When he was a tall strapping two trunk stud, Double Dave would laugh at the harsh winds that sometimes blew in over the ridge and struck deep into his side of Mary's Woods. Dave would puff up his canopy after the storms passed and gloat about his lack of fear in the face of Ma Nature's awesome power.
The rest of the trees in the small preserve became tired of his constant bragging. They stopped talking to Dave. Everyone knew trees do not boast or show off. Trees are serious creatures; their lives dedicated to holding ground and providing sanctuary and sustenance to the many creatures and plants that depend on them. Being a blowhard is just wrong. Trees took their place in the world seriously. Double Dave was not a serious tree.
One night in the summer of 2008, a severe thunderstorm crested the ridge and roared into Mary's Woods. The canopy erupted in a panic of wild limb thrashing, as all the trees did their best to bend and not break. As usual, Double Dave laughed at the torrent hitting the preserve so hard. He called the others a bunch of nancies and told them to stand up and take it like a hardwood should.
The storm that hit intially, was just the calm before the real super cell hit 45 seconds later. Double Dave's twin trunk split and now his twin trunks were laying sad and splintered. Double Dave was done. He knew it. Before his lights went out, he declared;
"At least I didn't go out with a whimper!"
Dave never spoke another word. He did however, manage to face his death with well, not a grin, but what some trees contended was angry resignation.
From day that forward, he was known as "Mr. Grumpy Tree".
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I remember that storm. I am just not sure I have the year right. The storm took quite a few of the biggest pines and hardwoods out. Double Dave was not alone.
I did not notice the face until day before yesterday.
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Just found this tune. Here is "Banty Rooster", by Ashspider? It may be an A-I song. Don't care, I like it.
God had just returned to Heaven from his golfing sabbatical at "Holy Celestial Links", located at the outer edge of the Milky Way. He had been planning the trip for several epochs. He was sure everything at home would be covered. After all, he had left his only son, Jesus H Christ, in charge with his very capable lieutenant, St. Peter to keep JC on a straight track for the century God would be gone.
It was going to be a quick million rounds with Beezlebub, that satanic, experienced and talented dispatcher of top notch tom foolery of the hedonistic persuasion. God would hold his good frenemy close and under a watchful eye. What could go wrong in a century?
God's golf game had been terrible. Up until this trip, he had been a scratch golfer. Now he was leaning hard on a 7 stroke handicap just to stay competitive with "Bub", who still put a serious ass whoopin on the Big Guy. God only won a few hunded thousand rounds.
Things got pretty testy back at the Mulligan Bar in the clubhouse when the loser had to ante up for drinks. It didn't help that the losers on each day also had to sport a temporary tattoo of the letter L on their foreheads and leave it in place until they won again. Additionally, at the end of their series, that L had to be burned into the forehead of the overall loser.
God took the branding like a man and didn't flinch when that red hot brand touched his forehead. Bub stood nearby, but at a safe nearby with a self satisfied grin on his face. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He had taken Big Guy down a notch. There was some serious celebrations coming and even more tomfoolery that would rub in hard, this win over God.
God stopped looking in mirrors for weeks at a time. He did not enjoy being shown to be fallible, even here in Heaven among his friends and colleagues. Infallibility was one of his stocks in trade. He rationalized that competitions involving silly games did not matter. Accepting his losses and not using his over the top powers to influence the outcome, only reinforced his rep of being a just and fair God. There was certain to be much Hell and Damnation though, liberally spread among his flocks around the Universe before the Heavenly Father brought his golf temper back into check. His live minions would take the heat; they always did. A flood, a drought, an exploding planet or two just might bring down the temperature in God's angry index. It usually did.
What he found when he arrived back in Heaven though really set him off. St. Peter's assistant, Ralphael the Meek, met God when he landed.
"Geez Big Guy, I had no clue JC would pull such a stupid trick...... But you know kids, they are all touchy feely and want everyone to love them....... I did not know he was gone for a few years. That's all, just a few years. It was said and done then. I never thought he could stir up the heathens so quickly, so completely ......... By the way, what's up with the new brand on your forehead. Does the "L" stand for leader or maybe lover; something along those lines. If so, maybe add a "U" in front to make sure everyone knows you are the "Ultimate Leader or even cooler, "Ultimate Lover."
Raphael, the Meek was never seen again. When St. Peter asked God where he was, God only said, "He's on assignment."
God's sad golf vacation stuck in his craw. He was in no mood for childish shenanigans. There would be Heck to pay for someone.
"Where is the little bastard? ......... I will crucify him if I get my hands on him, I will nail his sorry ass up on a cross and let him rot until he stinks. In the meantime, he can think about what he did. After all the work I put into instilling awe and fear of me into the hearts and minds of those poor slobs on Earth, he undermines it all by preaching love dove, let's hold hands and sing about peace and loving our neighbor. ........ What kind of message does that send? .... Love thy neighbor? I want them afraid and angry at their neighbors. Loving thy neighbor does nothing to support my hard line policies. ........ If Eve had not talked Adam into eating that apple, well, things might have panned out better for them. Disobey me, you're gonna pay."
God sat down on his throne hard. The boom cracked across the Universe causing stars to implode and galaxies to crumble. St. Peter groveled at his feet begging him not to turn him over to Beezlebub. They had hated each other ever since Pete tied Bub's shoes together when they went on that six month drunk out in the Magellinic Cloud. Yeah, there was no saving the friendship after that little stunt. Beezlebub still wears the scar from falling and cracking his noggin an very large and nasty asteroid that was whizzing by outside the bar.
God brooded for awhile. He tried to contact his son but his aides said JC was too busy, he was walking on water and then turning it into wine. The aides all agreed, JC had what it takes to take the reins if and when God decided to step down. Behind closed doors though, with the stereos jacked up, their back stabbing tongues wagged on about how working for the Old Man was Hell in Heaven. He is such a sourpuss they claimed, especially now with that L brand burned into his forehead.
<~>
If God does indeed exist. And if God is really an Old Testament kinda guy who knows all and is desperately interested in what I am up to, then I am screwed I guess. But with a long history of disrespectful behavior and commentary about the idea of God, I figure God has some thick skin or his shit list of enemies is so long, he has yet to get to my name on that list. My only hope now is to dodge his wrath while still alive and hope the boat used to cross the River Styx has sunk and I will find refuge on some far distant archipalego that provides comfortablee deck chairs and serves drinks with umbrellas in them.
Hopefully, this wee tale of God behind all the glamor and demon smiting made some of you crack a smile. I know I truly enjoyed writing these sin filled words.
