The Dead Forest--chapter one

Hello All:

"This is a very, special week at The Literary World of Tom Raimbault for this is Halloween week! And like we do every year, new stories written just for the holiday are featured throughout the week. This year we roll out a new novella titled The Dead Forest. Be sure to visit Monday through Friday of this week as well as next Monday (Halloween) for each new installment.

What can the reader expect with the Dead Forest?

Well, it will detail the story of the legendary Donna the Unburied. If you've read my debut story book, Freaked out Horror, then you know that it opens with the short story, Donna the Unburied. And you might have asked yourself, "Exactly how did Donna get tricked into her tragic ending? No woman, after all, is going to allow her lover to convince her to do such a thing."

The Dead Forest details Donna and Stan's youth. We learn how they first met and how their romance started. And we learn about a special place in the forest that Stan referred to as the magical valley. Both he and Donna visit the place on a regular basis. But never mind the tales of romance! It's the tragic ending that you are interested in. And that's what I will be presenting you with this Halloween week of 2016.

As a side-note: the novella has yet to be properly divided into chapters. I simply counted the amount of pages in the manuscript and then divided by six to feature throughout this week and next Monday (Halloween). Being the case, I will sometimes leave the reader with unfinished sentences to be completed the following day. Sorry for any inconvenience.”

The Dead Forest--chapter one

People call it the "dead forest". Literally nothing more than a forest of towering, dead trees; really the forest preserve district should burn it all down. It's a section of some several hundred or more acres that can be accessed by an adjacent forest preserve that is separated by a shipping canal. Well, actually if you visit the adjacent forest preserve, you would need to cross the parking lot and connect to the sidewalk which runs along the highway bridge that extends across the shipping canal. If lucky, you might see a barge plowing through the water. And when finally reaching the other side, one accesses an obsolete forest preserve that has been taken out of commission for some years. The parking lot always has the "Closed" sign cable stretched across to prevent motorists from entering. Weeds grow through the cracked asphalt parking lot. And if brave enough to continue, one immediately finds him or herself in a place that locals call "the dead forest".

It wasn't always called this. If you look at the old, warped sign you can see that it reads Berry Bush Forest Preserve. There actually are raspberry bushes that grow throughout this now untamed forest preserve. That's how it got its name.

"But what about the trees?”—you might ask? "How did they all die?"

It was a fungus attack that took a little over two years to completely destroy all the trees in the forest. It spread like wildfire, and rotted the outside bark of all the poor trees. As for the fungus; apparently it was unable to spread itself across the wide shipping canal which protected the adjacent forest preserve. But as for the "dead forest", all that remains are towering skeletal trunks with large offshoot branches. It's an eerie place to visit in late autumn and throughout winter.

Now I'm going to contradict what I said above and add that summertime proves the "dead forest" to be anything but dead. Visitors who sneak past the "Closed" sign and hike the forest marvel at how the trees never actually died. What do I mean? Well, you see, like most trees in nature; many of the trees in the "dead forest" exhibit a drive to continue living and surviving to be beautiful, towering trees with lush, green leaves. Small offshoot branches began to grow out from what little life the trees had. These branches actually turned into long vines which extended hundreds of feet and wrapped all the way around the trees. The surrounding vegetation on the ground took advantage of the nearby trees and grew long vines upwards. The end result; the trees looks healthy and green with long, vine-like branches and leaves that rustle in the wind. And all the trees throughout the "dead forest" do this. It's a green forest of gnarly, old trees that continue to live beyond death. It gives new meaning to the nickname "dead forest".

The "dead forest" certainly wasn't like this many decades ago, around the time that Donna was alive.

"Who is Donna?"—you might ask? "And what could she possibly have to do with this fascinating "dead forest"?

You will soon find out her connection to the forest in this story. But Donna was an amazing, young woman who was born in the mid-1950s—one of the first in her family born on American soil. Donna and her family were Spanish, not to be confused with Latin American—at least that's how ignorant Americans in the old days perceived Spaniards. It was often believed that since Spaniards and Latin Americans both speak Spanish, they should be considered one and the same.

But enough of all of that. Just understand that Donna and her family lived in a time when they were considered "Spanish"—the bull fighting people with all of their conquering splendor and pride. As for Donna, she certainly possessed the stereotypical Spanish appearance of long, raven black hair with dark Spanish eyed. But it was completed with fair skin. She was a pretty girl, to say the least, even at a very young age. When looking upon the child, one would immediately realize that Donna would grow up to be a very beautiful, young woman.

But it wasn't just her beauty that made Donna so outstanding. Donna reflected a certain wisdom and maturity that went many years beyond her age. This may have been attributed to her peculiar devotion to the Catholic faith. She spent many hours in the church, kneeling and praying before the numerous statues of the Blessed Mother and saints. At eight years old, she felt their constant presence and guidance. Keep in mind that this was in the days before the reformation of the Roman Catholic Church, a time when the entire mass was spoken in Latin and very few people actually understood what was being said. However, through Catechism, the nuns revealed to Donna all the doctrines of the Catholic faith, and countless prayers to be said. And like mentioned above, Donna often wanted nothing more than to spend hours in the church to say the Rosary, and kneel before one saint or another to pray. Yes, there was something outstanding about her. Mother and Father eventually assumed that she would grow up to be a nun.

Donna disproved this notion by the time she reached high school age. Many of the boys were crazy about Donna. And Donna seemed to enjoy every bit of it.

"But, Donna..." cited Father one afternoon, upon realizing that he would have to protect his daughter from countless boys who might fall head-over-heels for her, "Don't you want to grow up to be a nun? All that time you spend in the church?"

"What?" challenged Donna. "When did I ever say anything about becoming a nun? I just like to pray, that's all. I want to get married some day and have a family."

Not that there's anything wrong with becoming a nun or—in the case of a young man—a priest, but Mother and Father felt a sense of relief with this.

***

Too bad Donna's parents were unable to protect their daughter against her future boyfriend, Stan. The home that Stan lived in had the town's cemetery just behind their backyard. A look out one of the back bedrooms would reveal the numerous gravestones, cement crucifixes and statues. And the only thing separating their backyard from the cemetery was a chain link fence. Now there are those who might believe that most people would have a problem with purchasing and living in a home near a cemetery. But this isn’t' the case. Surprisingly, most people agree that a cemetery off the backyard is a beautiful sight. It's peaceful and tranquil. And most people are sensible to realize that the dead don't hang around their graves.  Are you, the reader, going to hang around your grave when you die?

But back to Stan. For the most part, Stan was a normal boy while growing up. But he developed some peculiar sexual perversions around the age of puberty. Remember, this was a time when people maintained a sense of decency. Sex was a big no-no back in those days. So when Stan developed those natural urges around early puberty, he buried them in the dark corners of his mind—hid them from parents, teachers, priests and the likes who would have scolded and punished Stan for thinking such things. And he wouldn't dare disclose his fantasies to his ever-dwindling group friends who were already noticing something odd about Stan. Someone might have told on him.

Then came a late summer in 1959 when a young woman named Lisa had been tragically killed in a car crash in town. At fourteen years old, Stan watched from his bedroom window as countless family and friends of Lisa assembled around her gravesite for one final goodbye. The gravesite could be seen directly from Stan's window. For some time after, Stan remained at the bedroom window and watched as mourners departed, soon to be replaced by gravediggers who lowered the casket of Lisa into the ground. It was then that Stan received the first morbid fetish of his life. He realized in that moment that a freshly-dead woman would possess a body with flesh that was still intact. Her face and hair remain pretty with eyes closed as-if only sleeping... sleeping forever, as if never to wake up. How easy it might be to unearth the casket of a freshly-dead woman and enjoy those forbidden treasure that would otherwise never have been had. But this state of beauty would only be temporary. It would be a race against the clock for sure. A dead woman doesn't hold forever. Soon her body begins to decompose.

To fuel this morbid fetish all the more, Stan discovered a couple of mornings later the front page of the local newspaper laying on the kitchen counter which had a picture of Lisa and the sad story of how mourners buried her. From what Stan could see in the black and white image, Lisa was definitely pretty. And now she was buried right behind his backyard. He could simply climb over the chain link fence to be with her at night.

