SKYWATER

Mercy ...

2010-12-04T20:01:00.000-08:00

I have often said, "Do nothing to put yourself at the mercy of another man."

If only I had listened ...

Sadly, I have confirmed that mercy is not promised to the merciful.

And despite karma ...

Nor should it be expected.

Black Cats

2009-07-18T17:39:00.000-07:00

It was the Fourth of July in Fort Worth, Texas – and my brother Richard felt like playing a joke on our younger sister Ella. She played in the backyard while Richard carefully approached her from behind.

His tiptoed steps were perfectly stealth as he pulled the black cat firecracker and match from his pocket. Its stem was long – and Ella didn’t hear the match strike.

Richard’s lips curved more and more into a Grinch-like smile as he moved closer and touched the flame against the stem.

It was perfect – except Richard forgot to release the firecracker.

While he savored the scent of the burning gunpowder the flame moved up the stem and into the stock.

How ironic.

Two black cats.

One silent.

The other loud...

Blast!

And one hand exploded open.

Hot Coffee

2009-03-16T16:23:00.000-07:00

In this dream, I sit at the edge of my bed. It appears that I’m in a rest home and the room is crowded with occupied beds. The man lying in the bed beside me is fully dressed in coverall. Dark oily stains cover much of his sheets and I wonder if he works in an auto shop.

Between our beds, a small shelf sits against the wall, on it sits Styrofoam cups, a pitcher of water, and a pot of hot black coffee.

A tall elderly man approaches the shelf and pours himself a cup of water. He then drops a small pill in the water and takes a seat at the edge of my bed to drink it. I’m annoyed at him, but he looks tired, and I don’t want to be rude.

Moments later, he lumbers away.

Next, a middle-aged woman approaches the shelf. She appears to be stressed, mumbling to herself, and holding a dark pill. I get the impression that it is her last pill—and she is debating whether or not to take it. She holds the pill over a cup, still debating with herself.

I think she’s addicted to it . . . and her better half wants it no more.

She steps away from the shelf . . . turns and tries to walk away.

Two steps later, she angrily swings around and tosses the pill into the batch of coffee. She wants to destroy the pill, believing that it will quickly dissolve and be done with. However, the same motion which releases the pill into the coffee then desperately jerks up the pot from the shelf and begins pouring hot coffee into a cup, hoping to retrieve the quickly dissolving pill. The cup overflows—but no pill. Her wild glance swings over at me and then back at the shelf as she reaches out her open palm.

“No,” I say to her, as she turns the pot upside down—pouring hot coffee into has palm, screening it for the now fully dissolved pill. The last drop strikes her palm before she flings the empty pot against the wall and jumps on the edge of my bed to throw a fit.

I watch, as her angry eyes search, hair flying amid her wild screams, and the expression on her face when she realizes that her has burned her hand. Her eyes find me once more.

“YOOOOOUUUU!” she hisses, “You told me to do it!”

“What?” I try to reason with her—but realize that she’s mad, in a crazy sort of way. The pill must have been some sort of suppressant.

She launches at me and grabs my ankle as I kick myself awake.

Blades

2008-11-06T21:58:00.000-08:00

Mortal is the blade that cuts beneath my ribs

It takes what I cannot hold

Jagged across my bones, then twist

I sadly weep, it’s cold.

Limbs fold and surrender to the smell of dirt

Dust to dust, and earth to earth

Powerful is the blade

Unyielding, it seeks

All

The Odds

2008-09-02T10:33:00.000-07:00

For months now, I've been building my family tree; using online achieves such as ancestry.com and familysearch.org. Both are outstanding sites. I stored everything on my home PC.

Two nights ago, my computer came under attack by an aggressive virus.

I fought desperately to repair it. But in the end I had to reformat my hard drive.

Everything -except my family tree- was recovered.

What are the odds?

Too Wild

2008-08-21T21:07:00.000-07:00

Daddy rarely spoke to me, unless I was in trouble. So, I expected this time would be no different.

Two weeks earlier, while I was seven years old, I had approached him and asked if I could keep my turtle inside his water tank. The tank was actually a bathtub he had found somewhere around the neighborhood and hauled back to our house. He kept it outside in the shade next to our house, partly filled with green water, algae, a few catfish, perch, and a floating log for his two turtles to rest. It was a haven for mosquito larvae.

I had caught my turtle in the creek down the street; and I was proud of its uniqueness. It was smaller than daddy’s turtles which were light green and fairly docile. My turtle was a fighter, dark gray with a strong beak and thick shell. It had led me on a high speed chase through Crawfish Creek and down a dark, snake infested tunnel to catch it.

“I know who’s been killing my fish,” said daddy, looking suspiciously at me.
I could feel the energies draining from my body as I thought, “Great! Here we go again.” I had assumed he was talking about me.

Each day, I had been feeding breadcrumbs to the tank; but stopped when I heard that some of his fish had been killed. I hoped to avoid getting blamed, but I was apparently too late.

An awkward silence settled around us, as I looked down at the tank and floating fish, wondering how daddy would tie it to me. He had an effective method of placing blame. He simply defied us—my siblings and I—to deny his accusations; else the punishment might be more severe.

I wished I hadn’t come. “Why didn’t I play longer with my friends,” I thought.

Then the silence broke.

“It was that bad ass turtle of yours,” he said, “I caught it baiting one of my fish when I came home today.”

I looked down at my turtle, innocently sitting on the log. The larger turtles seemed to fear it, as they kept their distance.

“He’s too wild,” said Daddy with an almost proud tone, “Take it back to the creek.”

I was relieved and happily carried out his order.

Writer's Block

2008-07-01T21:24:00.000-07:00

“Is it true,” he ask,

“Is it truly a writer’s greatest fear?”

Too quickly I respond, calculated and unclear.

Today and each I fail to admit,

Its echoes revisit and in the background insist,

“Cleverness will not help you here.”

This bright page glares.

No -- it stares into my uninspired eyes -- misty -- and wanting heart whose rhythm ever hits;

Weaving dreams then launching twards unfitted mitts.

Yes -- writers block persist.

Amid Midair

2008-05-04T00:33:00.000-07:00

In spite, I move

Defying wearying disappointments, and dizzying distractions

Pain implores me stop, these aching heartbeats, but my feet feels no earth beneath

How can I stop in midair?

I move with unsatisfied love, unwelcomed, and lost

It is as smoke, teasing, it meanly swirls around my reaching grasp

Then whispers my name; my fate in foreign tongues, an empty fortune

This bate quietly calls my destiny

But how can I breathe in midair?

And where shall I land?

