The Dead Forest--chapter two

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.

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 two

At this point, Stan looked up and realized that he had spectators—spectators who he made eye contact with. Immediately the morbid fantasy had ended.

"Are you alright?" called out Richard.

"Yeah, I'm okay answered Stan. I'm just getting something." While saying this, he quickly tossed the terrified doll into the metal tool box, closed the lid and set it back into the ground. Before covering it back up with soil, Stan nervously lay on the ground, and pulled his trousers back up in case the curious spectators wou
ld come over to see what he was doing.

But, apparently they were not interested. Both Richard and Laurie continued to hike back to the car. By now, Laurie realized that the boy was doing something that he shouldn't have been doing. But, again, things like this weren't discussed in olden times.

A few minutes later, Stan's father encountered Richard and Laurie on the walking path. "Excuse me!" he called out.

"Yes?" answered Richard.

"Is that your Thunderbird parked in the lot?" asked Stan’s father. He wanted to verify that it didn't belong to those imaginary girls.

"It is." answered Richard with a note of concern. "Did it get hit?"

"No your Thunderbird is fine." reassured Stan’s father. "I apologize. You see, my son is here and he claims he is out riding his bicycle in the woods. I was concerned that maybe he was meeting some girls out here."

Richard nervously glanced at his wife.

Richard’s father definitively noticed. "You didn't happen to see a teenage boy riding his bike, did you?"

Laurie spoke up, "Well we did see that boy off the main trail. He was kneeling on the ground and..."

Richard interrupted his wife, "Yes, it looked like he was bending down to pick something up."

Laurie stared at her husband for a second. Was Richard sure that's all it was?

Stan's father grew all the more curious. "Kneeling on the ground? Are you sure he wasn't with some girls?"

It was then that Richard grew outraged. You see, Richard was a young newly-wed and felt a need to demonstrate himself as having a certain merit in society; maybe equal to those who are some years older than him. He sharply asked, "Hey, what's the big idea of asking all the questions about your son?

"I'm sorry..." apologized Stan's father.

But Richard continued, "If you're so concerned about what he's doing, then he's your responsibility, not ours!" Richard looked over to his wife and ordered, "Come-on, Laurie, let's go."

And with that, the pair of newly-weds continued hiking back to their car.

Poor Father, he was worried about his son. From the looks of the newly-weds, they had seen Stan doing something that wasn't right. What could Stan have possibly been doing? Father continued onward in hopes to locate his son.

Not more than three minutes later, Stan and his Father finally approached and faced one another on the main trail of the Berry Bush Forest Preserve. Stan knew that he was to stop and dismount his bicycle, and he did so.

"Well I suppose you have some explaining to do." began Father.

"Sir?" questioned Stan. "What do you mean? I'm riding my bike in the forest like I said I was going to do?"

"Never mind that!" snapped Father. I ran into a pair of newly-weds who said that they saw you in the forest off the main trail. They said you were kneeling on the ground."

Immediately Stan blushed, and his heart rate increased. Did they report to Father of what he was doing?

"Now I'm going to ask you once. What were you doing out there?"

Stan quickly made up a lie. "Well, Sir, I'm almost embarrassed to admit. I rode off the main trail to enjoy the scenery some more, but fell off my bike."

"You fell off you bike?" asked Father in disbelief.

"Yes, Sir, that's the honest truth. See my hands?" Stan held out his soiled hands which in truth had been dirtied by quickly covering the ground over the buried metal tool box. "They got dirty when I braced my fall. And that couple probably saw me at the very moment when I had fallen."

"Well are you alright?" asked Father with a note of concern.

"Yes, Sir." answered Stan. "My hands might be a little scraped, but I'll be okay."

"No, something's not adding up." remarked Father. Why is your heart racing? It looks like you are nervous. It looks like you are covering something up from me."

"Well I was riding my bike." offered Stan. "Of course my heart is beating faster. I swear, I'm telling you the truth about everything."

Father heard enough. As far as he was concerned, Stan had been doing something that he wasn't supposed to in those woods. But for now, he would play it off that he believed him. "Okay, fine." answered Father. "Maybe the whole situation just looked weird. Are you alright to make it back home?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Then I'll see you when I get home."