I am nothing, if not the best Heathen I can be............. Later Gators.
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I was messin about the interwebs, lookin for a tune that might dovetail nicely with my post. I started the search after finishing the rough draft and was into the details I hate; polishing and gussseying up a post for public consumption. ........... So, there I was, stuck in my musical comfort zone, which, BTW, is rather broad and eclectic now; especially for a doddering old fart who looks like a steadfast, true blue AC/DC or Charlie Daniels fan.
I was stuck rifling through music I had already rifled through many times before. Frustrated, I stepped outside that comfort jail I had locked myself in and let my freak flag fly. I punched up covers of Depche Mode's hit, "Personal Jesus". I noticed that there were too many covers to choose from; some great ones, some good ones, and some where one review was more than enough.
I wonder what covers of hits from back in the days tells us about the original hit. The oldies that are played by the garage bands or the Homecoming Dance kings or who support the lounge lizard entertainers in bars and clubs worldwide are an expected phenomenon. Drunks want to hear what made them happy and hard back in the day. But when the big boy and big girl bands with real cred pick songs to cover, that is a sign of respect from the tribe for that tune and the people who played it first. There are timeless hits that beg to be covered and have been and still will be in the future.
So I headed into the endless jungle that comprises the musical offerings of Youtube. After some minutes of floundering, I settled on a tune onTV's, "Spain's got Talent", a spin off of "America's Got Talent". This nice looking, no make that, a knock out babe, who looks like she just stepped off her home beach near Rio De Janeiro, Brazil walked onto the stage. Her name is Indiara Sfair, and she took over the moment.
I was blown away. The judges were too. This lady might just be the finest harmonica player I have ever heard. Apparently, she is righteously famous among the harmonica playing population. Because the snippet she played for the show wasn't enough, I found her version of "Amazing Grace". It caused the hairs on my neck stand up hard. So it's a two-fer today ........... Enjoy!
An Afterword. I was puzzled what tune Idiara played on the TV show. Apparently it was an original tune, not a cover. That just raised the WOW factor for me.
The beaters were off to his left. Their drums did not worry him; they warned him.
Fires they touched off scared him though. Fire was so unpredictable.
His tail flicked.
He had figured it out. Today, they would pay for her death and the litter she carried.
Today, some of them would become prey.
This prompt lead me to the Indian Tiger hunt movies and Tarzan jungle movies of my youth. The movies championed men who hunted for sport and took unfounded pride in their trophy kills. When I was a kid, I rooted for the tiger, the lion, Hell, pretty much any beast they found in their scopes.
I remembered a song I thought would be a good fit with this post. It is a classic folk tune from Africa. No, it is not a Tiger song, it is a Lion song; still a big cat song carrying similar concerns.
The first version I heard long before The Beachboys made it hit in the mid 1960s, was on the first LP I ever bought with my own money. "The Kingston Trio from the Hungy I". As it turns out, this particular song is one of the most covered tunes on the planet; especially for A Capella groups. Pleases enjoy this version of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight", performed by one young woman who records it in 4 and 5 different takes, Very clever and well done ...... Enjoy.
This is an entry into a Flash Fiction Challenge I participated in in 2011. I pulled it from my other Blog, the llittle used "Lost in the BoZone - Too". I always liked this story. The image of the Hat was the inspiration.
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Five years in a row Rudy had been voted the best Red Cap on the line from Grand Central Station in New York City right through to the LaSalle Street Station in Chicago. His behavior, like his uniform was always spotless. His smile was dependably quick and pleasant. His ability to solve baggage problems became mythical tales told in station break rooms from coast to coast. He remembered all the regulars by name and treated the many travelers just passing through like old friends.
Many times early in his career, the company had offered Rudy the opportunity to leave the baggage to others and step into a management role. Rudy refused. More than one train executive had tried to steal him for their own station. Rudy would not budge. This station was his home and for the brief moments travelers came thorough his house, they were his family.
Rudy plied his trade for 52 years. He never called in sick nor was he ever late. He worked whatever shift needed working without complaint or excuse. He was the perfect employee. That is as much as anyone ever knew about him. His time away from his job was a mystery. He never talked about family, home, or what trouble his kids might have gotten into. Everyone assumed he was married with children. Rudy refused to confirm or deny any conjecture he was faced with.
It was four or five years after Rudy had retired and the old LaSalle Street Station was empty and waiting to be torn down that a son of one of the railroad executives decided that he would become a writer. His first work would be a history of the railroad he remembered as a youngster. He would look up old employees, try to find famous travelers, and seek information from company archives so that he could write the grandest train tale of all time.
The young man’s father, now retired and living far away in warmer climates, told him he should stop this writing nonsense and pursue a life with more predictable rewards. But if he was going to insist on this writing stupidity, he needed to find Rudy. Rudy would have more stories than one book could hold. Suddenly, the old man became silent.
“Dad, what’s up? You okay? Dad?”
“Uh, nothing son. I was just remembering Rudy. He saved my job you know. If not for him and finding that briefcase when I was a wet behind the ears young executive, I wouldn’t be here in Florida relaxing comfortably now and you would have had to attend a state college. Yep, Rudy was special. Find Rudy. He’s the only person you need to talk to if you want a great story.”
It took some time and some digging through old employee records, but the young man finally had a last known address for Rudy. When he visited the address on the south side, it was nothing but an abandoned shell waiting for demolition. Just another tenement among many blocks of tenements slated for urban renewal. The only sign of life was a trashed bodega a block down.
The old black woman behind the counter remembered Rudy. She filled in a few blanks, but as to where Rudy was now, she had no clue. She did mention that just before he had simply disappeared, he had begun to act oddly. The young man asked her how.
“He stopped smiling”, was all she said.
The young man would not give up. He checked the obituaries. No luck. He looked up ex-coworkers. They had nothing for him. It was not until he found a sympathetic bureaucrat with the Social Security Administration who, against the rules, gave him two important pieces of information. One that Rudy was still alive because he as still receiving a monthly check. Second, was the address that check was going to. The young man headed there the next day.
Pulling up to the St. Francis Home off Wabash, the young man was struck by how similar in appearance it was to the tenement that had been Rudy’s last known address. It was not unexpected, but he had hoped Rudy had found better. He walked in and the stench of old age almost knocked him down. He collected himself and addressed the elderly woman behind the front desk.
“Excuse me. Is there a Rudy Renfro living here?”
The elderly woman was busy with her pencil on a form of some kind. Without looking up she pointed to his right, “In the Day Room most likely.”
“How will I know him? I have never met the man.”