Unkempt Fields

2008-03-07T18:53:00.000-08:00

Through canyons and valleys they traveled, man and horse, across a shallow river and beyond, until concerns of Alice had faded. Knuckles found the supplies he needed in a small town called Fudge; food, blankets, and other items. Shade is no pack mule, so Mother Nature would provide the rest.

Shade enjoyed berries and grass along the way, beyond new canyons and past the strange looking shed that gave even Shade the creeps; the scarecrows that guarded its unkempt fields, and how one carried a large rusty pitchfork.

If they were only meant to repel crows, they would be a bit extravagant.

Knuckles noticed and then dismissed movement by one of them. “The heat must be getting to me,” he considered, and then realized that mechanical devises were probably implanted into their limbs to scare off some of the more aggressive critters. Not those however, whose clever minds gazed out through hungry eyes from the forest beyond the fields.

Their focus sat not on golden fields, but on Shade’s muscular legs, flexing as she carried Knuckles down the narrow path that led into the dark forest.

Enter Alice

2008-01-24T19:38:00.000-08:00

“I’m going to kill him!” echoed through the halls of her thoughts, as Alice flung the covers off of her and sprang from her bed. A stir had called her from her dreams; a dog’s bark, and a faint ruckus coming from Shade’s burn. Somehow she knew that it was Knuckles.

Alice had ended their relationship earlier that evening, and what better way to get under her skin, than to borrow her most prized possession. She knew that Knuckles had been planning a retreat into the wilderness. It’s where he was raised, and where -still- he sometimes go to fine peace. He would want to bring along a good horse.

In her bare feet, Alice stormed from her house, out onto the porch and immediately heard the galloping of hooves.

“Come back here!” she shouted into the night, but could hardly distinguish the fleeing dual from the shadowy background of the trees.

She then ran out into the yard, hoping that they would turn around. But such thoughts were not part of Knuckles’ plan.

Once they were out of Alice’s sight, and from atop Shade’s powerful back, Knuckles allowed her to slow to a comfortable trot.

Knuckles was gambling that Alice would not contact the authorities right away; that she was standing in her yard, staring into the darkness, and expecting him and Shade to appear from it—so that she could then scold him.

“By the time she realizes that we’re not returning just yet, it’ll be too late,” thought Knuckles, “We’ll be out of town; and I know just where to pick up some supplies.”

Night Guest

2007-12-20T17:32:00.000-08:00

One thing’s for sure. There’s no turning back—at least, not for now. Knuckles rubs his cold hands together, inches from the campfire that had warmed his supper, grits he’d bought in the small town thirty miles back. They now sit cold and half-eaten in a metal bowl at his side.

Shade, his gorgeous black mare, is unnerved by movements in the distance. The movements are just beyond her sight, but she knows that they are wolves. They’ve been following Knuckles and her for hours, waiting for the right moment to appear. The wolves in these parts are a bit abnormal; themselves descendant (spawn) of secret government breeding projects; carried out decades ago.

The project was intended to enhance the breed’s cognitive abilities, so that they would more easily adapt to the changing world around them. Rumor has it that the scientists experimented with human DNA, not resulting in deformities, or werewolf type creatures—but made the breed larger, and far more cunning.

Knuckles senses that Shade is uneasy, and he offers her what is left of his grits. She sniffs the bowl and then goes back to alert. Shade is descendant of thoroughbreds, and is the property of Knuckles’ recent lost love.

“What’s wrong girl?” says Knuckles, standing, “Is there something out there?”
He scans the darkness as he slowly removes his weapon.

The night grows silent, and is then parted by a deep growl of a voice from the shadows, “No gun,” it says. The project was also rumored to have granted some of its subject with abnormally humanlike qualities, vocal cords, developed and passed down through generations of alpha males.

Knuckles focuses more intently on the darkness and quickly realizes, courtesy of the campfire, that Shade and he are surrounded by more than twenty pairs of shinning eyes.

Empty dread floods him—likewise Shade, as the lake of eyes close in. Faint silhouettes moves into view and confirms what Shade already knows, as the raspy voice speaks again.

“Leave the horse and go.”

Priceless

2007-10-28T17:23:00.000-07:00

She seemed a bit disappointed when I told her that it was only going to be a prank.

“But sir, I can get a real gun,” she said, “They don’t know it, but I have two. And I don’t like the Master Gunnery Sergeant.” The gleam in her eyes reminded me that she has been seeing a psychiatrist. I pretended not to notice. “Can I at least hit him?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “We just want to scare him.”

While the Master Gunnery Sergeant and I are inside the office, you start a commotion outside the door. I’ll have one of the sergeants try to stop you. He’ll shout. Then we’ll need something to make a loud blast—perhaps a firecracker. Kick the door, and then burst inside waving the gun at him.

Game day:

The Master Gunnery Sergeants sprung to alert when he heard the commotion outside. Then the door flung open, followed by a short wild-haired woman wielding a pistol. I jumped from my chair, just in case I needed to intercept him from challenging her.

“You knew this day was coming Master Gunnery Sergeant!” she screamed, “You ruined my life!”

She then swung in my direction.

“No, no!” I yelled—pointing at the master gunnery sergeant, “Shoot him first!”

The look on his face was priceless.

Boxes

2007-09-04T22:04:00.000-07:00

Knuckles thought he had it all figured out—finally, the cure for a broken heart. It required a touch of anger, as he sealed his thoughts of her inside a box. He then imagined himself placing the box inside another, and secured it with a big rusty lock, in which he broke off an imaginary key.

Each time he sensed memories of her surfacing; he would toss the box inside another—layer after layer—and seal them all, sometimes with a blowtorch.

When the boxes were not enough, he carried them to the ocean and threw them into the water. When the boxes floated, he sealed them inside a safe, broke the combination, and watched it sink to the ocean floor. Memories, like bubbles would rise to the surface, and Knuckles imagined himself adding more layers around his box of memories. Nothing can escape, insisted Knuckles; not until this pain is gone.

Then, in a moment of silence, an angel whispered, “Which is better to harbor within thy heart? Pain, or anger?"

My Name in History

2007-08-17T08:45:00.000-07:00

Thank you Melanie, for the tag. The rules? (1) Google your name. (2) Repost (w/a link) the picture of the oddest, craziest, strangest, coolest, oldest, etc. person that shares your name. Post as many as you like, then pass it on.

The most memorable Eugene I could find was Eugene the Jeep, from the old Popeye cartoons. More than once, as a young boy, I was called a “Jeep”-- and I hated it.

One of the original Little Rascals, Eugene Pineapple Jackson, is shown here in one of his later films.