With that, Stan mounted his bicycle and proceeded to ride off towards the parking lot of Berry Bush Forest Preserve. From there he peddled on the main road in town and head home. Halfway there, he realized that in his frantic state of quickly burying the toolbox, Stan had left Father's hand shovel near the grave.

"Oh no!" exclaimed Stan. "I'll have to go back later and get it." You see, Stan was worried that the pair of newly-weds would have called the police. He needed to quickly leave before the police possibly arrived.

Unfortunately for Stan, he would never have an opportunity to retrieve the hand shovel. Like mentioned above, parents were a little different back in those days. They didn’t believe their kids when something looked suspicious. And kids weren’t let off the hook so easily.

Stan’s bicycle tires left fresh tracks on the gravel trail. Father simply followed them until they stopped at the place where Stan wandered off into the forest. Although Stan had gotten off his bicycle to walk it which no longer left tire tracks, Father simply continued to walk.

“He couldn’t have gone too much further…” Father continued walking. “Anything… cigarettes… maybe a lipstick from whatever girl he was with…”

But what was this?

So unexpected; some fifty feet off the main trail and near a large, old tree; Father discovered a hand shovel. “That’s my hand shovel.” he silently exclaimed. “What in the world is that doing here?” Then he glanced over near the tree and could see that a fresh hole had been dug and then the dirt covered back over it. “He buried something?”

With the hand shovel, Father quickly began to dig around the area which—unbeknown to him—was the doll’s grave. Moments later, he reached the metal toolbox. “This is my box.” exclaimed Father. He pulled the metal toolbox from the ground and took a deep breath. “Alright, is he stealing money and hiding it…? Maybe from Mr. Green’s dime store?”

But, no! It was nothing like this. When the metal toolbox was opened, there lay the terrified doll who quickly looked relieved to finally be rescued. Her ordeal of repeated rapes and then being buried in the ground was finally over.

“Why this is Sherry’s doll!” exclaimed Father. “What is wrong with that boy?” He closed the lid, and walked back to the car with the metal toolbox and shovel in hand.

***

Fifteen minutes later, Father entered the house with both the toolbox and hand shovel. He entered the kitchen where Mother was cooking dinner. “Where’s Stan?” he asked.

“Well he came home and went right up to his bedroom.” answered Mother. “Why, is there something wrong?”

“I’m afraid there is.” affirmed Father. He walked over to the foot of the stairs and called out, “Stan, come down here.” While waiting, he set the toolbox and hand shovel on the kitchen table and then sat down.

Cautiously, Stan descended the stairs. He could tell by the tone of Father’s voice that he was in trouble. And upon entering the kitchen, he could finally see what it was.

“Sit down.” ordered Father.

Stan pulled out the chair and sat down at the table across from Father. His heart was definitely racing, now.

Mother stood near the kitchen counter and quietly prepared dinner while listening.

“Now don’t tell me that your heart is racing because you were riding your bike.” warned Father.

Stan remained silent.

“Son, I’m still at a loss of how to process all of this. You see, after you left, I followed your tire tracks until they ended. I assumed that was where you deviated off the main trail and hiked to wherever it was that you were going. And I was right. I’m sure you realize that there is no point in lying because this is clearly my hand shovel. That’s what I found. And I noticed that there was a fresh hole which had been dug and covered up. I was really curious. I thought you had been stealing money from Mr. Green’s dime store and was burying it in the forest. But then I uncovered my toolbox from the basement. And inside…” Father opened the metal toolbox. “…there lay your sister’s doll. Young man, you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Stan’s face was beat red out of embarrassment and humiliation. All he could do was shrug his shoulders. “I… I… I was just…”

“Just what?” demanded Father.

Just then Stan’s sister, Sherry, entered the kitchen and spotted her doll. “Betsy!” she exclaimed while rushing over.

“Sherry, no!” warned Father. “Your mother is going to have to clean Betsy. She’s dirty.” You see, although interrogating his son for an explanation, Father was aware of what Stan did to the doll in the forest. He resumed his interrogation, “Son, do you have any idea as to what this looks like?”

Stan shrugged his shoulders and did his best to keep from crying.

“This looks like you are some sort sexual pervert…”

“Henry!” cried out Mother.