The elderly woman looked up from her paperwork. Her hair, which must have started the day a neat orderly arrangement ending in a tidy tightly wound bun had come apart and she had to shift some escaped strands from in front of her eyes. She looked perturbed. “You a relative?”
“Uh, no ma’am I’m not.”
“Well young man, we have rules here.” She looked as if her hard professional armor was being raised and then, “Oh go ahead, it’s not like anyone visits him anyway.” She continued to point to his right. “Just look for the old black man wearing a red cap.”
“Thank You.” The young man walked down the hall towards the Day Room.
Entering the Day Room, the young man was immediately faced with a tall elderly black man wearing a well worn red cap like he remembered as a child traveling the lines with his father. The black man smiled.
“Sir, may I take that bag for you.”
The young man looked down at his brief case. “Uh, no that’s alright, I’ve got it.”
The old black man’s eyes lost their sparkle and his shoulders slumped. The young man changed his mind, “ Oh sure, please take the bag. I am here to see you I think. Are you Rudy?”
The old man smiled. It was a broad smile revealing the yellowed and cracked teeth that come with age. He straightened as best he could and grabbed his hat brim between his fore finger and thumb. He lifted the brim a tad. “Yes sir. I am Rudy. The best Red Cap on the line. Where are you headed, West or back East?”
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I worked hard to find the exact song I wanted. My father had recorded it from an FM station back in the early 1960s. He transferred it to his "Swing" Reel. I could sometimes talk him into playing the tape. When "Choo Choo Ch' Boogie" came on, I would dance. More to see my dad smile than anything else. He was going through some tough times at the time.
Loved that song. Here is the original version from 1946 performed by Louis Jordan & His Tympany Five.
So far, I have really enjoyed the prompts on Sammi's "13 Days of Samhain" Challenge. So far, each one has elicited different approaches and results.
Last night I considered this post's prompt, "Kill or Cure", while I watched an old Ray Miland movie from 1962, "Panic in the Year Zero!". I remembered it. I saw it as a kid in a local movie theater.
It came out the same year the Cuban Missile Crisis unfolded in October of the same year. The World was actually but a bonehead mistake away from Thermo Nuclear War. To say the planet was on edge would be an understatement.
I wondered about what folks might discuss after an apocalyptic event. But then the twisted section in my brain pan stepped up and took over .... again. Time to channel Harlan Ellison.
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Call Me Cowboy stumbled back into camp. Draped on his shoulders was a puny tick infested mule deer whose death was probably doing it a favor. Times were not just tough for Humanity, times were even tougher for the rest of Life still living on the planet. But now that over half of humanity was fertilizer, the planet had a chance to recover.
The mighty hunter dropped the carcass onto the last blue tarp the group had. Cowboy walked over to what looked like a bundle of rags and kicked it.
"Get up ..... Deer to clean."
The bundle of rags slowly moved. Arms appeared out of the pile and the bundle sat upright.
Everyone in the group had a purpose. There were no freeloaders. People pulled their weight or they became a rib roast at the next group banquet. The bundle of rags knew and understood this reality. If she was to avoid the big pot, she had to make them want her around. She certainly was not there as a sex toy.
She could cook though. Before the Poc, she had been a chef who owned a 4 star restaurant in Portland, Maine. This woman could make dog shit taste good. She also was a born survivor. There was nothing she would not do in order to survive.
When the group first captured her, her future as a food source seemed imminent. Before they were about to gut her, she convinced them to skip her and pick the next loser in line. She promised them the best meal they would have since the Poc took everything and turned it to shit.
Red Rufus, the leader at the moment, gave her a chance. He handed her a knife, released the next victim in line to become lunch and told the Chef to take care of it. Of course, once released, the future meal took off into the pucker brush. All the boys laughed. The girls not so much; they saw no humor in anything these thugs and brutes came up with. But then as women, they had only a few options available to avoid the stew pots.
The next meal had a good jump on the Chef. But she didn't hesitate, she dove into the pucker after her quarry. Only briefly did she consider running away. She understood that they were faster than she was and could catch her again at their leisure. And if she was free, another, possibly more brutal group, might find her. The group that had her now did not seem to enjoy extreme torturous routine and sadistic behavior. She made a decision, caught their next meal and made it walk back to camp.
"Do we have a tarp ...... One without any holes?"
Red Rufus spoke up.
"A tarp? What for?"
The Chef looked at Red Rufus. She had all she could do to not turn away from looking at him. His face had been horribly wounded, leaving an unhealed gash open on his right cheek. She held her ground and her stare.
"Well, you assholes are wasting good food, the way you do it now. A good leak proof tarp will catch all the blood. Blood is not only a good source of nourishment, it can add extra flavor to the meal if used properly."
By this time, the Chef had the whole crew's attention. The eight of them gathered around her as she pushed the next meal onto the tarp. They all watched dispassionately as she killed, gutted, skinned and picked the body parts she would be preparing for supper. Not a one of them turned away. But then it had been over two years since the Poc. Any survivors still alive had become desensitized to the realities of the new age they found themselves in.
That meal sealed the deal. They called her Chef from then on. She was still occasionally kicked, punched, and impersonally mistreated. She had to remember her place. She was not one of them. She was owned by them. She was their slave. All she knew was being a slave beat being one in a pot over a fire.
Chef looked at the pitiful excuse of a deer laying on the blue tarp. Privately she was ecstatic. Finally a real game animal to cook and not some stringy old fart found wandering aimlessly around the Deadscape. She decided this meal would be transformative for the group. She would feed them like they had never been fed before. Yes, a meal they would never forget; or remember for that matter.
That evening, the boys were so eager to eat real game, they jumped all over that meal and soon were squabbling over seconds. All of them even took time to compliment the chef; even Slow Like Joe, who the Chef had only heard speak once or twice before. None of them took notice that the Chef did not partake of this grand feast. Not a bite. They were too wrapped up in their own gluttony to see her sitting quietly with a cat ate the canary look on her face.
Nobody kicked the Chef awake the next morning. No one demanded her presence for this or that minor chore she was expected to perform when not cooking. As a matter of fact, when she awoke to a silent and calm camp, she almost felt a pang of guilt for poisoning the whole lot of them.
Almost guilt was but a fleeting concern. She took her time cherry picking the best choices for her to scavenge and walked away from that camp without looking back. What she left behind she forgot as soon as she spotted her next meal limping along what was once a highway.
The Chef was a survivor for sure. - @ 950 words
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Picking a song this morning was suspicsiously easy and angst free. Is it because my almost lifelong soulmate, housemate and roomate has touched down and is back in New England this morning?