Pineapple's son, Eugene III Jackson, shown below, was also an actor. Among his early films were Shenandoah. In addition to his action, Junior also has an impressive resume behind the camera. It includes classic television programs like Emergency, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Columbo, The Six Million Dollar Man, and Mork and Mindy, as well as the more recent hits, Hearts Afire, Hunter, Cheers, Hill Street Blues, and Seinfeld.

That’s enough for now. And now I’d like to tag the following people: Susan, Jennifer, Paisley, and Cath.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are
1,088
people with my name
in the U.S.A.

How many have your name?

Gullible

2007-06-28T16:44:00.000-07:00

I was a gullible little boy, sitting next to the coolest guy in my fifth grade class. Sometimes he took cheap shots at me; commenting on my raggedy shoes, or the clothes I had worn for the second time in one week. His timing was always perfect, and he only teased me when he had an audience.

One day, after one of his verbal jabs, I scanned him for discrepancies. His shoes were in style; with bellbottoms, a silk shirt, and Afro. Then I noticed that his fingernails had little white streaks. It looked odd to me, and I thought it was my one shot to get even with him.

“Well,” I said, “at least I don’t have white marks on my fingernails.”

He laughed at me, and then fired back. “These marks tell you how many girls like me!” he said, “How many do you have?”

A cloud then hovered above me, as I discreetly studied my nails for marks and found none.

Bad Hiding Places

2007-06-19T18:44:00.000-07:00

It would be my last time to play hide and seek. It began with us sitting on the bench outside the Laundromat, Richard, Tyron, and me. We were bored, and waiting for Tyron’s clothes to finish. I don’t recall whose idea it was. One moment we were watching the cars go by, and the next, Richard and I were looking for a place to hide while Tyron counted.

Something compelled me to look inside the Laundromat while I counted inside my head, fifteen…sixteen…seventeen. When my time was nearly up, I noticed an open door to one of the large dryers. Tyron will never find me in there, I thought. “Nineteen! Twenty! Ready or not, here I come!” Tyron yelled as I closed the door behind me.

The dryer immediately turned me upside down and dropped me on my head, flipping me repeatedly while punching me all over with its steel ridges, designed to toss clothes. It was blasting me with heat the entire time, and then it delivered a hard jab to my ribcage, knocking out what was left of my air. Yelling did not occur to me, only disorientation and wanting to get out.

Between the stars, flashing lights, and falling clothes, I caught glimpses of the round window, turning while I took my beating. Then the door opened. Tyron had heard the machine tossing me around. It threw me out; and I fell hard to the floor. It was still a relief to be outside.

“You’re it!” yelled Tyron, laughing.

Why I Call Them Fire Ants

2007-06-10T10:29:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I was always scheming up new ways to get rid of the fire ants in our front yard. Then—in the wintertime, while they remained inside their anthills eating the foods they had gathered all summer—I would somehow miss them. Springtime would return, and our bouts would begin again.

Round one went to the ants when I was five years old, sitting and playing near their anthill while countless numbers of them crawled inside my cloths. They waited until I stood up to leave before they began stinging me in unison. That began our rivalry, and over the coming years, many of my attempts at revenge would backfire.

There was the time one of them snuck inside my trousers while I was using a magnifying glass on their anthill. It climbed up to my inner thigh before striking. There was also the time I mixed every toxic liquid I could find inside the house: ammonia, Clorox, Lysol, rubbing alcohol, etc. I intended to pour it inside the anthill, but first, my curiosity wanted to know how it smelled. When I leaned over the toxic mix to take a whiff, before I could inhale, invisible vapors rushed into my nostrils and sucked all the air from my lungs. Desperate, ran around the room trying to inhale, but there was no air. Then I ran outside, walking in circles around the front yard. There was a cool breeze against my face and chest, but still no air for my lungs. I thought I was going to die. Then, near the end of my battle, my lungs; my tired lungs found a short painful breath; one after the other, and soon I was able to breath again. The narrow escape temporally took away my desire to bout with the ants and I poured out the toxic mix.

I was twelve when the ants and I had our last bout. It was summertime, and the grass in our front yard was dry. I figured that gasoline and a match would do a lot of damage—to the anthill. They swarmed when I poured gasoline over their bed. Then I sat the can beside me. It didn’t occur to me to close the gas cap before striking a match. It also didn’t occur to me to note the tiny trickle of gasoline leading from the anthill to the gas can.

The moment I touched the lit match to the anthill, the gas can erupted in flames. I panicked and started kicking the gas can away from the fire, not realizing that flaming fuel was spilling out with each kick. I was nearly twenty feet away from the anthill when I turned around and saw that half our front yard was in flames.

My parents were away, so while I stumped at flames, I yelled for my brother and sisters. They came rushing outside moments later and helped me put out the flames, leaving eighty percent of the front yard charred black.

“Man you’re gonna get it,” said Richard, “I’m glad I’m not you.” He is right, I thought to myself, looking out at the yard. The fire ants were still swarming the anthill, over and around the ones that the flames had killed, while I thought for a solution. Then I convinced my siblings to help me collect green grass from the backyard to spread over the burnt areas. After nearly two hours of plucking and transferring, the yard was still ugly; and nothing was going to get rid of the charred smell. The best I could hope for was that Daddy would arrive home after dark.

I got lucky, and Daddy arrived home late that evening. He didn’t notice the burnt grass until the next day. Then, to my surprise, he didn’t make a big deal about it when I told him what happened. As for the fire ants, we called it a draw.

Betrayal

2007-05-29T09:35:00.000-07:00

In this dream, I'm narrating, as on a sunny day, a small group of teenagers and their high school science teacher are walking through a peaceful meadow. Up ahead, the teacher notices a beehive. It stands approximately 7 feet tall and resembles a building. The teacher is excited, rushing over to the hive as the students follow behind him.

“Wow!” the teacher says, “This is really cool.” He touches the hive, as the busy bees move about, unconcerned by their excited visitors. The bees have never seen a man before, so they have no fear. Neither has a man ever seen such bees, as fat as strawberries and as tamed as kittens.

The teacher picks up one of the bees, allowing it to play on his palm; but he is concerned that it will sting him. The teacher then thoughtlessly turns the trusting bee upside down, exposing its thin black stinger. Then he plucks out the stinger and allows the puzzled bee to fall to the grass.

Betrayed, the plump bee strings into the air and flies back to its hive. Then, within three seconds, the entire hive of once friendly bees swarm up from the top of the hive like a tornado and then angrily rain down on the teacher and his students, stinging, as they run franticly through the once peaceful meadow.

The Attic Window

2007-05-24T21:07:00.000-07:00

One day, a fellow Marine named Shaffer shared a story with me. It was something he had seen as a young boy. According to Shaffer, Miss Jones was an elderly woman who lived near him and had a reputation for being eccentric. She lived alone in her large house and could sometimes be seen from the street, peering out from her attic window at passers by.