And so this is what Stand did late that night upon waking up with sexually-driven morbid thoughts in his head. He lay there in bed with a strong urge to go outside and just lay on her fresh grave. Everyone in the house was sleeping, so they would never know if he sneaked outside and hopped the fence over to Lisa's grave. And the same could be said of the rest of the world.

It was simply a matter of slowly turning the knob to the back door and carefully stepping outside. Stan scurried over to the side perimeter of the backyard to reduce the chance of Mother or Father seeing him if they happened to look out the back window.

Finally, when at the chain link fence that separated the backyard from the cemetery, Stan slowly climbed up and over as if not to make any noise. From that point there was no turning back. Trembling with excitement, Stan ran over to Lisa's grave and sat down right on top of her.

She was dead, and would never be able to call out for help. Stan could do anything he wished to her without fear of being judged for his perverted nature. He stuck his fingers through the ground and imagined that it was Lisa's vagina that was being intruded upon.

Down below, Lisa lay in her coffin and silently screamed. Perhaps her jaw had fallen open in that very moment in an attempt to scream. But everyone knows that the dead can't cry out. They can only endure the defilement of their lifeless bodies.

Then, Stan did the most awful thing! Father, teachers and nuns all warned him to never do this. But in the few years of suppressing his sexual urges, Stan was compelled to masturbate, and began doing so by rubbing himself against Lisa' marble headstone. It felt so good to make a pretty young woman provide oral sex. She probably hated it, but could say nothing. Finally, Stan drilled and widened the hole in the ground with fingers, further widening Lisa's vagina. When wide enough, he lay on his belly and finished the act of defilement by fornicating Lisa until he released every bit of sexual frustration he had.

It was a very naughty thing for a boy that age to do. Had the police discovered him doing it, Stan would have probably gone to jail for molesting the dead. Had Father discovered him doing it, his ass would have been beaten with a belt until it bled. And if the Church ever discovered him doing it, Stan would have been excommunicated forever.

***

Sixteen-years-old and in high school, Stan had only a few friends. You see, there was something peculiar about Stan. Many of the kids would tease him and often alienate him. But that was okay. It provided Stan the much-needed opportunity to live out his morbid sexual fantasies all the more.

“How did he do this?”—you might ask?

Well, by his sophomore year, Stan was licensed to drive. He had a job at the local dime store where he worked on weekdays (after school) and on weekends. There he did small duties such as stocking shelves and working the cash register. Free from his parents with a car during this time (he used Mother's 1960 Dart to get to work), Stan took advantage of this time by momentarily sneaking away after work to the forest preserve to play out one of his morbid and perverted games.

But how did he do this? And what sort of morbid and perverted game did he play?

Well, Stan had a kid sister, Sherry, who—at the time—was ten years old. Sherry had a collection of toy dolls. So evil and sinister of Stan; he actually stole one of his kid sister's dolls and hid it in the trunk of the car along with a small, unused tool box that he found in the basement. He also brought with a hand shovel. He did this before going to work on a Tuesday afternoon. Then, after store close and time to go home, Stan instead drove out to the Berry Bush Forest Preserve which was only about five minutes out of his way. In the parking lot, he retrieved his sister's doll and the small metal box along with the hand shovel. He jogged down a path which led him out to the middle of the forest. From there, he found a gnarly, old tree which was perfect to bury the freshly dead corpse of an unfortunate woman. It just so happened that she was easy to carry and lock up in a small metal tool box. Pressed for time, Stan frantically dug a small hole near the tree and then set the toolbox at the bottom, after which the hole was filled back up with dirt. To make the fantasy all the more real, Stan placed a nearby large stone at the head of the burial. Now, finally, he had a dead woman at a grave that he could have sex with whenever he wanted.

Stan was pressed for time, however. Mother and Father were surely at home and noticing that he was running late. With small shovel in hand, Stan jogged back to the car and head home.

Upon arriving home, Mother and Father seemed clueless as to what happened.

Later that night, Stan awoke around 2:00am and suddenly experienced a surge of excitement upon realizing that he had a dead woman in the ground of the Berry Bush Forest Preserve. How he wished he could just hop in Mother's car and drive there to unearth his toy and ultimately live out his morbid fetish. But it would have to wait. Stan would have to wait until Thursday when he worked at the dime store and would have another opportunity to sneak away in Mother's car.

***

Late Thursday afternoon, around 5:30, Stan quickly stocked the shelves with the remaining merchandise that had just been received earlier that day. At the cash register, the store owner had a small line of customers who he rang up.

"Thank you very much and have a great evening... Oh, that's a fine product that will make your hair look so shiny... Yes, we try to make sure that batteries are the lowest priced in town..."

Finally finished, Stan wheeled the cart of empty boxes out to the back dumpster and quickly broke them down before tossing them in. He shook with excitement. He needed to leave for the evening, and it was a race against time

"You all done, boy?" the owner, Mr. Green, asked Stan.

"Yes sir."

"Now tomorrow will be payday." reminded Mr. Green. "And make sure you will be here on time to start work, okay? You'll probably be working the cash register for me."

"Yes sir." agreed Stan. He could have cared less at that moment. Stan just wanted to finally leave for the evening so he could get to the Berry Bush Forest Preserve. He nearly ran out the back entrance of the dime store and over to his mother's car. He almost backed into the dumpster when pulling out of the parking spot.

"Hey, watch out!" warned Mr. Green who happened to look outside the back entrance.

"Sorry!" apologized Stan.

He pulled out onto the road and head to Berry Bush Forest Preserve. And of course he had the hand shovel hidden in the trunk. On this particular late afternoon which was turning into early evening, Stan would be unearthing a fresh corpse and making love to it.

There was something about that particular session that Stan attributed to his imagination. While finally pulling into the parking lot of the Forest Preserve, Stan felt as though someone had followed him and was watching. Was it the police? Was it Mr. Green who found Stan's behavior of rushing out of the store peculiar? Or did Father decide to check up on Stan to see if he sneaked away after work to do some cruising in Mother's Dart?

Stan carefully looked around the empty forest preserve parking lot before finally exiting. He opened the trunk and removed the handheld shovel. Then he ran as quickly as he could to the burial site of his fresh corpse.

Stan dug and unearthed the metal tool box. When opened, there lay a terrified-appearing doll. Maybe dolls have a hidden life and consciousness that is given at the factory. If this is true, perhaps she worried that she would be buried in the ground forever.

Stan sensed the awareness and fear from the doll. In his perception Stan believed that he experienced for the first time a raising of the dead. Through the power of imagination and some unknown magickal forces, Stan's freshly buried corpse had stirred awake from eternal slumber to meet the one who would ultimately defile it.

"The dead cannot scream out for help. No one will hear you." reminded Stan to the doll. He said this while enjoying every second of removing the dolls burial dress. Underneath the clothes the bare thighs, buttocks and breasts were still intact. The process of decomposing had yet to begin.

"Oh yes..." exclaimed Stan as his heart raced with excitement. In that moment, Stan did a naughty thing to that doll while fulfilling his wildest morbid sexual urges. When finished, he initially wasn't going to clean up the doll. He was simply going to leave his mess all over her naked body. But then Stan "awoke" from his fantasy and realized that the corpse wasn't really a corpse. It was simply a toy doll which had helped him to live out his morbid fetishes. When those morbid fetishes resumed, Stan could return to the forest preserve and unearth the doll for more pleasure. For that matter, Stan used his sock to wipe and clean the mess from the doll. He redressed the doll, lay it back into the metal tool box and observed in delight as she continued to exhibit a terrified expression.

Stan wickedly laughed while closing the lid, then buried the metal toolbox back into the ground.

***

"Where have you been, young man???" demanded Father who was standing by the front door as Stan walked in.

"I was at work." carefully answered Stan.

"No you weren't!" accused Father. I fueled up at the Texaco gas station before it closed for the night and then happened to drive past the dime store. The lights were out, and the owner, Mr. Green, was leaving for the night. "Now where were you?"