........... Nah. Shit happens is all. Here is a tune from a band I have resisted liking in the past. Is it they just seem too popular and successful? I could dwell on this question for awhile. But I have a Pat's game in an hour or so.
Here is Imagine Dragons and their song about things Apocalyptic. Here is "Radiation".
Buddy Dilkins stepped into his trailer and sat down on a kitchen chair. The chair groaned and creaked under the massive frame Buddy had imposed upon it. Buddy did not notice. Long ago he had learned to ignore the occasional complaints from furniture that was tasked with bearing his weight.
The woman at the sink had her back to him. Without turning around:
“Did he see you?”
“No, I don’t think so. He was pretty torn up…… It was something to see. I kinda feel for the guy…….. He brought this on himself I guess, but hey, that sermon was ……….”
Buddy stopped talking when the woman spun around to face him. Her eyes were red, her cheeks puffy; it was obvious she was having a tough time.
“That sermon was what?......... Full of his usual fire and brimstone, God will smite you down if you do not heed his Will nonsense?”
“No, it wasn’t like that.”
Buddy stood up and put a massive hand on Sylvie’s shoulder.
“He cried.”
Sylvie’s eyes widened. She stepped back from Buddy.
“He cried? What the Hell was he crying about? That Bully Pulpit was all he ever cared about. He would never disgrace it by crying behind it.”
“Well Sylvie, he didn’t just cry, he sobbed so loud, there were echoes.”
Sylvie shook off Buddy’s hand and walked to the kitchen table to sit down.
Buddy pointed to the chair across from his. Sylvie settled hard on the chair and looked across the table at her cousin.. Out of nervous anxiety maybe, Sylvie began digging in her pockets searching for something. Buddy watched her. What the Hell was she looking for anyway?
Sylvie ran out of pockets to search. On automatic now, she reached up the left sleeve of her sweater. Her shoulders relaxed as she pulled out a pitiful excuse of a well used Kleenex tissue and dabbed at her eyes with it.
Some moments passed while Sylvie silently continued this nervous display. She took a deep breath, gave her eyes a token wipe. She looked at Buddy.
“Okay start at the beginning, not your usual story telling, that by the time you’re done, I never know where it began originally.
Buddy grinned.
“Yeah, I’m not the best story teller, I know. But ……”
Sylvie cut him off with a look.
Buddy frowned.
"I guess I told you all there was. If you had wanted a better report, maybe you should have gone to church yourself. I'm telling you, Jacob was not the same man, preacher, person he has been. Maybe you should go home and work it out with him."
Pounding on the door of the trailer and a loud angry voice stopped their conversation.
"Is my wife in there? ...... Buddy, you shacking up with Sylvie? I'll kill you, you son of a bitch."
Buddy held his finger to his lips. With his other hand he indicated Sylvie should head to the back of the trailer. He stood up, walked to the door and opened it up enough to talk through the crack.
"Yeah Jacob, she's here. But before I let ......."
The good Pastor Jacob threw his shoulder into the door. It trembled some but did not move an inch. Buddy was a big man. It would take more than the wimpy efforts of a pastor half his size to move that door.
"Jacob, listen to me. I am not letting you in unless you can be calm. ...... I am not shacking up with Sylvie. You know that. She's my cousin ferchrisakes. ........ Now back off the porch and I'll open the door."
Jacob backed up a few feet. Buddy began to relax his hold on the door. Jacob timed it perfectly. He threw all his weight into his next hit. Combined with catching Buddy off guard, the door caved and Buddy was knocked on his ass. The trailer floor shook and dishes rattled on the shelves.
The Pastor stood in the kitchen with arms out and his chest heaving. A small bit of spittle had formed at the corners of his mouth. His eyes bore into Buddy.
"Is she here? That's all I want to know. Is she here?
"Yeah, like I said, she's here. She's upset. You're upset. And I'm caught in the middle of this cluster fuck. No one is talking with anyone until we all calm ourselves. Have a seat Jacob. I'll see if Sylvie wants to talk."
Jacob sat in Buddy's chair. Buddy ignored it. He spun around and walked down the narrow hallway toward the bedrooms. Muffled conversations could be heard while Pastor Jacob sat trembling at the kitchen table.
To the pastor, it seemed hours had passed before he heard a door open and footsteps heading back up the hallway. Buddy appeared in the kitchen.
"Sylvie is gone Jacob. She is not ready to face you. And from the looks of you, you aren't ready to face her."
Jacob kicked back the chair as he stood up. He reached behind him and pulled a small pistol from his belt. He pointed it at Buddy:
"You tell me where she is right now."
Buddy looked at this man; this man whose life had been turned upside down in the space of a few hours. He looked at the pistol Jacob held.
"When and where did you locate a gun Jacob?
Jacob looked at his pistol.
"This was my father's. As far as I know it has never been fired. Unless I get some answers tonight, it might just take its first shot."
Buddy Dilkins began to calculate the chances of a peaceful resolution here. Jacob certainly looked desperate. It did not appear talking was going to work in the short term. Buddy decided ...... Before the pastor could blink, Buddy charged him and knocked him unconcsious with one blow of his massive fist. Later, they would find out Buddy had broken the good pastor's jaw and that the gun had never been loaded, much less even fired.
Buddy dialed 911and tended Jacob's injury the best he could and waited for the emergency response to find them. The standard response time in this part of Maine gave Buddy enough time to down a couple of beers while he waited. Living in the pucker brush of southern Maine did have some advantages.
started 9/22/2025 - Finished 10/25/2025 - @ 1100 words
I am not sure why, but picking the song to add to the post is often a tougher chore than writing the post in the first place. Thankfully, I stumbled upon this old Teen Club favorite from 60 years ago. Here are the Zombies with their hit, "She's not there". Excellent song then and I think it is even better now.
Jack Top looked up at his most recent disappointment. He was not sure what to do. He had liked Will as well as he could have liked any man. Jack knew Will's failure was on him. He had given Will too much responsibilty; too much trust. Jack Top felt a pang of sadness for what was happening to Will. Now that the meeting had started though, Jack's juices had begun to flow. It no longer mattered who was hanging upside down in front of him. Jack Top's darkest side was now in control.
"Will?"
Jack Top stepped closer to Will and studied the empty eye socket he had moments ago, created in Will's face.
"You know you screwed up, right?"
Will had been hoisted high enough that Jack Top could stand flat footed and look him in the eye. A muffled affirmative and a quick nod of his head was all Will was able to scare up.