When Miss Jones passed away, rumors soon began to spread among the neighborhood kids that her house was haunted. One afternoon, months after Miss Jones had passed away, Shaffer and four of his friends were gathered in the street in front of her house. The doors and windows were partially boarded up, and the louvered attic window was in clear view. “That’s where her ghost is,” said one of the boys. “She's probably watching us right now.”

They looked over at the window as Shaffer laughed, “You sissies! There’s no such thing as ghosts!” Opinions were then tossed back and forth until Shaffer finally announced that he would prove it by entering the house. The four boys agreed to accompany him. They entered the yard, went around to the back, and pulled boards way from the kitchen door to gain access.

Inside, they made their way through the kitchen, and through the living room which was crowded with sheet-covered furniture. Up the stairs, they found a rope that when pulled would lower steps that led up into the attic. They climbed the steps and were soon standing in a dark attic, dusty and filled with cobwebbed boxes of whatnots, where beyond sat the old rocking chair at the louvered window.

“See! I told you!” one boy announced, “That’s her rocking chair.” Motionless, it sat where Miss Jones had left it, shrouded by shadows, cobwebs, and streaks of sunlight that peek in through the window.

“So!” said Shaffer, “That’s doesn’t prove anything. There’s nothing up here.”

They soon began looking through some of the boxes and drawers. One the boys even moved the rocking chair away from the window, so he could see outside. After twenty minutes or so, they became bored and went back out to the street. That’s where Shaffer reminded them that they were a bunch of sissies.

“Since you’re so tough, let’s see you to in there at night,” one boy said. Without hesitation, Shaffer said that he would go there anytime; day or night—and they agreed to meet in front of the house at ten o’clock that evening.

That night, no one would volunteer to accompany Shaffer inside the house. Its electricity had been turned off, so there would be no lights. It looked spooky even to Shaffer, but he wasn’t going to admit it.

“There’s no way I’m going in there,” one boy said, looking up at the window. The four boys agreed to wait in the street. Shaffer would prove himself by waving at them from the attic window. The window was illuminated by a full moon and striped with shadows from a nearby tree.

The boys watched as Shaffer entered the yard and disappeared into the darkness. Shaffer found the boards still pulled away from the backdoor and he made his way inside. That was stupid of me, he thought Shaffer, realizing that he had forgotten to bring a flashlight. Luckily, some moonlight peeked in through the boarded windows, through the cracks, enough that Shaffer was able to make his way through the shadows, up the stairs, and to the base of the attic.

He pulled on the rope which lowered the steps that led into the attic. His anxiety thickened as he climbed, and then peeked inside, scanning the darkness for nothing in particular, as dust particles floated on the moonbeams that poured in through the louvered window. Let me get this over with, he thought to himself, stepping fully into the attic. He paused to gather his senses; then began creeping towards the window. Something was wrong; he halted in his tracks, scanning more intently. The chair had been placed back in front of the window.

He tried to calm himself with the notion that someone was possibly playing a trick on him, but it didn’t work. He scanned the room once more, and then looked back at the chair. It had a high back and it was facing away from him, outwards towards the window. He took another step, tilting his head to the right for a better angle—not wanting to believe that someone was there. Then, no sooner than he thought it, someone stood up from the chair and turned towards him.

His mind went blank, staring as the figure began to creep towards him. It was an elderly woman, and her face showed no emotion. Her eyes stared into Shaffer’s eyes, coaxing him not to run as she inched even closer. For a moment, Shaffer was in a trance. He then came to his senses.

The moment he thought about running, the woman’s expression turned angry. It was as if she knew that he would try to run, so she tried to get between him and the exit. Shaffer was out of his mind with terror, darting as fast as he could, so fast that he stumbled and fell down the hatch.

His body crashed hard into the floor below; then he continued running, stumbling, tripped and falling down the stairs. When he landed at the bottom, he quickly spun around, expecting her to be there.

The woman was standing at the top of the stairway, peering down at him. She didn’t come down after him, but it didn’t matter to Shaffer. He quickly shook off the fall and continued running towards the kitchen, crashing out the backdoor, convinced that the woman was right behind him. He fell out onto the porch, sprung up and ran around to the street where his friends were waiting. None of them believed his story—but as he told the story to me there was a tear in his eye.

The Sweetest Ride

2007-05-12T09:20:00.000-07:00

When I was twelve, Stephan was one of my best friends, though we sometimes had our difficulties. I don’t remember what it was he said. It had something to do with my bike, and I was offended. Stephan sugarcoated nothing. In fact, sometimes he could be downright abrasive, blurting it out with his hands on his hips.

“Well,” I said to him, “Since you have a problem with my bike, you’ll never ride it again.”

“Fine,” he answered back, “I don’t like your ugly bike anyway.”

Over the next few months, Stephan and I remained friends. We hung out together all the time, but my bike remained off limits to him. Some days he would test the waters. He would watch as I allowed other boys to ride. Then, when he thought I was in a good mood, he would ask for a ride. My answer was always, "No."

Sometimes the other boys would ask what was going on. Neither Stephan nor I ever told them. In fact, I had forgotten what Stephan originally said to offend me. All that mattered was that I had given my word, and I was standing my ground, whether it was rational or not. Stephan, however, continued to pick happy moments to ask his question.

“Can I ride your bike?” His question was always the same. So was my answer.

“No.” Then we would continue playing.

One day, several of us were jumping ramps in front of Stephan’s yard, nearly six months had passed since I had announced my bike off-limits to him—and he hadn’t asked his question in nearly two months. He approached me in the middle of the laughter.

“Can I ride your bike?”

“Yes,” I answered.

He did a double take. “Did you say, yes?”

“Yes,” I said.

The biggest smile came across his face as ran over to the boy who was sitting on my bike.

“Junior said I could ride!” Stephan announced, excited. In deed, my bike was ugly; but it was big deal to Stephan. I watched him as he climbed on and started riding. He rode that raggedy bike as if it was the best ride of his life, sitting high in the seat and smiling the entire time.