Stan was at a loss of words. He certainly couldn't admit to living out his morbid fetishes at the forest preserve. He merely looked at the ground and shrugged his shoulders while answering, "I don't know..."

"You don't know?" challenged Father. "Well aren't you man enough to be honest and admit that you were joy-riding in your Mother's car?"

Mother stood behind the kitchen door and listened attentively. She hoped that Father would talk some sense into their son. She suspected that maybe he was joy-riding in her car after work.

"Now I want you to tell me where you were tonight. Or maybe you'd like a good, stiff beating. That's what you need if you ask me! We've been waiting for you to come home for dinner, and your mother has been worried sick."

"I guess I just wanted to drive a little..." explained Stan. "You know... get a little practice?"

Father returned a menacing look. "You don't need any extra practice. When you finish work, you are to come home. Understand?"

"Yes sir..." answered Stan.

"Now clean up for dinner! And you're grounded this weekend!"

The reader shouldn't feel so bad for Stan. It's what he deserved for the terribly-naughty thing that he did.

***

The following weekend when Stan wasn’t grounded, he developed a sudden interest in riding his bicycle. Although he was now licensed to drive and could borrow Mother's car for legitimate use, Stan showed a peculiar need to resume riding a bicycle. He did this, of course, to avoid any further problems with driving the car to the forest preserve to have his way with that doll buried in the metal toolbox.

Of course Father was initially curious and somewhat suspicious. "Back to riding your bike?"

"Yes sir."

"You can take your mother's car as needed." reassured Father. "We just need to know where you are going and what time you will be home."

"I kind of like to get some exercise." nervously explained Stan. Then he somewhat fessed-up to his objective in riding his bicycle. "I actually like to ride my bike over to Berry Bush Forest Preserve and ride around there for the scenery and stuff."

Father sighed, "Well... Let me think about that... Are you sure you are not going there to do some questionable activity? I hope it doesn't involve girls. No girl, after all, belongs in the forest to have a young man try and pull tricks on her. The only ones I can think of are the bad girls. And I don't think I want you meeting bad girls in the forest preserve. Is that what you are doing? "

"No sir!" reassured Stan. "I just like to ride my bike. And when I want to take out a girl, I will ask to use Mom's car."

"You haven't joined a gang or anything, have you?" continued to probe Father.

"No sir."

Father sighed, "Well, okay. I suppose I'm just going to have to trust you."

"Thank you, Sir." And with that, Stan rode off down the street on a Saturday afternoon—a Saturday that he didn’t have to work—to the Berry Bush Forest Preserve for some nice exercise and scenery. Ah, but we know his real reason for going there. Stan also had hidden in the leg of his trousers the hand shovel which was tucked into his sock. About a block away, Stan stopped for a brief moment to further tuck the shovel into his sock. He didn't want it falling out.

Onwards Stan peddled; down the main road in town, past the dime store where he worked, and to the entrance of the Berry Bush Forest Preserve. This time he simply bicycled his way through the trail and then stepped off to walk his bike the remainder of the way to the gravesite. When there, Stan quickly exhumed the steel toolbox and opened it up.

There lay the doll with her terrified expression on her face. How long would this morbid game last? How long would she need to endure the repeated rape? And how long would it be before Stan was no longer interested in her?

Now on this particular incident, Stan was in in danger. You see, Father wasn't one hundred percent convinced that his son was merely cycling over to the Berry Bush Forest Preserve to enjoy some scenery. What teenage boy is interested in that? And so Father waited about ten minutes after Stan left, and then drove over to the forest in his black Pontiac Bonneville.

Upon arrival, Stan was nowhere in sight.

"Well, he's probably out on the trail like he said he would be." Father put the transmission in park and turned off the engine. "Let's see if we can find him... see what that boy is up to."

There was another car parked in the lot, a gray 1960 convertible Thunderbird with the top down. Back in those days, leaving one's car unlocked and exposed wasn't such a stupid thing to do like it is nowadays. You see, people had a better sense of right and wrong and didn't look for opportunities to steal; probably because they had parents like Stan who made it their business to get into their kids’ business.

"Well I wonder if this car belongs to those girls that Stan is meeting in the forest." speculated Father out loud.

But, despite what Father might have speculated, the car didn't belong to imaginary girls who were meeting Stan in the forest. Rather, it was a newlywed husband and wife who were enjoying a nice picnic out in the Berry Bush Forest Preserve. Actually, they were just finishing up, and were repacking their food into the basket.

"This was so nice." commented Laurie to her new husband, Richard, while finding room in the basket for the remaining chicken. "Richard?" she asked.

"Yes, Darling."

"Promise me that when we have a family, we'll take the kids out here to enjoy picnics like this."

"Of course, Darling. Anything you want..."

With that, Richard and Mary set off for the main trail to hike back to the car.

In the meantime, Stan's Father set off on the main trail to hike through the forest and look for his son. If Stan were truly riding his bike, all Father would have to do was listen for the sound of tires rolling in the gravel.

Back to Richard and Laurie; both leisurely hiked their way down the main trail. At one point, Laurie suddenly called out to her husband, "Richard?"

"What, Darling? What is it?"

"What's that boy doing over there? Did he fall down and get hurt?"

It was Stan who Laurie noticed. He was some fifty feet off the main trail and kneeling in the forest. Stan's back was arched and he was exhibiting a facial expression that reminded Laurie of someone who was in pain.

Richard, however, had a different interpretation. He knew the boy was doing something that was naughty. Richard assumed there was a girl laying beneath him. But keep in mind that this was olden times. Men were gentlemen, and wouldn't dare suggest to their wives that sexual activity was taking place in the forest. "Umm... gee, that's strange." commented Richard. I don't know what he's doing."

"Well is he hurt?" suggested Laurie.

BE SURE TO RETURN TOMORROW FOR MORE OF THIS WEEK’S NEW NOVELLA, THE DEAD FOREST!

The Crate

Hello All:

I’ve made the official announcement on Twitter that next week will start our week-long celebration of Halloween at The Narrator. I have succeeded in completing what was supposed to be a mini-novella. But it’s actually a 30,000 word short novel. I didn’t expect to write so much. But I’m sure you won’t mind. There is plenty to divide up throughout next week and Halloween Monday. The title of the short novel is The Dead Forest.

This is the last time I will mention the following: I truly believed that Halloween would not be celebrated on my blog this year. You see, in recent months I have had no time to write. My “career” as a writer has been drastically suffering. But I found a solution. During my commutes to and from work, I simply stare at the road while driving and speak the words of the stories into a nearby recorder. Later I simply type up what I hear while playing back the recording and edit as needed.

There are two stories offered this week. Both of them were created with the voice recording technique. And I have more waiting to be edited.

So what do you think?

Well I think it’s a great idea. I’m back to updating the blog; Halloween week is on; and I can resume writing Mapleview.

***

Today’s featured writing is nothing more than one of those peculiar dreams that I had some minutes before waking up. Enjoy!

Have a great weekend! Check back on Monday for our week-long celebration of Halloween.

The Crate

It was a large crate that was shipped to my house. It didn't come from a UPS, or FedEx truck. It came from a freight and logistics company. Upon examining the shipping documents, I was most confused. You see, I hadn't ordered anything recently. Even stranger, there was no money to be paid on delivery. So I accepted the crate. What did I have to lose?

The driver unloaded the crate from the truck and then wheeled it on a cart into the garage. I was most curious as to what it was and eager to open it. What in heck could this be I wondered.

Once the driver left; the wife, kids and I stood around the box in awe. It was then that my wife suggested the obvious, "Well why don't we open it?"

The crate had been secured shut with black metal strips that needed to be cut. The wooden lid had been secured over the crate with black, metal screws. It would be necessary to use a Philips screwdriver, or even a power drill with Philips head. Fortunately I have a drill with collection of bits, one of them being the Philips bit—no need to strain my arm in unscrewing a couple dozen deeply-sunk screws from the crate.

"Zip-Zip! Zip-Zip" The drill did all the work for me while removing twenty four of the black metal screws. When all removed, I lifted the lid. Inside was a Styrofoam shipping block used to protect whatever cargo was inside. The Styrofoam block was lifted out; below were individual sheets of soft foam that were folded into long rectangles.