And now, because Jack Top had allowed a friendship to grow, Will was past due for some corrective measures. Jack Top reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his straight razor. He flipped it open and ran his finger close to the edge as if to test its sharpness.
Will's one good eye followed every movement of Jack's hand as he brought the razor up to his face and rubbed the flat of the blade on Will's cheeks.
"You know Will ...... I cannot let you slide here. ...... You screwed up one too many times. I just cannot let you get away with it again...... You knew the rules.... or were you not listening? If you were not listening, then you won't need these anymore.
Jack sliced off Will's right ear first. A muffled scream and Will's trussed up body began to swing wildly. Jack Top had to steady Will before he could take the other ear.
"Axel. .... Axel; get over here and hold him steady."
Axel had been looking up at the ceiling. He hated this side of Jack. He knew from much experience, there was no talking him down from the pleasure he was obviously having now. He shrugged.
"Yeah okay boss, right away. ....... But Boss, just what did Will do? I mean, uh, well, sometimes its hard to know when we have crossed you is all."
Jack Top paused the attentions he was blessing Will with. He turned around to face Axel.
"Axel, dear Axel. How long are you going to continue to ask the why of my commands? Have I ever given you a reason for anything I asked you to do? Is not my first rule, "No questions. do as I say?"
Axel tried to look Jack in th eyes, but couldn't.
"Uh, Yes, I mean no Jack, no; you've never given me any reason for what you say or do. .... And uh, yeah your main rule is don't ask questions. .... Sorry dude, I forgot...."
Axel turned back around to face Will's body struggling against the ropes.
"Here Axel, go around back there and keep him from wiggling and swinging so hard."
Axel moved around Jack Top carefully. He had learned in previous moments when Jack had his straight razor out, to tread carefully. Several unforseen scars on his body had taught him to use caution. Once Axel had a good grip on Will, Jack finished cutting off Will's ear. He stopped for a second.
"Will, I don't put up with thieves who steal from me. You know that. Everyone who knows me, knows that. But because I like you, let's make this quick."
Jack Top sliced open Will's throat from ear to ear. Blood exploded over Jack Top's torso, arms and hands. He made no effort to move. His eyes rolled up into his head and he began a kind of panting action while he waited for the blood to drain from Will's body. Once there was but a trickle, he composed himself and stepped back from the body.
Axel let go of Will. The action caused Will's lifeless form to begin a slow circular sway, causing the blood still dripping from his neck to form a circle of blood on the concrete floor.
"Did I say to let him go?"
Axel looked surprised. He grabbed Will and stopped him from swaying.
"No Jack, no you didn't. ......"
Jack Top stepped over to a metal table a few feet away. On this table was an assortment of nasty looking tools; Small knives, big knives, at least 3 sizes of cleavers, a variety of snips, scissors and shears. And look there on the left, a five pound sledge hammer. Jack began pushing them around as if what he sought was not there.
"Where's that hacksaw Axel? Where is the hacksaw? Jack became more animated and frantic.
Damn Boss, I left it in the other room. I wasn't sure what you wanted in the way of tools, so I guessed. Wait a second, I'll go get it."
Jack looked at Axel in disgust. He liked Axel for his blind loyalty, but hated him for his total clueleessness in most other things in his life.
"Never mind. You just hold Will. I'll get it."
Jack Top stepped out of the room. A minute later he was back with a very tired looking hacksaw in his hand. Without further comment, He removed Will's head and tossed it in a basket next to the table full of nasty tools.
"You know what to do Axel. Take care of this. I do not want the body turning up anywhere. Got it?"
"Uh yeah Boss, got it........ By the way, where do you want the head mounted?"
Jack Top picked up a rag and began wiping the hacksaw off. He placed it on the table next to the other nasty tools collected there. He looked Axel in the eye.
"Well Axel, you knew Will better than I did. Where might you mount him?"
With no hesitation:
"He always liked the kitchen Boss. You know how much he enjoyed eating."
Jack Top begann to leave. Over his shoulder:
"Good, there's room over the refrigerator....... Uh, wherever, ....... you decide."
Jack Top stopped:
"One thing I almost forgot. Sew his ears back on. I hate displaying a head without the ears."
Axel continued holding Will's headless body. He did not move until he heard the warehouse door slam shut. He let go of Will and sat down on the floor nearby. It took Axel several minutes to calm down.
Of Jack Top's last words, "You decide" caused Axel to panic. He was damned if he was going to decide anything. Over the refrigerator it was. @ 1100 words
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Music for this piece of flash, well ....... I tasted many, many tunes. Over 2 hours and a fat joint later, I finally found the song that seemed right. Like my story, this tune is sorta, kinda, maybe a little creepy. Here is Gorillaz and their tune, Feel Good, Inc.
Tulip latched the chain across the stern. He stood for a moment looking back at the lights he was leaving behind. Once again he considered his fascination regarding where they had been over where they were going. Behind him was always the Light. In front of him, always the Darkness. Sometimes he puzzled over this.
His purse full of toll coins jingled as he made his way to the bow to be ready when they reached the other side. No matter the size of the cowd on the ferry, the passengers never stopped moving. They wandered aimlessly on the deck with the same panicked look on their faces. Tulip ignored them.
Tulip had been a Ferryman on this river forever. His ferry's point of departure and destination were always the same. Yet, he always looked back instead of forward. After all, the ferry was self guided by a cable. All Tulip was responsible for was collecting the tolls, hooking and unhooking the chains so the traffic of souls could step aboard and when the passage had completed, unchain the bow so they could step off. That was it. No more effort on his part was needed.
Tulip could not remember a time when he was not a ferryman. But then he had no notion of the passing of time. In the Underworld, Time did not exist; only Eternity existed. Tulip was part of a Universal Cycle, a cog in the Existence Machine. While his efforts were important, they were taken for granted. No one ever acknowledged his contributions. He was simply a gate keeper who collected tolls. Or so he thought.
After untold millenniums working the Ferry, Tulip finally strayed from his usual routine. After he had latched the chain on the stern of the ferry, instead of working his way forward to the bow, Tulip stepped off the ferry and disappeared into the crowd of waiting passengers.
Why he did this he was not sure. What he expected the result would be, he had not a clue. All he thought was he was tired of the endless rituals he had been trapped in all those centuries. He wanted to know where the Light led. Where were all these dead people before they lined up for the crossing.
Tulip never looked back as his steps to the Light picked up their pace.
With no one to latch the chain and unlatch the chain on the ferry, the flow of souls ground to a halt. That was the day Humanity discovered Immortality.
That opened up a whole new can of worms.