Sanctuary Revisited

2007-05-03T17:27:00.000-07:00

I was twelve when I first began to practice meditation. It was my private way of relaxing. I imagined myself on a secluded tropical beach, barefoot, and walking across the sands. The crystal blue ocean was calm, and on its surface, amid shimmering sky-born lights, were reflections of distant places old and new. The sands gently massaged the soles of my feet, and as I entered the waters, they sank from warm to moist. Its waves lapped against my ankles, as slanted sunrays rested across my chest. My legs and thighs committed to the waters as I softly inhaled heavens mist. Then I submerged. Underneath the waters’ blanket, I had left all my earthly concerns behind. The perfectly warm waters gradually cooled as my body fell to deeper depths. They were still the perfect temperature when I found—against the seawall—the entrance to secret caverns. I entered them, in where I found magical underground shores, even more tranquil than those above. There, I had found my sanctuary

Even as they Smile, Even as they Cry

2007-04-23T09:51:00.000-07:00

Knuckles ponder, “Perhaps I don’t deserve happiness.” He believes that his purpose is to suffer; and that he might as well accept his misery with a big fake grin. He smiles invisibly, as inside he embraces his most loyal companion – pain. Adversary or friend, Knuckles wonder if pain is intelligent. That if Knuckles becomes content to suffer, would pain then become his friend. Would they share secrets and laugh at the misfortunes of others? Would pain eventually lower its guard that Knuckles might sneak away; or would pain keep an ever-watchful eye, even as they smile, even as they cry.

Hmm, Thinking...

2007-04-20T09:42:00.000-07:00

The remarkably talented Melanie, and Jennifer have nominated my blog as a Thinking blog.

I am both honored and flattered - and I would like to pass this honor on to three people that have inspired me.

1. Susan is an incredible writer, versatile and highly creative. It was Susan who first encouraged me to begin writing a blog; and she has inspired me every since.
2. Mella is one of the most talented writers I have known. Visit her page and see for yourself. Her work speaks for its self.
3. Cath is a writing machine; and I am amazed each time I visit her page, at how diligent and creative she is.

Thank you again, Melanie.

Crocodile Tears

2007-04-19T06:44:00.000-07:00

One day, my cousin John and I were goofing around in the backseat of the car while our grandfather drove. I was ten years old, while John was a chubby eight. “Shut up!” Granddaddy suddenly barked, “And stop moving around back there!” I could tell that he was serious, but John giggled in mischief. “I said shut up!” Granddaddy warned once more, “Or I’ll give you a backhand knuckle-slap in the mouth!” John finally got the message and tried to behave. “Hmm,” I thought to myself, “I’ve never seen a backhand knuckle slap before.” Then I silently reached over and took some of John’s thigh between my index finger and thumb, pinching him as hard as I could, twisting and meanly digging my fingers into him. John tried to push my hand away, but I was too strong. Finally, he cried out; but before he could finish the first note, granddaddy -without looking- swung backwards and gave John a hard backhand-knuckle slap in the mouth. “I told you to shut up!” granddaddy yelled. John cried, holding his mouth as if he had lost a tooth, while I silently had a hard belly laugh, so hard that tears rolled down my cheeks.

Nemesis

2007-04-11T20:08:00.000-07:00

From where rest I have sought, came rejection, “I shall teach ye suffering; not in words, but in deeds. All, and as bitter tea ye shall absorb.” Where I would resist, circumstances insist, “You will learn, one way or another; and that I no longer care; your past, your present, and your future; it matters not what ye do here.” Where I would beseech, deafness greets my charge, “Ye not swift of wit; how pathetic ye are.” Then shall I smile, be met with doubt, “What be ye grinning about?”

Sticks and Stones

2007-04-06T11:58:00.000-07:00

A small detachment of Marines from my command deployed to the Philippines. They had authorization to setup their radars in the boondocks, where they found themselves surrounded by thick jungle. They were far from the party scenes, and scantily clad women that many of the younger Marines had envisioned.

Large black jungle monkeys were their company, as the monkeys would often sneak into the camp and steal whatever they could carry, particularly food. The Marines would chase the monkeys away with sticks and stones; but as days went by, the monkeys grew increasingly aggressive.

The Marines bout with the monkeys came to a climax one afternoon while the Marines were lounging in the shade. The jungle suddenly came alive with screams and frightened animals. The screams were coming from the monkeys, whom had gathered themselves into a large angry mass.

When the Marines looked towards the commotion, they saw the monkeys coming up the dirt road. Some of the monkeys were carrying sticks and stones, and throwing them in the direction of the camp. The sticks and stone would travel only a few feet, as the monkeys had poor technique. The frustrated monkeys would then move closer, pick up their weapons, and repeat the action. Each time, they drew closer to the camp, angrier, and louder.

The Marines, greatly outnumbers and without their weapons, knew that while the stick and stones were not a large threat, it was only a matter of time before the frustrated monkeys fell back on a more traditional attack, hitting and biting.

The Marines then retreated into their Radar Vans and watched through reinforced glass at the frantic monkeys destroyed everything they could get their hands on. When the monkeys finished, they quietly gathered what food they could carry and left. It was a much wilder party than anyone had envisioned.

The Mule

2007-03-27T21:59:00.000-07:00

Last summer, while I was visiting through Fort Worth, I shared a drive with an old friend, whom I will call Leon. Leon and I had not spoken in years. While we caught up on old times, he shared an interesting story. In it, he described a car drive he had taken years earlier, and how in that drive, he had never driven so carefully. In that drive, he kept both hands on the steering wheel at all times, and followed the posted speed limits without exception. In that drive, he knew that had a police officer pull him over, it probably would have meant 20 years behind bars. Possibly even his life. Had a police officer opened the trunk of his car, he would have found it filled with bricks of cocaine – and Leon was operating on strict instructions, “If you get caught, you’re on your own.” Leon was one of the most ambitious men I have ever known. However, in his story, while he nervously drove that car years earlier, he was a mule and a crack-head. He was also a father, a husband, and a former Navy man.

Leon and I had known each other since high school. Back then, he had sought me out because he was interested in the martial arts. We began working out together and quickly became friends. There were four of us in that circle of friends, Leon, Ira, Tong, and me. Each of us had a talent that made us stand out: Leon, the former singer in a boy’s choir, photographer, school journalist, and martial artist; Tong, the elite gymnast from Taiwan and future assistant coach under Nadia Comaneci and Bart Conners, at their gym in Norman, Oklahoma; Ira, the future golf pro; and me.

Leon once stood amongst the four of us and declared aloud, “With all the talent in this room, one of us has got to make it! There has got to be at least a million dollars in this room right now!” At the time, we barely had two nickels to rub together, but we were all ambitious, with no noticeable vices. We also were equally prejudiced against the common obstacles, drugs, alcohol, and thuggish behavior.

While I listened to Leon’s story, more than twenty years has passed, and in that time he had transformed himself from the ambitious teenager I knew, into a disparate crack-head mule, and then finally into a successful self-employed photographer and journalist with one published book under his belt. I was intrigued; and I wanted to know how the proud Leon had ever allowed himself to fall to drugs. More importantly, I wanted to know how he so amazingly climbed back from where many fade away.