I touched one to pull it out. "It's all wet!" I exclaimed.

"Wet?" my wife repeated. She reached her hand in the crate to feel and confirmed that they really were wet."

I pulled one out these wet cushions out and was startled to feel a bit of slight movement as-if something were alive inside. "Something moved!" I exclaimed.

Everyone else stepped back. Considering how strange this whole experience was, nobody was taking chances as to what might be wrapped up in the wet, soft cushions.

Cautiously, I lay the cushion on the ground, and unfolded it. I was surprised to discover that it was a salmon fish inside. 

It wiggled—still alive! Somehow the water that drenched the cushion was enough to keep the fish breathing throughout the duration of shipment.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “There must be a couple dozen of these folded up salmon in this box. And are they still alive; just trapped in these things trying to stay alive with just a little bit of water. I pulled out another wet cushion and unfolded it. Sure enough, there was another salmon lying inside. And it was alive, flopping around while trying to breathe as best as it could.

"Well they shouldn't be treated like this." I remarked. "This is wrong. These poor fish need water to swim and breathe in as soon as possible.”

My wife and kids looked at me like I was crazy. “They should be fine in there.” reassured my wife. “What are you worried about?”

“But that's not how fish are intended to live.” I argued. “They are supposed to be in actual water so that they can swim around and get their oxygen and breathe.—you know the whole thing with gills and osmosis? I'm not a biologist, but it's pretty much common knowledge that this is how fish breathe. They are not going to do it this way.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see that one of the salmon was watching me as I spoke. It almost had an expression of relief that someone was being sensible; possibly sensible enough to save it and the others from dying.

“I've got to do something, quick.” I declared. "I need to make something." But what could I have made? I saw a large, plastic tarp folded up on one of the utility shelves. There were also many boxes stacked about in different places. What if I made an enclosure with the boxes—a rectangular enclosure—and then lay the tarp inside. Maybe I could put some heavy stones or bricks on top of the tarp that lay on the boxes. That way it will stay in place when finally filling up the tarp with water. For all practical purposes, it would be like a makeshift swimming pool, perfectly suitable for the couple dozen salmon to stay while I find a better place for them.

So I spent a few minutes gather up and stacking up boxes. All the while, my wife and kids looked at each other with funny faces. Surely they were wondering why I was putting so much effort in seeing to it that the fish had water to swim around in. At some point my wife and kids assisted. Unfortunately, the group effort turned into nothing but arguing and conflict. "No, don't put that box there...! That one will be too heavy on top of the lighter one...! What's wrong with you...? Don't you understand...?"

In the meantime, the two fish that had been unwrapped and lay on top of the wet cushions were appearing frustrated and a bit worried. They were clearly having difficulty breathing since the wet cushions had been unwrapped.

"Oh, we need to hurry up!" I urged. "I don't know how much longer these poor salmon have to live."

I lay the tarp down in the center of our makeshift pool. It was then that one of the kids pointed, "Hey, we have a plastic swimming pool over here that we used to use when we were little. Why don't we just fill this up with water and let the fish swim in there?”

"It's a good idea..." I acknowledged. "But maybe the plastic pool won't be big enough for all couple dozen of them."

In the meantime, the two salmon continued to look all the more worried. When would they finally be able to swim in water and breathe properly again?

The End!

The Recurring Dream

Hello All:

I attended the opening performance of the 2016/17 season for the Illinois Philharmonic Orchestra (IPO) on Saturday night. Performed at Governor’s State University, the orchestra was conducted by the lovely Holly Mathieson. This was actually her audition performance in hopes to be the permanent conductor for the IPO. There will be other auditioning conductors throughout the year. You see, the previous conductor moved on to a greater opportunity and the orchestra needs a new one.

I must say that I was enamored with the opening piece from Ives titled ‘the unanswered question’. Not sure if the conductors actually choose the songs; but opening with ‘the unanswered question’ certainly demonstrated a level of boldness from Holly as the piece could be considered somewhat “new age” in comparison to the traditional classics—maybe experimental for being written in 1906. It she did, in fact, choose this piece; then it further demonstrates her willingness to resonate with younger listeners in the crowd. But for those who prefer the traditional classics; Beethoven’s 3^rd Symphony was played in its entirety towards the end of the evening. The orchestra did a fine job as always. And who can forget the unbelievable performance of violin soloist, Stefan Milenkovich?

Before leaving that evening, my wife informed me that I have the option of purchasing a glass of wine in the cafeteria. The cost for this glass would have been $45. But in no way would I be willing to spend such money for a glass of wine! Why should I when I have my own supply at home—bottles that were purchased for under $10?

But how could I enjoy my wine at an IPO concert?

I simply poured two glasses worth into a disposable Styrofoam commuter coffee cup. The top was sealed shut with self-adhesive plastic wrap to avoid spillage and to prevent the smell from escaping. I trimmed around the edge of this plastic wrap so that the cover could be secured over the cup. It now looked like an ordinary cup of coffee. By simply poking a coffee stir straw through the cover and plastic wrap; I was able to sip my wine while enjoying the performance.

If you wish to inconspicuously drink wine while out in public, perhaps you should try the above process that was described.

***

Today’s featured writing is a brand new short story about a horrific, recurring dream. Enjoy!

The Recurring Dream

Twelve year old Amy awoke late at night about a quarter after one o’clock in the morning. She was having another terrifying nightmare; the same recurring nightmare about Father putting her inside of an oven, closing the door, and then cooking her alive. In this horrible dream, Amy screamed and pounded on the glass. But the heat proceeded to cook and char her skin. It was usually around this part of the dream that Amy woke up, screaming.

Mother ran into the bedroom and turned on the light. "What is it, Honey? Was it another nightmare?"

Amy sat up in bed, crying, while relaying to Mother, "Yes, it was the same nightmare. Daddy put me in the oven and cooked me alive."

Mother reassured Amy while patting her shoulders, "Oh Honey, you know Daddy would never do something like that. I wish you would stop imagining that. I don't understand why you have that dream. Maybe we should take you to the doctor, and see if he could teach you to put an end to it."

***

And so Mother and Father took Amy to Mapleview's renowned Doctor Millheimer on a Saturday afternoon. During this visit, Doctor Millheimer sat in his usual chair; the same chair where he listened to his many patients relay the events of their lives throughout the weeks. Mother, Father and Amy sat in the nearby seats—Father and Mother on the sofa, and Amy in an old, leather lazy boy seat that was actually quite comfortable.

"She just keeps getting that recurring nightmare." complained Mother. "I don't know what to do. It's always the same."

"Oh, but I bet it's very scary for you." remarked Doctor Millheimer to Amy.

Amy nodded her head in affirmation. "Yes, it's terrifying. I wish it would stop."

Doctor Millheimer probed, "Well do you ever fear that maybe your father would try to hurt you?"

"No..." answered Amy. "My Daddy is so nice and so good to me. He would never do something like that."

"Well we'll definitely see what we can do to get to the bottom of this." promised Doctor Millheimer. "But first, I want to talk to your mother and father alone. Afterwards, I will talk to you alone. Won't you please step out to the waiting room? There's a small refrigerator in there with soda. You're probably too young for coffee. And there's a small cabinet above the refrigerator with snacks—some chips, cookies, candy and such. I hope Mother doesn't mind."

"That’s fine." reassured Mother.

And so Amy stepped out into the waiting room as requested so that Doctor Millheimer could talk in private with Mother and Father. She wondered what, possibly, the doctor would have to talk about in private. Mother and Father never laid a hand on Amy. Nor had they ever made any threats. And Father was always such a nice man who clearly loved Amy very much. This is why Amy was so baffled as to why she would have such horrific dreams of Father cooking her in the oven.

In the meantime, Doctor Millheimer got right down to business. "So, this is a very unusual case. But I'm going follow through with some basic diagnostics. First I want to ask—I want you to be one hundred percent honest—have you ever abused Amy, physically or mentally?"

"No, never!" Mother and Father simultaneously answered.