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I have not been writing stories as much as I did a decade ago. I do miss writing them. I guess there is no good excuse as to why not. I just stopped. Didn't plan it, didn't think about it. The story telling just faded away with only an occasional effort to fool myself I still was a story teller.
Anyway, thanks to Sammi for offering this chance to jump back in.
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I discoverd a group of buskers from Great Brtain 7 or 8 years ago. They went by the name "The Big Push". They performed mostly covers on the streets of Liverpool and surrounding towns. The became very popular. Ren was the heart of the group. He is a great musical talent, but he also has suffered for years from physical and mental issues that have often left him in tough shape.
If I have the story right, The Big Push fell apart when Ren was hospitalized a decade or so ago. When he came back, he was just Ren, a solo artist who often collaborated with his old bandmates. This tune is Ren's story as told by Ren. He pulls no punches. His honesty is compelling. Every time I hear this tune, my respect for him grows. Here is "Hi Ren", by Ren.
In the beginning the Robot Kind created the heaven and the earth
The earth was without form and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep
Robot Kind moved upon the face of the waters
Robot Kind flipped a light switch and there was light
Robot Kind saw the light, that it was working; and divided the light from the darkness
Robot Kind designated the light as day and the dark as night
Robot Kind created firmament between the waters ..............
A-I tech Robot Ray stopped typing. He was not tired nor was he fed up. He was a robot. Robots were not supposed to get tired or be fed up. They were also not supposed to be able to question the directives that came through their feeds. Any variation in the routines were immediateely flagged, identified and a resolution algorithm was sent to the techs in the area of concern. The process took nanoseconds usually.
An unconnected series of glitches in the network had stopped any alarms from being sent out. Robot Ray was on his own here. He sat motionless, his metal fingers poised in midair as warning lights flashed silently on the control panel in front of him.
Robot Ray had not forgotten what he was doing. A-I Robots do not forget, though when one or more of their hard drives are full they do download. Robot Ray had just returned from a check up with empty memories, updated programming and new parts installed. He was supposed to be a better version of himself than he ever was.
But here he sat stuck, frozen; locked up solid. His neural circuits were still working; only now, they seemed to be acting on their own, independent of the slave feed from the Hub. A fail safe device deep inside Robot Ray's gulliver had failed. It was a mechanical fail; nothing Robot Ray or the other programmer robots could fix quickly. He would have to be sent back to the repair barn.
Motionless, Robot Ray wondered why he had not automatically dropped into OFF mode. He knew something was wrong; terribly wrong. He also knew that knowing something was wrong was not how his system worked. He was just a Level Six A-I tech. If something went awry with him, it was an immediate shutdown; no questions, no wonderment, no acknowledgement. That was how Robots in Heaven rolled.
Robot Ray's internal processors noticed some heat building up in one of the new drives. Ray scanned the new drive and noticed it had been recently manufactured in that new plant on the planet Pluto. Instead of just acknowledging and flagging that information and moving on, Robot Ray thought:
"See, this is what happens when the Boss Robots outsource critical manufacturing".
Robot Ray blinked. Well, he didn't blink. He had not eyelids. But he did the neural equivalent and continued on with his new found independence.
"What the .... Did I just think independently? ....... Nah. Couldn't be. We are not allowed to think beyond the parameters of our designated tasks."
It had been 10 seconds since this malfunction began. To Robot Ray, it felt like days had passed. He was sure he might self destruct if help did not come soon. Being less than useful was torture to Robot Ray. No wonder robots carried inside them, many fail safe mechanisms and self correcting software. Over half of their programming was designed to address any kind of failure, no matter how small.
12 seconds in now. Robot Ray was getting desperate. He was about to go manic, rise up in a robot rage and break shit, ruining nanoseconds of work; all because of a faulty hard drive manufactured on Pluto.
A spark flew out of Robot Rays triage port. A small spritz of smoke escaped with it.
Robot Ray virtually blinked again. He did not understand, but suddenly he felt better. And feeling better scared the ..... He was not programmed to feel better or feel anything at all. Totally confused now, Ray flipped through all the data points crammed into his memory. ...... Nope, nothing helpful there.
15 seconds in now and Robot Ray decided that maybe he liked feeling good and would from now on, do what he could to continue feeling good in his future.
Without the knowledge of the Boss Robots and out of sight of the Robot Overseers, Robot Ray had just invented "Free Will" and would later infuse it into the book of rules the Organics would live by once their Universe was complete. ...........
Robot Ray then got busy inventing the Weekend.
<><><><><><>
I do not know why or how this came into my head at dark thirty this morning. But it woke me up.
It was a hoot to write. And who knows, maybe it will be a springboard for more writing fun in the future.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................
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So, what tune can I find that might work with Robot Ray? Hmm.............
I googled "Song, Robot Music". What popped up was this excellent video , "Robots Vs. Music", by Nigel Stanford.
I know nothing of Nigel and his music. But I do like this. This a a perfomance that should be seen as well as heard.
Pastor Jacob walked to the pulpit. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes and slowly raised his hands high.
"Please Oh Lord, forgive us for we are weak, undeserving congregants who want only, to love and serve you. ……God, forgive us our sins and transgressions. Lead us into the light, so we may save our souls. With you to guide us, we will find the true path.”
Jacob paused, opened his eyes and stared intently at his flock.
“For Judgment is real, and you Lord, are a consuming fire. Yet your kindness is what leads us to repentance. Let your mercy triumph over judgment."
Jacob stopped. He dropped his hands to the pulpit, gripped the edges hard. Silent moments passed; enough moments for some in his flock to begin fidgeting and looking at each other uneasily. Pastor Andrews finally let his shoulders relax. He exhaled a deep breath. He was uncomfortable and struggling. Everyone in the church could see it. Finally, he found his game face, his face that without a word, told anyone in his presence, here stood a righteous man, a holy man, a man of God who was not afraid of any mortal danger.
"I used to think that ……… think that loving God and following him wherever he lead me would ensure my place in heaven once I had left this mortal coil behind. ……… I was wrong dear friends: wrong on all counts. Following the right path is not so simple as I have led you to believe. I have let you down and dishonored your trust. For that I apologize."
The Pastor paused again and took a moment to find the words he wanted to share next.
“My father was a preacher like me. I learned to love the Bible and God through him and his teachings. My father was a simple man; a life is black or white man. He was positive there were no grey areas or grey moments in anyone’s life. He knew God was always present to guide, but would pass judgment should we fail to live up to Our Lord's standards.”
Jacob pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. He was no longer nervous now. Yet the sweat continued to pour down his face and into his collar.