“Let me finish!” snapped Father. “There is no point in pretending. Our son has a problem, and we need to correct this. As for you, young man…” he glared back at Stan. “It looks like you have some perverted desires of molesting the dead. That’s called necrophilia. And it’s a crime not only punishable by serving jail time, but it’s also a mortal sin. I’m afraid I’m going to have to dish out some punishment to teach you a lesson—see to it that you never do this again.

Stan’s lips quivered and the tears rolled down his cheeks. He knew the sort of punishment that Father referred to, and dreaded it.

“For starters, since you like playing in the dirt so much, you can go outside every Saturday and Sunday when you are not at the dime and do plenty of yardwork for us. And while doing that, you can think about what a bad kid you are. And Stan… I’m afraid this is going to hurt me more than you, but you can get your ass upstairs and bend over on the bed. I will be there shortly to deal with you.

Stan sobbed and ran up the stairs in terror. The last time Father dealt with him, he felt like he was close dying. He bent over and lay on the bed. While waiting, he imagined Sherry’s doll who must have cried out for mercy whenever enduring Stan’s sick play. Stan had been a monster in that doll’s eyes, and ignored any pleas from her to stop. Perhaps Stan deserved what was about to happen.

In stormed Father with the thick, leather belt. He raised his arm in the air and unleashed the wrath of God across Stan’s ass in the form of stinging leather. Father did it again and again—at least a dozen times before adding words to the beating. “You steal my metal toolbox and hand shovel to do something perverted in the forest preserve!”

Stan screamed and cried and even began to choke from the shock brought on by pain.

Father continued to beat his son. “You use your sister’s doll to play perverted games! And I just know that the pair of newlyweds saw what you were doing with that doll!”

Downstairs, Sherry observed from the hallway as Mother frantically scrubbed her doll, Betsy. “Is she really dirty, Mommy?”

“Oh yes!” affirmed Mother. “She’s very dirty!” Mother would see to it that every bit of filth and lust would be scrubbed off of that doll.

While being scrubbed, Betsy would occasionally glance at Sherry in hopes to communicate what a horrible ordeal she had endured.

Sherry could hear Father continuing to beat her brother Stan, upstairs, who choked and gasped for air while crying out. “Okay! Please! I’ve had enough! Please stop! I can’t breathe anymore!”

But the leather strap continued to snap. Little did Sherry know that Stan was now sitting on the ground and kicking his legs, partly in reaction to pain and partly as an involuntary response to prevent any further whipping. 

Stan’s beating that fateful Saturday afternoon lasted for five minutes, long enough for Father to become exhausted and believe that he had beaten the sick and perverted nature out of his son. Immediately, Stan stood up to rush to the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” demanded Father.

Stan cried, “I’m having trouble breathing. Please let me splash cold water on my neck and face so I don’t pass out.”

“No!” declared Father. “You get in bed and lay there. While you feel like you are dying, you can think about what a dirty pervert you are. Think about what life would be like in jail if you were ever caught molesting the dead. No supper tonight, either!”

Yes, it was a harsh punishment. But that’s what Stan deserved for kidnapping Betsy, burying her in the woods, and repeatedly unearthing her to rape her like a corpse that could not cry out.

Too bad the beating didn’t stick with Stan. Despite what Father may have believed, it didn’t change him. Oh, Stan never asked to ride his bicycle again. He wouldn’t dare. And he didn’t return to the forest preserve to play perverted games with his sister’s dolls. Still, the morbid fetishes remained with Stan throughout high school and after graduation.

***

It was expected—actually demanded—of Stan to join the Army after high school. Father believed that Stan needed a good drill sergeant to finally straighten out and make a man out of him. You see, Stan was mostly quiet in high school, and didn't make many friends. He didn't play sports and didn't pull the best grades. And there were still those concerns of Stan being a morbid pervert. Aside from that, Stan appeared to have no aspirations of doing much of anything after graduating except continuing to work at the dime store.  He was nearly nineteen years upon graduating high school. What's more? It was only natural to join the military with talks of drafts for the Vietnam War.

Father took Stan to an armed forces recruiter one Monday morning.

"Yes! I do believe we can make a man out of your son!" declared the recruiter with a menacing look. "What do you say, boy?" he asked Stan. "Are you ready to be a man?"

Stan shrugged his shoulders, "Sure, I guess so..."