"Have you ever threatened her?" continued Doctor Millheimer. "Ever made mention that if she acted a certain way or failed to do something that she would be punished with a beating or some horrific consequence?"

"No, never!" Mother and Father simultaneously answered again.

Interesting thing: Doctor Millheimer noticed that while he was asking these questions, Father appeared increasingly nervous. He commented on this, "I notice you are a little uneasy right now. I notice that maybe there's something you might want to share with me. What is it? Please tell me; you can trust me. I'm the doctor and I'm here to help you.”

Father hesitated for a moment and took a deep breath. "Well, the whole thing is really very frightening for both of us. You see, fifteen years ago I worked the graveyard shift at a factory. Right around that time we had been married for only a year, and our son had just arrived. His name was Timothy.

Well, my wife was working at the time also—days. And she had to leave for work before I came home. So who would care for Timothy in the meantime? The agreement was my wife would drop Timothy off at her sister's house in the early morning before heading to work. Once I got off work, I would drive over to my sister-in-law’s house and pick him up. And I would care for him throughout the day until my wife came home. Then I would go to bed and get some sleep before heading to work for the evening."

Doctor Millheimer interrupted, "So then Timothy is your older son?"

"Was..." corrected Mother.

Cautiously, Doctor Millheimer asked, "So he's dead?"

“Yes.” she affirmed.

Well what happened? asked Doctor Millheimer. “And might this be what is responsible for these horrific dreams that Amy is having?”

"Well..." continued Father. "On one particular morning it was a Monday. Now if you know anything about third shift, what most third shifters do is stay awake during the day on the weekends. You see, our work week usually starts on Sunday night for Monday and lasts until Thursday night for Friday. So in my situation; I would come home on Friday morning, care for my son throughout the day, but then did not go to bed until later in the evening with my wife. That way I would sleep through the night and wake up Saturday morning with my body back on a day schedule. By following this practice I would be able to live normally throughout the weekend. Then come Sunday night I would lay down in the late afternoon to take a few hour nap before going to work. But keep in mind that when doing this, my body wasn't fully adjusted to nights just yet."

"Understood..." acknowledged Doctor Millheimer.

"So by five o'clock Monday morning I was exhausted beyond belief; basically a zombie."

"Understood..." continued to acknowledge Doctor Millheimer.

“But I would still go to pick up my son on Monday mornings at my sister-in-law's house because that was the agreement.

Well, it was a cold, rainy Monday morning. At the time I was having some car trouble. I didn't have heat. It was 35 degrees outside; very rainy and sleety. And even though we had Timothy all bundled up, he was still very cold. When we got home I could see and feel that his poor hands were ice cold. He was crying and crying. I felt so bad for him while taking off his jacket. And maybe I wasn't thinking right at that moment because of my exhausted state of mind. I turned the oven on to about 300 degrees, just to get it to warm up. Then I put little, baby Timothy in there and closed the door. I was only going to leave him in there for a couple of minutes as the oven warmed up. You see, there was an alarm-indicator that let us know when the oven was at the desired temperature. This alarm, of course, would have let me known that it was time to take Timothy out.

So I sat down on the sofa while waiting. But I was so tired that I dosed off and never woke up when the alarm sounded to indicate that the oven was at 300 degrees. A few hours later I woke up, and there was a burning smell in the apartment. Timothy had been cooked alive. He was charred and bubbling beyond recognition. It was a gruesome mess.

Of course I went to jail for this for a few years for manslaughter. Fortunately my wife stood by my side and remained married to me while in jail. I got out in a few years due to good behavior and prison overcrowding. Eager to start a new life; my wife and I made another baby—Amy. Nobody has ever spoken of the tragedy. And nobody has ever been so foolish as to tell this story to Amy, either.  What's perplexing to me now is how Amy knows about this? Is her brother warning her?

The End!

The Good Songs

Hello All:

I know we haven't heard much, lately, about him; but the Cableman is still around. Here's a brand new story in which he chats with a customer about the 'good songs'.

The Good Songs

It wasn't a terribly involved work order for the Cableman; simply pay a visit to one of the apartment units at the end of town, and do what is referred to as a "reconnect" for the new tenant who moved in. Such a job is called "reconnect" because no wiring needs to be added; everything had been previously installed the first time. The Cableman probably disconnected the cable outside in the utility box when the previous tenant moved out.

Sure enough, as the Cableman opened the utility box, he could see his own writing on the black tag with the apartment unit, 1A, written on it; black to indicate that the cable was supposed to be disconnected if there were ever a question.

"This should be easy..." commented the Cableman to himself as he walked up to the main entry door of the apartment building. He pressed the doorbell for 1A.

A second later, the "buzz" was heard which was cue for the Cableman to enter. Once inside, a “burnout” opened the door to unit 1A and greeted with a stoned-stupid smile, "…hey...". He had a lit cigarette in his hand, and the Cableman hates cigarette smoke. From the looks of it, the customer was terminally stoned—not from just recently smoking weed, but because he had done it so much in his life that he now had permanently altered brain cells.

"Hi, I'm here to hook up your cable." acknowledged the Cableman.

"Right this way." signaled the customer while walking back into the apartment.

Inside the place reeked of burned food—maybe over-cooked pizza in the oven—and cigarette smoke. Again, the Cableman hates cigarettes. Oh, but there was one good thing about the customer's living space. The song, 'lunatic fringe' by Red Rider was playing on an old stereo in the family room. The Cableman always liked that song.

"Okay, where's the TV at?" asked the Cableman.

The customer pointed to the opposite wall of the stereo. "Over there. I think it's cable ready." Then he asked, "Is my music bothering you?"

"No, Red Rider is fine with me." reassured the Cableman.

"You mean you like 'lunatic fringe'?" asked the customer with such a surprise.

"Yeah, who doesn't?" cited the Cableman upon turning on the TV. He fumbled through the remote and adjusted the settings so that it would receive cable signal. Then he selected scan. The TV began saving channels, indicator that it was successfully connected to cable service.

"Hey..." called out the customer. "Do you know this song is about the murder of John Lennon?"

"That's a fallacy." corrected the Cableman. "It's actually about modern-day racism and hatred against Jews... well modern-day if it were the 1970s/80s."

"Are you sure?" challenged the customer.

"Absolutely!" answered the Cableman. "The lyrics come right out and say it. It takes the listener back to Nazi Germany when Jews were hunted down." As the TV continued to scan the channels, the Cableman recited some of the lyrics to 'lunatic fringe'. "I know you're out there... you're in hiding... This is open season, but you won't get too far, cause you gotta blame someone for your own confusion." By then it was the end of the song and the European emergency siren was heard. "And hear the sirens?" concluded the Cableman. "That's the Nazis coming after the Jews."

"Whoa!" exclaimed the customer. "Dude, you just freaked me out! I can totally see it!"

“Interesting thing…” continued to the Cableman. “The reason why people think ‘lunatic fringe’ is about the murder of John Lennon is because the song was recorded on the very night that John Lennon was murdered.

“Really???” exclaimed the customer.

“Yup.” affirmed the Cableman. “That explains the fallacy associated with this song.”

The TV was reaching the end of the channel search which meant that the Cableman had to go back to concentrating on his work. He now had to check the picture quality to ensure that all was well. During this time the song on the customer's stereo changed to 'lay down Sally' by Eric Clapton.

"Oh, what is this?" complained the customer.

The Cableman overheard the griping and thought that the customer was complaining about the less than desirable picture quality. "Don't worry, I can fix that." he reassured.

"No, the song!" corrected the customer. "This song sucks! How can they play something so cool like 'lunatic fringe', and then go to this crap?"

"Sorry, I thought you were talking about the picture.” answered the Cableman. “But I'm going to have to fix this for you. It's probably a rusty fitting outside. As for the song, I know what you mean. It was never my favorite. But that's what you get with variety."

"You know what they need?" began the customer.

The Cableman took a deep breath and reminded himself that sometimes it's necessary to socialize with the customer. "What?" he asked.

"They need a station that plays nothing but the good songs... you know, the good songs!"

"I have a lot of songs in my collection." revealed the Cableman. "Which ones are the good ones?"