When I asked him, he told me about his time in the Navy, the trips to the Philippines, and throughout the Far East. He talked about life at sea, and the boredom. How boredom led him to smoke, and how smoking led him to drink. He also talked about his transition from alcohol to narcotics, how easy narcotics were to find in and around the foreign ports, and how he discharged from the Navy after 4 years.

By the time Leon arrived back in Fort Worth, crack cocaine had become very popular, and Leon saw it as a way to make easy money. He soon found himself connected to the local kingpin, another old schoolmate of mine, whom had grown into a brilliant but roofless man. Their union began Leon’s life as a mule, and in time, Leon gave in to sample the product. It was something he had promised never to do, and he quickly found himself utterly addicted.

His life became a living hell, in where he lost the respect of everyone around him. Crack entangled his soul and smothered out his character, leaving an untrustworthy thief whose only mission in life was to achieve his next hit. Traveling down that dark path, Leon eventually found his rock bottom. He says it is what all crack-heads must find, before they are able to change. For Leon, rock bottom was his own reflection in the mirror, holding a photo of his young son. “It was pride that made me realize I had to change,” he said, the FBI was closing in, and the kingpin had put a hit out on his life.

While he stared into the bloodshot eyes of his reflection, he reminisced, and saw how far he had fallen. In that moment, he decided to change his life. He surrendered himself to the FBI and turned states evidence against the men that hunted him. He then enrolled himself into a substance abuse rehabilitation center and recommitted himself to God and family. It was a long difficult journey, back from where he had gone, but he found his way back.

Leon finished his story just as we arrived at our destination, a church where I would listen to Leon give a presentation to the minister in the back office, promoting his book. Had Leon never told me about his time as a mule, I never would have guessed it; or his recipe: (1) hitting rock bottom, (2) making a decision to change, (3) seeking help (rehabilitation, council, and spiritual guidance), (4) committing to the change, and (5) fighting with all your might.

Night Air

2007-03-20T16:35:00.001-07:00

My silhouette moves among them, stable cracks and shadows of the branches above, cased down by a full moon. They resemble a maze, or a spider’s web, illusions – and yet they capture my thoughts. We press onward; warm lungs and crisp night air, distance memories, and sorting things from care.

The Journey

2007-03-13T17:38:00.000-07:00

In this dream, I drift slowly down the center of a narrow stream. My raft is small, and the mist that surrounds me is so heavy that I can hardly see beyond my reach. The same night sounds that once sang to my ancestors also sang to me. They link past to present, as my thoughts roam the crowded aisles of my imagination.

There are two companions at my side, not on my raft, but walking along the shores to my left and right. I can faintly see them, their ghostly silhouettes moving eerily at the pace of my raft. They rival each other, each trying to lure me to either side.

The figure to my right is aggressive. He offers me incentives to end what he calls my journey, and dock on his side. The figure to my left is quiet; and he has a calm demeanor. He cautions me; saying that once I dock on either side, I cannot reenter the stream. I remain on my raft, still drifting, and unsure of what will come.

In the distance, beyond the figure to my right, hillsides began to form. I gaze intently at them, and still my companions appear cloudy.

“Some of your relatives are beyond those hills,” the figure to my right announced, “You can visit with them after you dock.”

I focus harder on the background and realize that the figure to my right is not alone. There are shadows moving behind him. Creepy, and silently, they go about their business.

“Let me see them first,” I say, “Bring them closer.”

“No!” he said, “First you must dock. Then you’ll see everything.” His voice was agitated. Then he calms himself enough to offer me more incentives.

The figure to my left had been quiet, but then interrupts. “Look forward,” he said, “Notice that the river is becoming narrow. It will eventually end, and you must choose before then.”

I look forward, and indeed the river is growing narrow under the night skies. I cannot see where it ends – and while I have not yet decided, I continue to drift forward.

Bone Soup

2007-03-10T00:00:00.000-08:00

I see soup; and how each ingredient is carefully added, one by one – a dash of love to form the base, and sometimes not. Perhaps a pinch of neglect; constantly stirred by the steady hands of time. Who shall taste of this soup? Now I see bones, once strong, but now for flavor; sprinkles of wind-swept dust and a smile on chapped lips. They may savor this soup, memories and things that cling, another dash of passion, and then some pain. The flames must be just right.

Plum Trees

2007-03-03T21:34:00.000-08:00

One day, while plums were in season, and the middle schools were having a teacher’s conference, we had the day off, Richard, Tyron, and me. We also did not have anything constructive to do, so we set out on a quest to find unguarded plum trees. We searched up and down alleys and through crowded fields until we finally came to a young boy sitting in a backyard. A chain link fence surrounded the yard, and three full plum trees surrounded the young boy, butterflies, and cool shade.

We asked the boy if we could have some of his plums and began climbing the fence before he finished saying, yes. I chose the tree furthest from the alley, closest to the house, and began stuffing the large pockets of my baggy shorts. Richard and Tyron chose the other two trees.

Not long after we began picking, did a large figure suddenly appear at the corner of my eye. It was moving towards me so fast, that I dared not pause to confirm what it was.

With full pockets, I darted towards the alley, past Richard and Tyron, and with the large figure strongly barreling after me. Momentum, adrenalin, and the classes I had had in gymnastic vaulted me over the fence without breaking my stride, and I felt a breeze at the back of my legs. Something had missed me.

Safely on the other side of the fence, I turned to see what had been chasing me. It was an elderly woman, the boy’s grandmother, wildly wielding a rigid switch, and furious that I had gotten away. She was a large black woman, amazingly quick for her size, and her gray hair was flying in all directions.

She then spun around and went after Tyron. Richard was huddled underneath a tree, watching as Tyron tried to run pass the woman. She was hitting at him the entire time, swatting and missing his back and legs. Tyron did not vault over the fence as I had done. Instead, he placed his back against the fence, faced the woman and tried to take the switch from her hand. That made her even madder, as she spoke for the first time.

“Oh! You gonna fight back, huh?” she growled and started swinging harder.

“He said we could have some,” Tyron yelled, referring to the young boy, as he continued grabbing at the woman’s stick. She landed another eight, or so slashes before Tyron finally spun around and jumped over the fence. From the alley, he and I then called for Richard to run.

Richard was still huddled underneath a tree, looking like a frightened rabbit as the woman howled, “Come out of there you little crook!” She repeatedly swung at him, hitting limbs, and knocking down leaves and plums, until Richard finally darted out. Tyron and I cheered him on as he and the woman ran around the yard like a skit from the Benny Hill show. He then dashed for the fence – but not fast enough, for before he could jump from atop the fence into the alley, the woman landed a slashing blow across his back.