"You guess so?" challenged the recruiter with a confounded look. "Well that's one thing we're going to fix for you, boy. We're going to take the guess work out of everything." Then he looked at Father. "We can take him right now if you want. We've got a truck load of 'em heading out to boot camp just like your son, all on their way to be turned into men and soldiers."

"It sounds like a great idea to me." agreed Father. "You can take him."

Stan was in shock. He believed that he would only visit the armed forces recruiter to talk about joining. He didn't think he'd be shipped off to boot camp on that very day.

And when he finally arrived, there stood a mean drill sergeant who yelled at Stan and scolded him for being late. "Now drop and give me twenty!" ordered the drill sergeant.

"Yes, Sir!" answered Stan who dropped to the ground and struggled with all his might after the third push up.

"What, are you some kind of girl?" asked the mean drill sergeant. "You can't even do pushups?"

Stan huffed and puffed with beads of sweat pouring down his face. You see, Stan wasn't exactly fit to do strenuous activity. And this disgusted the drill sergeant all the more.

Stan's time in the military lasted all but three weeks. He couldn't even make it through boot camp. Back in those days, cadets were severely beaten and punished for being unable to fulfil the drills and exercises. And that's what happened to poor Stan. They beat the shit out of him, beat him bloody and unconscious. They beat him so bad, in fact, that he was unconscious for three days due a concussion. It was a miracle that Stan didn't die.

But the Army didn't feel the least bit sorry for Stan. Again, this was olden times and things were handled differently. As far as the Army was concerned, Stan failed boot camp and was dishonorably discharged.

Back at home, Mr. Green no longer needed Stan at his dime store. He found a replacement, a studious sophomore boy in high school who was working quite well. Fortunately for Stan, he quickly found an alternative. He managed to land a full time job at the local Texaco gas station as a pump and lube attendant. Stan was certainly knowledgeable on filling gas tanks. As for changing oil, Stan had done it for Father on a few occasions which made him qualified enough to work at Texaco.

It wasn't such a bad job. It paid fairly decent and enabled Stan to pay for Father's mandatory rent for living at home. It also enabled Stan to purchase his own car, a black 1959 Chevy Impala. Through his new network of coworkers and their friends, Stan landed a nice deal for the used car. So he no longer needed to ask Mom and Dad to use theirs. How's that for becoming a man?

Oh, but things would get even better for Stan once summer ended, right around the time when his yearly morbid fetishes began to stir. It was on Thursday, September 24^th, 1964 when Stan sat in the family room with Mother, Father and his kid sister Sherry. They watched the very, first episode of The Munsters. And that's when Stan fell terribly in love with the wife, Lily Munster. You've seen her before, I’m sure; long, raven-black hair with a pale face and red lipstick—at least this was seen when the episodes were finally colorized. But viewers in those days swore that they could see the full colored morbid beauty of Lily Munster through the black and white TV screen. But Stan saw so much more than her morbid beauty. For Stan, Lily Munster was the woman he had been waiting for all his life. So haunted-looking, she was the sort of woman he could bury in a grave and later unearth for an evening of romance.

Poor Lily Munster...

“So is this how things got even better for Stan?”—you might ask? “He saw his first episode of The Munsters and fell in love with Lily Munster?”

No, that’s not what happened. It only served as a precursor, and Stan would soon forget about Lily Munster. You see, the very next day, around 4:30 PM, a car pulled into the Texaco gas station—a 1962 Dodge Belvidere—with Stan's high school classmate, Fredrick, driving. In the passenger seat was Fredrick's girlfriend, Donna—the same Donna who was discussed at the beginning of the story. For all practical purposes, she was already grown up—a young woman.

Stan had to take a deep breath to pull himself out of disbelief. You see, this was beautiful Donna; Spanish with long, raven black hair, dark Spanish eyes, and fair skin. She was nearly a dead-ringer for Lily Munster! He remembered seeing Donna throughout high school. Why hadn't he noticed her before? Stan was in so much of a trance that moment that he initially walked up to the passenger side.

Donna could see the love in Stan's eyes. But she had Fredrick, now a soldier who had successfully graduated boot camp and was waiting to hear word of when he would be deployed for the Vietnam War.

"Over here Stan!" ordered Fredrick from the driver seat.

"Oops, sorry!" apologized Stan. "I guess it's been a long day."

For some strange reason, Donna momentarily felt sad.