"Oh come-on, man!" argued the customer. "Don't tell me you know what the good songs are! You know... the good songs!—like 'lunatic fringe', or songs by Van Halen and Ozzy Osbourne... you know, the good songs!"

"Oh, I get it now." answered the Cableman. "You like all that hard rock."

"Yeah!" exclaimed the customer.

"Like Judas Priest?" suggested the Cableman.

"Yeah!" exclaimed the customer.

"Or how about Billy Idol—'white wedding'?"

"There you go!" agreed the customer.

The Cableman speculated for a second, "Well, it's a radio station that you're listening to. Some of the people out there like this song by Eric Clapton, so they have to play it." Then he excused himself, "I'll be right back. Let me check the connections outside."

Three minutes later the Cableman returned to the apartment unit. "Okay, I noticed the cable fitting was a bit rusty, so I changed it." he informed. Then he paused. There was no longer any music playing. "What happened to the music?" he asked

The customer rolled his eyes in disgust, "They started playing ‘rocket man’ by Elton John.

"Not a good day with the radio for you." cited the Cableman. "But maybe your picture quality can be better. The Cableman flipped through the stations to verify that all was well.

Suddenly, the customer started singing, "I want my... I want my MTV..."

The Cableman sighed to himself. "Almost out of here." he thought.

"I want my MTV..." the customer continued to chant.

"You actually have that in your channel lineup." interrupted the Cableman in hopes that the customer would quit singing. But don't expect any music videos. They stopped doing that years ago."

"Oh, I know!" answered the customer. "They suck, now. But the song from Dire Straits is cool."

"Another one of my favorites." agreed the Cableman while reaching for his clipboard. "You're all done. If you need anything else, just call our office."

But before the Cableman could leave, the burnout customer had plenty more to say. He signed the paperwork and then added, "Hey, you know that station that I want that plays nothing but the good songs?”

“Yeah…?” affirmed the Cableman.

 “It actually existed once upon a time. Right when I started summer break after graduating high school, a radio station out in Detroit went on the air and celebrated with the listeners by playing non-stop music—commercial free—for six weeks. And it was all the good song just like we like. It was nothing but Ozzy, Van Halen, Aerosmith, The Who—all the good songs. Me and my buddies, we pooled together all of our money from graduation cards—you know, the ones that your family members give with money in it—and we bought tons of weed, acid, ‘shrooms, and I don't even know how much beer and liquor. For the entire six weeks we just partied our asses off, nonstop, while listening to this radio station. I don't even remember what station it was. But it was great! We got into car accidents from being so messed up and had to go to the hospital a couple times. One of my buddies went to jail for a few days. But when he got out, he just continued partying with us. I think one of my buddies actually died in those six weeks, too.”

“Eww…” remarked the Cableman.

“And get this!” continued the customer. “My old man had a job lined up for me at some factory that I was supposed to start around the middle of July. My starting day was the very day that the radio station started playing commercials. And ironically, all of our drugs had been used up. I just went into work that morning all sober and feeling like crap. But I was so messedup from partying for six weeks that I couldn't even think straight. And all I could do was stand there in front of my boss and say, 'uhhhhh...'.

“Like you did this morning at the door when you said, ‘…hey…’?” suggested the Cableman.

The customer laughed and conclude his story, “I was fired after two days because I couldn't work."

"Did you ever come down after those six weeks of partying?" asked the Cableman.

"Probably not..." answered the customer.

The Cableman laughed while walking out the apartment door, "So you're a real modern day Rip Van Winkle!"

The End!

Soap In Your Eyes

Hello All:
Back to work/school after what was hopefully a nice weekend for you; we start Monday with a peculiar short story.

Soap In Your Eyes
Ask any kid what his or her favorite day of the week is, and he or she will surely answer Saturday.
Why Saturday? Why not Friday, Sunday, or Monday?
Well, Saturday is that one and only day of the week which is 100 percent isolated from the school week. Monday sucks for the obvious reason that an entire week of school is ahead. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday aren't much better; only closer to Saturday. Friday does bring some sense of hope that the final bell for the day will allow leaving school for the next couple of days. But Friday does include that unpleasant thing of having to be in school. And then there is Saturday, the one day in which a kid can sleep in and then enjoy the day without the bother of having to go to school. He or she can even put off doing homework. As for Sunday, it's okay. The problem with this day is the fact that a kid is occasionally reminded of having to go back to school on Monday.
For Eric it was a Saturday morning, just a bit past seven o'clock. He rolled over and took notice of the early morning sun shining through his window. But he was in no hurry to get out of bed. Eric felt like he could lay there and doze off for about another hour or so for some dreaming. It was his much earned right as a kid to do this, being that the stupid alarm would wake him up on Monday through Friday.
Eric closed his eyes, and lay there while listening to the outside sounds of trees rustling in the gentle, early morning wind. A few blocks away, someone was mowing their lawn--nothing terribly noisy to distract Eric from falling back to sleep.
But then there were the sounds of soft, sneaky footsteps entering the bedroom, followed by the unavoidable creek on the floor. Yes, someone was in Eric's bedroom; probably his jerk older brother, Martin.
Perhaps if Eric simply lay there and pretend to be sound asleep, his brother would go away.
The footsteps came closer and closer until a presence could be felt very close to the bed. Eric could sense that whoever was near did their best to keep from laughing. And then there was the peculiar scent of popcorn and cotton candy as-if whoever it was had been at a circus or carnival. What was Martin doing? Did he go to a carnival on Friday night?
Thumbs were smashed into Eric's closed eyes, with some sort of lotion or gel rubbed in.
"Quit it! You jerk!" shouted Eric. He immediately opened his eyes.
But it wasn't Eric's older brother Martin who stood over the bed. Rather, it was an obnoxious clown with painted face and large, red rose. It wore a ridiculous outfit of loud colors. "Smile! There's soap in your eyes!" called out the clown.
And that's the last thing poor Eric remembered seeing that morning. He had to close his from the painful sting brought on by the soap running in. Stupid clown! And if that weren't enough, Eric had to fight the clown off, blind, as he continued rubbing soap all over his face.

The End! 

Back to School

Hello All:

When I was a kid on summer break I used to hate it when I’d see the first sign of school about to resume. This usually came as an ad in the newspaper with the heading, “Back to School!” Or maybe I’d be at the store with my mother where we’d pass an aisle that had a large sign hanging from the ceiling that read, “Back to School!” A glance down the aisle revealed those God-awful school supplies that the teacher would expect us to use in the upcoming school year.

Well, it’s August which means summer vacation will end in a few weeks for all the kids. As a parent, I now like to tease my youngest daughter by pointing out these unpleasant back-to-school reminders. I might chime the words, “Back to School!” while holding up a Walmart ad with a “Back to School” sale.

***

Hopefully your kids won’t have a teacher like the main character in today’s featured writing. Have a great weekend. Enjoy it while it lasts… before the kids go back to school!

Back to School

There are two recesses at Valley Grammar School. Well, actually in the kids' world, there are three if you count arriving at school for the day and playing on the playground before class begins. Then the kids must endure a couple hours of sitting in their desks and learning lessons from the teacher who stands at the chalkboard. At ten o'clock they are permitted to eat a small snack at their desks in an allotted time frame of five minutes before morning recess begins. Then the kids rush out for ten minutes for some much needed play.

It was a Tuesday morning around quarter to eleven, about a half hour after recess. Every morning at this time, Mrs. Lynch's first grade class did an exercise of reading a short story from the reading text book. Each student was to take a turn reading out loud—maybe a few sentences or so from the book—until the story was complete.

"Come-on Brian, pronounce the word!" demanded Mrs. Lynch. She was growing impatient with students like him. He was slow with poor reading skills.

"S... S... So... W... W... W... H...O" Bryan struggled through every word.

"Bryan, is that all you can do?" complained Mrs. Lynch. "You can't even read a simple phrase, 'so who...?'" Then she mocked poor Bryan in such a way to make him appear to be a stupid retard. "This is you! S... S... O.... Uh... Hu... S." She was sure to make a dopey look on her face. "I mean what's so hard about it?"