“Y’all stay out of my yard!” she yelled, as Richard fell into the alley, nervously laughing. We all laughed, except for the woman and the young boy. We jogged away; and from the corner of the street, we looked back and saw the woman still chasing the young boy around the yard.

The Balance

2007-02-24T08:58:00.000-08:00

In my dream, an angel appeared to my grandmother, Estella. It was a beautiful angel, steady in posture, flowing hair, silky garments, and a serious message.

“Your scale is balanced,” she said.

She then went on to explain the Scale of Life. That from the moment of birth, the scale records every thought conjured and deed committed. It holds good deeds on one side, and bad deeds on the other. The objective of the scale is to determine the fate of each soul that leaves this earth.

The angel then informed Estella that her time was near, and that because her scale was balanced, the deeds she performed from now on would be very important additions to the scale.

Hearing this, Estella became defensive and started naming some of the good deeds she had performed in her life. The angel countered each good deed by naming a bad deed she had also performed. This went on for minutes… until the angel hushed Estella.

“You are wasting your time,” the angel said. The room grew silent, as Estella thought desperately to herself. Moments passed, and then her eyes opened wide.

“What if I build a dam?” Estella said, “Would that be enough to tip my scale towards the left?”

“Yes…” the angel replied.

The dream then took me to a hilltop, from where I looked down at a stream that flowed from left to right. I had taken Estella’s place in the dream and understood the task I had promised to the messenger. The stream was narrow towards its left and grew wider as it flowed to the right. I could still hear the messenger’s voice, whispering that the stream represents life and souls flowing through it. It was unbalanced… and I understood where I needed to build my dam.

I moved down from the hilltop and began building my dam in shallow water. It was a simple dam, made of sticks and stones, held together by clay. It did not require any special skills but it was very effective. The water to my left began to grow deep, while the water to my right narrowed to a trickle.

Suddenly an angry voice yelled out, “Get away from there!”

I looked to my right to see where the voice was coming from and noticed that the water to my right led into a dark cave. I could hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming from inside the cave, splashing in shallow waters.

“I said get away from there!” The angry voice repeated itself.

I stopped working, staring nervously at the opening of the cave as the footsteps got closer. My heart pounded with nervous curiosity, and I decided not to wait for the owner of the voice to arrive. I ran up to the hilltop, where I felt safe, and looked down at the cave opening.

From there a hulking figure appeared and looked up at me, tilting its head slightly to the right. Hatred clouded its eyes and shadowy dark features as it moved along the stream. It had broad shoulders, plated with muscles from head to toe, and a familiar face, though I was too far away to recognize him.

He stood over my dam, looking down at it in disgust. I expected him to destroy it, but he did not have the power to undo my work. He could only intimidate and discourage. He then looked up at me. “If you ever come down here again, I WILL take you with me,” he said. He looked at my work once more - then back at me, holding eye contact as he walked back into the cave.

I listened to his footsteps move further away, and I became curious about his face. I then moved down from the hilltop and into the cave. I could see his large hulking silhouette lumbering up ahead, moving towards a light at the other end. I followed him towards what I thought would be hell.

When I exited the cave on the other end, I did not find what I expected. There was no fire and brimstone. Instead, it was a typical cityscape, buildings, cars, and people moving about. I turned my attention back to the demon, which then had transformed himself into a man. I saw him climb into a car, and I moved as close as possible. When I peeked inside the far side window, I recognized the demon as one of my coworkers. I then moved away from him, ran back through the cave, and returned to the green hilltop.

The Descent

2007-02-15T22:59:00.000-08:00

The other night, I fell partway down a flight of stairs. They were made of slippery oak and I was wearing socks of cotton white. I stepped onto the first step as I had done so many times before, but this time was different. In the blink of an eye, I was airborne. My feet went forward and upwards, and all my agility meant nothing. I knew exactly were I was, but before I could react, a baseball bat -as if swung by Barry Bonds- struck me hard across my back. It knocked out my wind; then a blow to the back of my head, my left elbow, and again across the center of my back. It was the sharp edges of the steps counting my descent, until I finally came to rest. Then there the reaper came to inspect, and insincere whispers reminding me of a fortune I once did not have, that I would one-day pass of natural causes. I took inventory at the bottom of my narrow escape and pondered whether it was unnatural to pass from a shove and the impact of bats.

The Horde

2007-02-05T17:04:00.000-08:00

In unison, they flow like a herd of sheep, single-mindedly marching towards wherever. Others are wolfs, cloaked as sheepdogs. They keep the horde moving forward, barking and snapping at the heels of any sheep who dares to get out of line or raise its heads to see where they are going. The wolf then grins back for approval from the shepherd who watches from the shade.

Cherry Flavored Jell-O and the Grinch

2007-02-01T16:01:00.000-08:00

My brother Richard was a carbon copy of our father, in both appearance and personality. So much so, that our sister Debra once referred to him as “the one Judas amongst us.”

Except for a few special occasions, Richard and I normally got along quite well. This night would be one of those special occasions.

It began with daddy telling me that he and my mother were going out, and that seven-year-old I was in charge of my three younger siblings.

“Bet not nobody go in the kitchen while we’re gone,” daddy warned me with piercing eyes, “Or that ass is mine.” He pointed at me.

I recognized that look and knew that he meant exactly what he said. Richard and the girls were also familiar with that look, so they understood my situation. Daddy gave me one last gaze before closing the door behind him, and we soon heard his car pulling out of the graveled driveway.

It was a perfect opportunity to get into trouble, or show that I was responsible. I tried to keep everyone in my sight, and away from the kitchen. We watched TV in the living room, where everyone but Richard was content. He kept complaining that he needed to go to the bathroom.

“Can’t you wait?” I said, “They’ll be back soon.”

“No! I need to go now!”

I reminded him that no one could go into the kitchen, and he promised that he would not. The kitchen was in the opposite direction from the bathroom, which was down the hallway, so I finally gave in.

“Just hurry up,” I said... and he swaggered down the dark hallway, out of my sight.

While Richard was away, my attention shifted back and forth between the TV and the hallway. It never occurred to me that he would climb out the bathroom window, and in through the kitchen window, all for the sake of mischief. He then retraced his steps to rejoin my sisters and me in the living room.

Daddy had placed a trap on the refrigerator door, a small piece of paper at the door’s upper corner. Upon opening the door, the paper would fall unnoticed. Inside the refrigerator, daddy was chilling a bowl of cherry flavored jell-o. It was the reason he wanted no one inside the kitchen – and I had no idea that Richard had devilishly taken a huge gouge from the center of the jell-o.

I was relieved when daddy returned home, and proud that I had accomplished my task. The first thing he asked was had anyone been inside the kitchen.