"So how have you been, Fredrick?" nervously asked Stan while trying to make small talk.

"Not too bad." answered Fredrick. "And you?" But before Stan could answer, Fredrick was sure to jab the knife in. "I hear you didn't make it in boot camp. Yeah it's rough, ain't it?"

Stan sighed, "Yeah..."

"I hear you were dishonorably discharged." continued Fredrick.

Donna sadly called out, "Fredrick, that's not nice."

But Fredrick ignored his girlfriend. He was a soldier, and no girl was going to dictate what was nice. "I heard they beat shit of you."

Stan now felt about two-feet tall. "Yeah, I was unconscious for a few days..."

"Sorry to hear that." finalized Fredrick before ordering, "Fill it up with five dollars regular."

"You've got it." acknowledged Stan who walked over to the gas pump. Normally he would ask the customer if he should check under the hood. But with as humiliated as he felt, Stan wanted Fredrick to be gone as soon as possible. But not Donna! How Stan wished that Donna would have voiced her disgust in the way Fredrick had treated Stan, and then exit his vehicle to be with Stan for the remainder of the evening. Stan did clean the windshield while the gas pumped. For a split second he managed to glance in towards the passenger seat at Donna who returned a micro-second sad look which communicated how sorry she was.

"Okay, that will be fiver dollars." announced Stan after hanging up the gas pump.

Fredrick handed a five dollar bill and a single out the window. "Keep the change." Then he drove off with beautiful Donna in the passenger seat.

***

It had been over two years since Stan paid a visit to the Berry Bush Forest Preserve. After that severe beating from Father on that fateful Saturday, Stan avoiding the place mostly out of fear that Father would be lurking. But Stan was older now. He worked, paid rent, and had his own vehicle. There was no reason why he couldn't visit the old burial spot on a Friday night after work which just so happened to be the same Friday when Fredrick visited the gas station with beautiful Donna sitting in the passenger seat.

It was late afternoon, actually nearing twilight, as Stan pulled into a parking spot at Berry Bush Forest Preserve. He put the transmission in park and turned off the engine. Located a few spots away was a vehicle with a couple that were necking.

"Is this the new lover's lane?" Stan thought to himself.

The couple briefly stopped with their passionate necking—young kids still in high school—and observed Stan. It was no one they recognized, so they resumed making out.

Stan walked the main trail for some minutes until reaching that place where he would deviate into the forest preserve. From there he continued until reaching the tree where he used to play his morbid game of unearthing Father's metal toolbox with terrified doll laying inside. With over two years passed and extreme weather conditions, evidence of a hole once being there was gone.

Stan was older now, and didn't really feel like playing with dolls. But how he needed an outlet to fulfil his morbid fetishes. He gazed off into the distance of the forest while briefly pondering for a moment. It was then that his attention was drawn to a large, old tree some distance off in the forest. There were actually two of them towering over the forest side-by side, but it was the one on the left that really caught Stan’s attention. It was clearly an old tree that had to be at least three to four hundred years old.

But why would an old tree catch Stan's attention?

It was because the tree exhibited the shape of a young woman; the curvaceous sort of woman... perhaps one that has long, raven, black hair with dark, Spanish eyes and fair skin... perhaps someone, exactly, like Donna. Has the reader ever taken notice of a very, old tree? It's beautiful to say the least. But pay attention to the outer surface and how the bark begins to build up curvy, irregular designs. It might remind you of a curvaceous woman. But would you fall in love with the tree in a way that Stan was beginning to do? Stan was spellbound and captivated. The more he looked at the tree, the more it resembled—perhaps—a wooden sculpture of the sort of woman he had been waiting for his entire life; someone like Donna.

Stan left his once-upon-a-time burial place of the doll, and linked back to the main trail. He walked and walked for over a hundred feet until at a location where he felt he could deviate off the trail and reach the tree. Oh, but it was no easy task. It required a bit of bushwhacking and then climbing down a ravine. When finally at the bottom, Stan approached the old tree which strongly resembled Donna.

Stan reached out and touched the sides of the old, curvy trunk as-if he were gently caressing Donna's hips. If Stan didn't know any better, there was something living in the tree—a spirit or some sort of ghost. And in that moment, Stan was able to use his morbid fetishes and fantasize of bringing to…

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

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!