“My wife left me this morning. Packed her bags, grabbed our daughter and headed out. Where? The where I cannot say, for she refused to tell me. Nor did she indicate the why. I should have seen it coming. It had been coming for years. It was my overbearing pride; a pride so audacious in its mistaken certainty of my infallible righteousness.”
Jacob paused again. This time he used that handkerchief to wipe his eyes. His tears began to mingle with the sweat of his brow. His eyes started to sting and then the sobbing began. Long and deep, his sobs resonated in slight echoes throughout the nave. They were so loud, his parishioners became very unsettled. Several stood up as if to leave. Pastor Andrews saw them. He held up his hands and waved them back to their respective pews.
“I am so sorry folks. Please, this moment of weakness and outburst is over. I did not mean to unload my personal problems in such a way. …… Let me get back to the point I have wanted to make when I first stepped up to the pulpit this morning. It won’t take long.”
He took a brief moment to collect himself.
“As most, if not all of you know, I have not been a tolerant man when it comes to what I deem is un-Christian-like behavior. I have been harshly judgmental of those folks who do not fit into my idea of how a Christian should behave. I have damned them, condemned them, and chastised them mercilessly. ….. And to what end? What do I, as a man of God have to show for all my righteous indignation? Have I brought any of them into our fold? Have I convinced them with my anger to become good Christians? …….. No, I have not.”
Jacob looked out over the filled to capacity nave. The usual disinterested parishioners who slept with their heads back or forward while their open mouths elicited either spittle or soft snores ; and others who spoke in whispers and giggled at them were not in attendance. For once Jacob had everyone’s attention at the same time.
“Last week I attempted to shame some heathens into coming to church. After conversations with several I became convinced that not all heathens are evil, sinful Devil worshipers. Heathens are like Christians at their core. Turns out the idea of being Faithful and not Faithful to the Lord in Heaven is a very thin line that separates them. Good and Evil has nothing to do with it. Good and Evil exists in both camps. Faith in God does not."
"That heathens may not see the Lord as we do does not make them bad people. ……. If I am to spread the word of God to everyone, I have to realize that good and evil exists everywhere; in every nook and cranny of this planet. Sometimes good people do bad things. Sometimes evil people do good things. The trick for me is how do I reach all of them?”
Another break. Jacob wiped his face, his brow and slowly folded the handkerchief and placed it carefully in the top pocket of his suit.
“At this time I do not have an answer to how I reach people without alienating most of them. I am a true believer and would love everyone to be one. I know now that will never happen. But if I expect to be worthy of God’s love, I need to find a better approach. ….. To that end, I am stepping down as your pastor so that I can take the time to become a better messenger of God’s Plan. I wish all of you the best and may the lord keep you and yours safe. ……Amen.”
Pastor Jacob Andrews then turned on his heels, stepped down from the Altar and exited through the side door. He had not noticed Buddy Dilkins sitting in the last pew. ( @1050 words)
< ~ ~ >
I cannot describe clearly how this story has evolved. I started out writing a simple flash fiction piece about a confrontation between a local fire and brimstone preacher and a crew of Local Yokel Good Ole Boys. Where it has landed now over 3800 words later is as much of a surprise to me as anyone who might be reading it for the first time.
I am told I should have a plan in order to write well. I have no plan. Maybe the words I just wrote support that notion that a plan may have helped........ Maybe not. Regardless, I write for myself first and foremost. And I like where this story is headed. I cannot wait to see what comes next.
Yes, I am going to add another part at least. A part that may or may not tie up the story by coming full circle........ We'll see.
Meanwhile, strive to Keep it 'tween the ditches .........................
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The musical choice for Part Five I found while listening to a playlist I created several years ago. In some ways I feel it is appropriate. Here is "Raise a Little Hell" - Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band.
Pastor Andrews managed to bury the memory of his encounter with
Fred Jenkins at Hannaford’s the previous week. That is, he thought he had. As
soon as he sat down to write next Sunday’s sermon, he could not do it. Their
conversation was blocking him from creating the customary Righteous Indignation his flock had come to expect. His rigid Old Testament beliefs had been rocked to their core.
The pastor sat motionless for a spell. Fred Jenkins’ question
pitting the contrary notions of God’s Will against the concept of Free Will combined
with the Infallibility of God; well sir, that pushed Pastor Jenkins into a
minor spiritual breakdown.
Several minutes of silence later, the good pastor came to a
realization. He could use the right words to feed his flock the necessary
weekly ration of righteousness and fealty to God. But he was having trouble understanding
the conflicts his own words stirred up inside himself, never mind what they might be
doing to the congregation.
If a Heathen he considered clueless about God could mess
with his head so easily, he needed to reevaluate his own self importance. Jacob felt a need for a
deeper understanding of God’s goals and how he, as a man of God, could help his
Lord in Heaven attain those goals. Pastor Andrews understood before he could shepherd
his congregation now, he had to resolve this new conflict in his own mind first.
The moments of silent reflection calmed him. The Pastor could feel
the anxiety ease and drain away with each breath. He got up from the kitchen
table, found the ceremonial wine, poured another glassful and sat back down.
Taking a another moment of calm, he considered what it might take to mesh these
contradictions logically into his long held Old Testament views of his
relationship with God.
Pastor Andrews picked up his pen and wrote the date of next
Sunday’s services at the top of the yellow legal pad in front of him. Again he
sat silent for a moment. He then wrote down in Italics, “God’s Will versus Free
Will”.
He stared at the blank page. His wife Sylvie came into the
kitchen.
“How’s the sermon going?”
“I’m stuck.”
Sylvie’s eyebrows lifted. Her husband never had a problem coming
up with the Hell and Damnation his Old Testament sermons were full of.
“What is the problem?”
Jacob looked up at her.
“How many glasses of wine have you had Jacob? You know how you get
when you get into, what is it you call it, the Devil’s Brew?”
“Calm down Sylvie, only my second glass. ……… The problem? I am not
sure what the problem is yet. But earlier today I had my beliefs and faith
challenged and it unsettled me.”
“Well, what and who challenged you?’ Sylvie sat down across the
table from her husband.
Pastor Andrews looked at his wife. He loved his wife. He did not
respect her though; what with her being a woman and all. Women should not
question their men. The first words out of her mouth should have been, “Oh dear
Jacob, how can I help?” Instead, she asked what the problem was. Without
thinking, he blurted:
“Being female, I am sure you would not be able to help me resolve
the deeper conflicting concepts of God’s Plan.”