Mrs. Lynch nosily exhaled and ordered little Susan to continue.

"so who took the cookie from the cookie jar?" Susan read. Although read perfectly, little Susan was shy and bashful. She was terribly soft-spoken and it was difficult to hear her.

Mrs. Lynch proceeded to mock Susan. "You sound like a little mouse on its dying breath." Then she whispered softly like little Susan, "so who took the cookie from the cookie jar?" While doing so, she made a sad face which clearly exhibited the way Susan read.

The entire classroom laughed.

Heather, perhaps the smartest kid in class and seemingly the teacher's pet chimed in, "I like it when you imitate people. It keeps everyone laughing."

"Oh really?" challenged Mrs. Lynch. "Here let me impersonate you." Mrs. Lynch proceeded to skip across the front of the room over to the teacher's desk. "Good morning Mrs. Lynch." She used an exaggerated voice in a somewhat cruel tone which was aimed to mock Heather. "You have a nice dress today. You look nice. Can I be your special student... your teacher’s pet?"

All the kids in the class laughed, including Heather who clearly didn't have a problem with laughing at herself.

"You like that, huh Heather?" asked Mrs. Lynch.

Heather nodded in affirmation as her laughter calmed down.

"Well what about me?" encouraged Mrs. Lynch. "Doesn't anyone want to impersonate me?"

Heather immediately offered, "I will!" She stood up from her desk and scurried over to the blackboard where she picked up a piece of chalk. "Okay boys and girls, we need to learn how to pronounce letters correctly." Heather drew the letter R on the blackboard.

Mrs. Lynch stood some distance away and observed in silence.

"And so boys and girls, what is this letter?" asked Heather who was acting out Mrs. Lynch.

"R!" answered the entire class.

"Good!" congratulated Heather who, for some reason, was able to imitate Mrs. Lynch's voice quite well. "And how do you pronounce it?"

"RRRRRR!" answered the class. This was certainly a fun game. Mrs. Lynch wasn't such a bad teacher after all.

Heather was able to impersonate Mrs. Lynch so well that she even stretched her neck out while partly bowing to correct the students. "URRRRRRRRRR!" she answered in correction.

All the kids in the classroom laughed. Heather sounded just like Mrs. Lynch. She even exhibited the same gestures and body motion while pretending to teach the class.

But unlike the kids in the class, Mrs. Lynch was not laughing. She grew all the more silently outraged until finally speaking, "Wow, Heather! That's good! How did you learn how to do that?"

Heather smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

"It looks like you've had a lot practice." pointed Mrs. Lynch. "Is this what you do during recess? You go out to the playground and mock me with all of your friends?"

The smile on Heather's face immediately went away. Now she stood at the front of the class while trying to defend herself. "But Mrs. Lynch, I was only playing. You told me to do that. I thought we were playing a fun game."

"After all that I've done for you!" shouted Mrs. Lynch. "You ungrateful, little brat!"

"I'm sorry Mrs. Lynch!" apologized Heather. "Please don't be mad."

"You really hurt my feelings by doing all of that!" explained Mrs. Lynch. "And you know what? I don't think I want you in my class anymore."

"Mrs. Lynch, no!" Heather pleaded.

"That's right! You can get out of my class and move next door to Mrs. White's class. Gather up all of your books, pencils, crayons, glue, paper—everything—from your desk."

Heather's shoulders sunk. Reluctantly, she approached her desk and opened the top.

"Take it all out!" ordered Mrs. Lynch.

In two minutes, Heather gathered everything up from her desk and stacked all of her books on top of one another. Then she placed all the supplies on top.

"Now pick all of that up and carry it over to the corner near the door." ordered Mrs. Lynch. "You can stand there and wait. I just need to talk to Mrs. White so she can find you a desk."

It was quite a lot of weight for child in first grade to carry. Heather struggled to maintain her balance while not allowing anything to fall. When finally making it to the door, Heather was ordered to turn around and face the class.

"So you don't like me, huh?" asked Mrs. Lynch.

"That's not true." sadly answered Heather.

But Mrs. Lynch wasn't buying it. "So tell me when you started to hate me so much?"

"But I don't hate you Mrs. Lynch." insisted Heather.

"Is it my dress? Don't you like my dress? Maybe you don't like my hairstyle? Or maybe my teeth aren't white enough for you?"

"You look fine." whispered Heather. Then she asked, "Mrs. Lynch?"

"What????" sharply asked Mrs. Lynch. "What do you want?????"

"Could I put my books down? These are getting really heavy and I'm getting tired."

"What, are you some kind of weakling?" charged Mrs. Lynch. "You can't hold up books for a couple of minutes. You're pathetic, Heather.—you know that? I could stand there for an hour and hold those books without any problem. So I guess I'm better than you. And you're going to make fun of me?"

By now, Heather's arms were shaking. She aimed her face to the ceiling in some effort to summon the strength to keep holding the stack of books and supplies. Remember, this was a child in first grade and she was given a terribly difficult task... actually a cruel punishment to endure.

"You disgust me!" declared Mrs. Lynch. "I'm going next door to talk to Mrs. White so I can get you out of here.

As Mrs. Lynch left the room, poor Heather began to cry. Despite how cruel her teacher was, Heather was actually fond of Mrs. Lynch. And there was just something about being evicted from her class in the middle of the year that didn't sit right with her. Aside from that, the kids in Mrs. White's class were weird. They were the losers who could never do anything right.

As always, the kids in Mrs. Lynch's class began to chatter once the teacher left the room. Would this time be real? There were a few occasions of when Mrs. Lynch became disappointed with a student and threatened to send him or her next door. But it never happened. Well this time Mrs. Lynch looked really angry. Maybe this time it would actually happen.

A minute later, Mrs. Lynch returned and sighed. "Well, Heather, I guess put your books and supplies back in your desk. Mrs. White doesn't have an empty desk for you to sit at.

Relieved, Heather walked back to her desk and nearly dropped everything onto the seat.

While Heather waited for the blood to rush back to her hands, Mrs. Lynch added a final remark, "Remember, Heather: the only reason why you are not next door is because Mrs. White doesn't have a desk. I'm really serious when I say that I don't want you in my class anymore. From now on, things are going to be different between you and me. Understand?"

"Yes..." sadly answered Heather.

And that's what happens when someone mocks Mrs. Lynch, the first grade teacher at Valley Grammar School.

The End!

Killing Yourself to Live

Hello All:

I’ve mentioned before of how much I love the premium subscription to Spotifiy. Any time a song is in my head, I can look for it on Spotify and give a listen. Last night I was cleaning the kitchen and suddenly had an urge to listen to the song, “killing yourself to live” by English rock band, Black Sabbath. It just popped into my head and I had to give a listen.

Halfway through the song, I realized that it is truly a masterpiece. The music is colorful, vibrant and alive. The message from the lyrics is important, reminding us that sometimes in life we kill ourselves trying to fulfill our expectations. I’m not sure I agree with another message in the song that we should “smoke it and get high”. But I suppose that’s how the songwriter attempted to relay that we should relax and not worry about anything.

Be sure to give the song a listen if you never heard it. I provide the You Tube video, below. Then read today’s new short story, a new tale out of the Cableman series.

Killing Yourself to Live

Sometimes being the Cableman isn't easy, especially on those days when he is given an impossible route of installs to complete. It seems the boss doesn't understand how long it takes to complete installs as well as answer service calls. There's only so much that a cable man can do in one day.  And how the Cableman hates it when the boss gives him that “your days are numbered around here” sort of look when walking past the office after 5:00.

Days like this require a special sort of after-hours therapy which involves going home after his workout and cracking open a couple of beers while playing one of his favorite Black Sabbath CDs, Volume 4. The album is ideal for drowning one's sorrows out in rock and roll. The same can be said of many songs by Black Sabbath or simply Ozzy Osbourne.

The Cableman listened to most of the songs on the album: "wheels of confusion", "tomorrow's dream", "supernaut"... he skipped the mellow songs like "changes" and "Laguna sunrise". While listening, he reflected on his crappy day and let the bluesy sound of Black Sabbath drown all of his sorrows away. He even thought about all of his women problems: Tina who broke up with him because of her parents, Melissa who left him for another man, and Jenny Robin who really messed with his mind. He buried it all in rock and roll, one of the best medicines for a troubled mind.

