hours of ‘animal biographies.’ Normally bears look, and if they don’t find what they are looking for, they leave. This animal, whatever it was, had been destroying the neighboring cabin for almost a half hour. It was as if the whole purpose was just to cause damage and destruction which was even more frightening. I began to hear a low snarling growl which had not been audible before. It was at this point that I realized that the animal must have been standing at the opening of one of the broken windows facing me. I could not see it through the blackness but I could almost feel its eyes upon me. My blood went cold and my heart began to race. I was too afraid to move as I did not know how well this creature could see in the dark. For a few moments the air was deadly silent. What was the animal doing? Was it staring at me? Did it know I was there? In my mind I knew the terrible truth: There was nothing I could do. I was alone in the woods with some sort of angry, wounded animal or monster only a few feet away and there was nothing I could do. If it wanted to traverse the clearing and kill me there would be no way to stop it. I could do nothing but hide and pray, so that’s exactly what I did. When the silence in the air had reached several minutes, I decided to make a move. Taking my life in my own hands I stood up in front of the opened window and, as quietly as

possible, slid it closed. I then slid the shade down as well. I decided that it would be in my best interest to sleep in the closet. In the total darkness I felt around the bed and grabbed hold of the two down pillows I liked to sleep with. I cradled them close to my chest and deposited them on the floor of the closet. With the floor being so cold I slid on a pair of sweat pants with pockets and dropped my simple digital watch into one of those pockets. I also wore a t-shirt as I did not want to roll and slide on the floor and get a splinter. Who knew how well this cabin had been maintained? Next I grabbed the thick gray quilt with two hands and untucked it from in between the mattresses. When it gave way, I ended up falling on my butt on the wood floor. It hurt, but I was more afraid of the vibrations my body had caused alerting the creature across the clearing to my presence. I sat motionless on the floor as I listened for an approaching beast. When it seemed to me that the coast was clear I wrapped the warm quilt around my body and again crawled on all fours. The closet floor was very small, maybe two feet wide by five feet long. I had to curl up in the fetal position just to fit. I put my two pieces of luggage against the sliding closet door to try to mask my presence as best I could. I slept with my body pressed against the wall that night, constantly telling myself it would be alright and that the monster would go away once the sun rose. As I curled on my left side I heard a computerized beeping. I yanked my watch from my pocket; it was only 2:00am. I had four hours until the sun rose. I closed my eyes and pulled the quilt up over my head.