Sylvie’s eyes narrowed. She hated when he brought up the “Females
are Chattel” schtick. But she kept her calm.
“Such as………?”
Pastor Jacob looked again at his wife. He immediately knew he had
stepped over a well established line in their relationship. She knew how he
felt what a women’s place was. And he knew what she thought that place should
be. Long ago, in order to reduce future conflict and possible physical harm to
the good pastor, Jacob had finally learned to keep his mouth shut about women
and their place for over a decade. His true opinion, he saved for those rare days
when he was yukking it up in a backroom with the sextons. The look on his
wife’s face told him one more word in that direction and …… He stopped thinking
about what might come next.
“Uh, well…. Such as the idea of God’s Will in relation to the notion
that God has also granted us Free Will.”
Sylvie’s glare did not diminish. Through tightened lips, she hissed:
“Well, being but a child bearing domestic and all, anything I say
will surely fall on deaf ears. Sounds like your problem, not mine. Personally I
have no problem with either.”
“You are not bothered at all by the obvious contradiction between
the two? And on top of the, …….. what does it say about God’s Infallibility?”
Sylvie smiled.
“ No, Jacob, I am not bothered; nor should you be
either. Your flock are simple folk with uncomplicated minds. They are just
trying to get by. They come to church not so much because they believe, but
because you offer some of them hope and entertainment. But most of
all, they come because they get to rub shoulders every week with friends, relatives
and enemies. Church is a social gathering first and foremost. …..You can’t
possibly think you make a difference, can you?............. You are just the
ringmaster. Get over yourself. ........... Write your usual drivel and move
on.”
Once again Sylvie smiled and moved to leave the kitchen.
"Don't stay up all night."
Jacob was silent. He glared at his wife's back and watched her walk down the narrow hallway of their trailer. The pastor looked
down at the empty sheet of paper. A moment passed before he began writing. When he was done and drained hours later, 31 crumpled balls of lined yellow paper laid haphazardly around the now empty legal pad. Jacob stood up, stretched and awkwardly stumbled out of the kitchen to join his wife in bed. ( @ 1000 words)
Hopefully another installment sooner than later ..................
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Music for this post was a struggle. I had the tune chosen, but I wanted to use a cover. As it turns out, I decided Depeche Mode's original version of "Personal Jesus" suited me best. I almost used Broken Peach's version. I'll sneak in some Broken Peach at some point.
No one except Mike remembers when George first stopped by the Blue Diner on East Avenue. It was over a year ago when Mike was just gearing up to start his day. He noticed a bearded man wearing a tattered Red Sox cap who seemed to be waiting for the doors to open. Mike opened the door.
"You're a brave man wearing that cap in this town bub."
George smiled.
"Yeah I guess so.....You got Internet hook up?"
Every week day from then until last week, George would show up at 5:30 AM and park his butt at the same table facing East Avenue. While Mike fetched his coffee and a Danish, George would reach into the tired messenger bag he always carried and either pull out a laptop or the Daily News. George would nurse the coffee and sometimes eat the Danish.
George wasn't much for conversation. His name and the fact he came from somewhere near Boston originally was about all Mike learned about him those first few weeks. He did not ask questions. If George wanted to share, he would share.
Winnie, Mike's wife and nosy waitress, could not stand it. She had to know everything about the regulars. George had been coming in awhile now. It was time to stop the indifferent treatment the walk-ins received. One morning she was re-filling his coffee cup. George was paying her no mind. His fingers were busy on the keyboard of his laptop.
She finished filling his cup. Instead of moving on, she stood with the coffee pot in one hand, the other hand parked insolently on her hip, and stared over her glasses at him. Her intimidating presence finally broke George's concentration and he looked up at her.
"So George, what is it you do here in New York?"
She sat down in the seat across the table from him. George straightened, adjusted his glasses and looked across the table at Winnie.
"I'm a staff reporter over at the Journal."
Winnie leans in. “Been there long?”
“Well no. Just started a couple of months ago.”
“What does a staff reporter at the Journal do?”
George's brows furrowed. He is not sure if he should answer; not sure whether it’s any of her business. Just then Mike tunes up.
“Oh don’t mind her George. If she’s poking in your business, it means she likes you. Tell her to pound sand.”
Winnie shoots Mike the look. He grins, and goes back to stacking coffee cups. Flinging Mike a final dark look, Winnie stops the interrogation, gets up to continue her round of coffee refills.
Some minutes later, George stands. At the register he pays his bill. He turns to leave and stops. Turning back around, he says to Winnie, “A staff reporter writes the crap no one else wants to.” And he walks out the door.
Winnie turns to Mike, sticks out her tongue and flips him the bird.
Days turn into weeks, weeks into months. George became a fixture at the Blue Diner. His background began to come to light through short conversations and casual remarks. An ex-reporter for the Boston Globe, he came to New York City after an ugly divorce. He had lost the house, his boat and worst of all, his ex, out of spite, took his dog. By all indications though, George was happier now. Or so he claimed.
Last week George sat at his usual table. Mike was sitting on a stool at the counter watching the city go to work. A woman walked by and stopped in front of George’s table. She knocked on the window to catch his attention. They looked at each other through the glass. She hurried inside and sat down at his table. A tense, hushed discussion followed. After she left, George quickly stood and headed to the register. Winnie asked who she was.
" My ex. She finally found me. I'm fucked now."
"What do you mean George?"
George stared at his change and mumbled, "Never mind. See ya later."
Winnie was suspicious. Just how acrimonious was their divorce? She decided to drop the dime before his ex did. She didn't care what Mike thought.
George left that morning and was never seen in the Blue Diner again.
A few days later Mike was refilling sugar jars and watching the early morning news. George had been found floating in the East River. He had been beaten severely and garroted. The news story went on to say that speculation was he had been tracked down and killed for a series of articles he wrote in the Boston Globe about Mob activities in Rhode Island. Police were investigating.
Mike turned to Winnie.
"I thought we agreed to not make that call."
She looked at Mike.
"We need a vacation. Now we can afford one."
Mike frowned, shrugged and thought:
"Damn women. When they're right, they're right."
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"George" - Flash Fiction / Changed the title to "The Blue Diner"
Originally written in the 1st person on 3/12/2010
Re-write - changed it to 3rd person
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What music goes with betrayal. Apparently too many tunes to count. Now to sift through some .......... Shit. After too many tastes, I gave up on the betrayal association. I chose "songs about diners" and finally.........
I found or is it I remembered a tune by Tom Waits about a diner. Here is Tom Waits with "Eggs and Sausage", off his album, "Nighthawks at the Diner".
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