Before ending his session, the Cableman went back to the first song of the album, "wheels of confusion" and played it one more time just to make sure he heard the important message. Ozzy stated at the conclusion of the song,

“So I found that life is just a game.

But you know there's never been a winner.

Try your hardest just to be a loser.

The world will still be turning when you've gone...

Yeah, when you've gone."

"Amen to that!" exclaimed the Cableman. "Why try so hard at everything?" And that was the end of the Cableman's session of drowning his sorrows in rock and roll music. He felt one hundred percent better, and forgot everything. By then he was ready for dinner, and went to the refrigerator for a nice juicy steak to put on the grill.

***

Across town, however was a different story. Unemployed twenty-eight-year-old Larry who lived with his grandmother spoke on the telephone with his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend.

"I mean you're just not going anywhere in life." explained Larry's girlfriend, Michelle. "You don't have a job and you have no inhibitions.”

"But I love you." reminded Larry.

"That's great." answered Michelle. "But you put too much of a drain on my life. I don't want to sound mean when saying this, but you're kind of a loser. I really hoped you could at least get a job and get yourself back on your feet."

"Michelle, I've been through so much!" yelled Larry.

In the family room, Grandma listened to the one side of the conversation. She knew what this phone call was about, and shook her head in sadness. If only Larry could get his life together.

"I struggle every day to finally pull out of this." continued Larry. "You're the only thing left in this world that gives me hope."

"I understand that." answered Michelle. "But for now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to break up with you."

"No!" yelled Larry. "Please don't! Michelle, if you break up with me, I'm going to kill myself!"

"See what I mean!" pointed Michelle. "See how you bring me down? I can't take this sort of thing anymore." With that, she hung up the phone.

Larry slammed the phone down, stormed off into his bedroom and closed the door. Immediately he rummaged his collection of old records that were kept in the record case of the retro 1970s stereo. The old appliance was picked up at a garage sale when he was still in high school.

It was the album Sabbath Bloody Sabbath which caught Larry's attention, probably because he remembered the opening song, "killing yourself to live". Larry loaded the record and dropped the needle on the first track. Immediately the opening riff from the song played.

Now it should be mentioned that the opening song to Sabbath Bloody Sabbath is more of a motivational piece. It aims to remind people that we try so hard in life to gain wealth and success, only to end up killing ourselves in the process. Think of the health issues that people get after so many decades of chasing the horizon of material happiness. They die early, hence the meaning of the message, "killing yourself to live". The song was not intended to encourage people to commit suicide.

Larry, however, had a different interpretation. He reached up to the top shelf of his bedroom closet for a shotgun. It was already loaded in case ever needed. "So she wants to break up with me? Well I guess I have nothing left."

Through the speakers, Ozzy tried to reason with Larry:

"Just take a look around you what do you see

Pain, suffering, and misery

It's not the way that the world was meant

It's a pity you don't understand

Killing yourself to live...

Killing yourself to live..."

Larry turned the volume of the 1970s stereo up, and sat on the ground against the speaker. He just sat there for a while with the shotgun in hand. And whenever needed, Larry would reach over and pick up the needle to play the song over again. Eventually, he hoped, the song would give him the necessary motivation to finally pull the trigger.

By 11:30 in the evening, Larry had yet to commit suicide. But the song "killing yourself to live" continued to play over and over again.

Grandma really wanted to go to bed for the night, and couldn't sleep with all that racket coming from Larry's bedroom. She had to be up early the following morning to have someone from the cable company come over and look at her TV picture. "Larry!" she called out. "Larry, turn that noise down! It's time for bed!" She knocked and pounded; even tried to open the door herself, but it was locked.

Inside, Larry sat on the floor with the barrel of the shotgun pointed in his mouth. It would only be a matter of time before he finally pulled the trigger.

Frustrated, Grandma groaned and head off to bed for the evening. She would put the pillows over her head and try to drown out the noise from Larry's bedroom. It wasn't until 3:30 AM that she managed to fall asleep.

***

By 7:30 the following morning, Grandma woke up and could hear that the noise continued from Larry's bedroom. By now, she was able to recognize a pattern and realize that he was playing the same song over and over again.

"What in the world is wrong with him?" asked Grandma out loud. “Did he lose his mind?" She stormed down the hallway and over to Larry's bedroom door where she pounded it with her fists. "Larry!" she yelled. "Come on, now! That's enough! What happened? Did your girlfriend break up with you? That's okay, life has to go on."

The guitars screamed in answer. Larry wasn't ready to come out.

"Come-on Larry!" yelled Grandma. "I have the cable company coming in a half an hour. You're not going to make all that racket while they're here, are you?"

There was still no answer from Larry. All poor Grandma could do was change into a fresh pair of clothes, put her dentures in and wait by the door for the cable company to arrive.

By 8:15 AM, a cable van pulled up near the house and parked by curb. It was the Cableman who exited. Grandma watched as he put a safety cone out in the street and then clicked his way up the driveway in his steel-toed work boots. He was actually a handsome man. Too bad Larry couldn't be more like him.

"Well hello!" shouted Grandma upon opening the screen door.

"Hi, I'm here to answer a call for poor picture quality?" shouted the Cableman in return.

As the Cableman stood in the foyer, Grandma apologized, "I'm so sorry for all that racket. My grandson just broke up with his girlfriend, and he's been playing that all night. It's the same song over and over again. I can't get him to come out.

The Cableman immediately recognized the song. "Well that's 'killing yourself to live' by Black Sabbath."

"You mean to tell me you know that song?" asked Grandma so surprised.

"Yes I do." affirmed the Cableman. "And he's been playing it all night long?"

"Yes." answered Grandma. "I tried to go in his room, but the door is locked.”

The Cableman continued to probe, "And you say your grandson broke up with his girlfriend?"

"Yesterday afternoon." informed Grandma.

"Well, Ma'am, I don't like the sound of that." declared the Cableman. "Would you like me to go in there and check on him?"

"Oh, please do!" encouraged Grandma.

The Cableman walked over to Larry's bedroom door and knocked. "Hello??? This is the cable company!" He tried to turn the knob; but just as Grandma mentioned, the door was locked.

Grandma was standing nearby. Because of this the Cableman warned, "Ma'am, you might want to look away. This might not be pretty."

Once Grandma walked into the other room, the Cableman executed a powerful sidekick to the bedroom door which tore the frame as the door swung open.

There on the floor sat emotionally distraught Larry against the speaker of the stereo with the barrel of the shotgun pointed in his mouth. His body was shaking tremendously. The trigger of the shotgun was about halfway pulled.

"Hey, man!" shouted the Cableman while rushing in. "What are you doing?"

The lyrics from Ozzy screamed through the speakers,

“I'm telling you

Believe in me

Nobody else will tell you”

The Cableman kicked the butt-end of the shot gun to the side which caused the trigger to finally pull. The barrel exploded and out projected a massive bullet which blasted a hole in the bedroom wall.

Larry's head and face were still intact. The bullet missed him. It was a close call, indeed!

Immediately, the Cableman turned the volume down—relief for Grandma. "Are you stupid or something?" nagged the Cableman. "What's wrong with you?"

Larry just sat on the floor and continued to shake.

"Man, you're all messed up. You need help." He called out to Grandma in the other room, "Ma'am, your grandson is okay. But you might want to call the paramedics."

While waiting for rescue to arrive, the Cableman thought he would use the opportunity to talk some sense into Larry. "Look, I understand that you're girlfriend broke up with you. But this isn't the way to handle it. Suicide is never the answer. Did you know that someone once did the very thing that you attempted? He played "killing yourself to live" by Black Sabbath—over and over again—after his girlfriend broke up with him. After some hours he pulled the trigger of the shotgun; but chickened out at the last second, and managed to escape any serious damage from the bullet. But he now walks through life with a shotgun hole in his face. Is that how you want to end up?

Larry finally spoke up, "That's how I got the idea."

The End!