“No daddy,” I said, watching him as he walked through the room and into the kitchen.

When I could no longer see him, I listened for any comments that he might make, while my eyes shafted back to the TV, where we were watching Sesame Street.

“Get your ass in here!” daddy suddenly yelled.

I knew that he was talking to me, so I sprang to my feet and dashed two steps toward the kitchen before stopping. “Wait!” I thought to myself, “What is he mad about?” There was no time to think. My thoughts were scrambled, and I knew I had better not keep him waiting.

He met me at the door.

“I told you not to let anybody in the kitchen!” He grabbed my left arm and jerked me forward.

“Daddy, nobody came in here,” I said, pleadingly and puzzled. He then snatched me stumbling towards the refrigerator.

“Then who in the fuck did that?” he yelled, yanking the refrigerator open and pointing. I stared, but nothing made sense until I saw the gouge. I took a mental snapshot of it, just before he threw me to the floor.

“I’m-ma teach your ass!” he promised and stormed from the room. I stayed on the floor, waiting for him to return, furious and afraid.

“He’s crazy,” I thought, “He set me up.” I believed that he had taken the gouge from the jell-o himself, just for an opportunity to beat me – but it made no sense. There was not much time to think about it. Moments later, daddy stormed back into the kitchen and snatched me up.

I dangled at the end of his grip, airborne between the strikes of his heavy leather belt, as he cursed me the entire time. I had never been so angry with him – and when he finished, he told me to take my “ass to bed.”

Richard followed me like a shadow, studying me as I went to the bedroom, crying and rubbing my stinging arms and legs. I sat on the floor with my back against the wall, while Richard sat across from me on the bed. The lights were off, but I could make out the curious expression on his face.

I soon stopped crying and began recalling the chain of events. “Why would daddy go through so much trouble to set me up?” I thought, “Why is Richard acting so strange?” “Why does he look so sinister?” Then I recalled that Richard was the only person to leave my sight while daddy was away.

Then it hit me.

“You did it; didn’t you?” I said - hoarse, looking across the room at him. Even in the shadows, I could see his lips curl into a devilish Mr. Grinch-like smile.

“Yes…” he whispered, now sporting a full grin. I was still rubbing the welts on my stinging legs.

For a brief moment, I felt relieved, thinking that I could tell daddy. “Maybe he wouldn’t be mad at me anymore,” I thought. Then I considered that he probably would not believe me. That he might even beat me again. “Why did you do that?” I said, “You don’t even like jell-o.”

There was an awkward silence before he answered.

“To get you in trouble,” he gloated for another moment and then left the room.

The Great Power

2007-01-21T12:11:00.000-08:00

The other night, I dreamt that I travel back to an old house to retrieve two hidden items. Someone had shown the hiding places to me years earlier, when I was a small child. A distant aunt that spends much of her time searching for the items now occupies the house. She was not home when I arrived, so I let myself in and immediately went to the hiding places.

The first item, an ancient wooden carving of two birds intertwined had been in plain view, concealed as part of a lamp. The second piece was a glowing golden stone, kept inside of a small wooden box, and hidden underneath one of the patio tiles. The tile was circular, and marked with a yin and yang symbol. One clockwise twist and it opened.

As I pulled the box from the hole, I saw my aunt returning home. She had a mean walk, short quick steps, and leaning forward for added momentum. She somehow knew that I had arrived, so she carried a concealed knife in her left hand, meant to stop me from taking her prize. She did not see me watching her from the patio, so once she was inside the house, out of my view, I quickly took the stone from the box and snuck away.

The two items were part of a three-piece set, that when joined would become an item of great power. I did not know what the power was, but I knew that in order to get the third piece, I had to first defeat a creature, a champion, inside of a large arena. To reach the arena, I had to travel across a desert. During my journey, I saw men hanging on crosses and surrounded by what appeared to be mounted soldiers. My view moved in close to the hanging man on the far right. He was very muscular and defiant as the soldiers taunted him. I did not stop. I had to move quickly because I knew my aunt had sent a group of bad men after me.

When I arrived at the arena, I saw the creature standing at the far end, comfortable and confident in its posture. In the past, it had slain many challengers. Still, I entered the arena. The creature resembled a man, except for the bright red hair that covered its body. It was also very intelligent, polite in how it spoke to me. It was invulnerable, except for a single weakness that no man had ever found, so it had no reason to fear me. It was willing to answer all of my questions, except what was its weakness. Curiously, it offered that I might learn its weakness by attending a class. I asked how long the class would take, and it said 3 days. That was too long, with the assailant so close behind me.

The creature allowed me to feel the strength of its arms, and the sharp wire-like coat of red that covered them.

“Do you want to dual now?” the creature asked me. If I had said “yes,” it would have attacked me immediately.

“No,” I said, and then left the arena.

I went to where I could take the class, hoping to get a crash course; but all I found was a 72-hour video. The video was very boring; monotone, and discussed all the things I did not want to hear. It explained -in detail- various fighting techniques, and then added that it would not work on the creature. It also kept saying how vicious and invulnerable the creature was.

With time running our, I decided to find the answer on my own. I left the room and went out into the city. I found the city populated by creatures just like the one inside the arena. They were going about there day just like normal people, playing in the park, going to work, and pushing baby strollers. I approached one of them, a teenager that was rollerblading. They were all supposed to be invulnerable, but I saw his right elbow dislocate. I shook the hand of another creature and again its elbow dislocated. It was a common flaw amongst them, and I thought I had found a clue to the champion’s weakness.

I went back to the arena and found the champion still polite. It allowed me to feel its strong arms again, but this time I was able to dislocate it, just like the others. Surprisingly, the creature did not seem to mind. It allowed me to continued inspecting. I was able to look inside its arms, where I looked desperately for a soft spot. I was poking and jabbing at it, politely, not to let on that I was trying to harm it; but it was no use. The creature, its bones and marrow, its cells, and even its blood were hard as stone. It would not even bleed.

Frustrated, I left the arena and continued my search. Later, in a conversation with a female creature, I learned that she did not like water, or to be touched by it. It gave me an idea to return to the arena, this time with hands dripping of water. When I did so, I found that it took away the champion’s strength and made its hard arms soft. I had found the third item, water – and the great power, courage.

I challenged the creature to a dual, and two-inches of water suddenly filled the arena. When the lord of the creatures realized that I had learned their weakness, he announced that he himself would dual with me. As he removed part of his armor, I realized that he was different from the others. He was larger, without the fur, very muscular, and resembled an Orc. I agreed, and then awoke.

The Tin Soldier

2007-01-18T21:21:00.000-08:00

How can the body, mind, or spirit soar without the other? It was supposed to be a happy occasion, news of my promotion, but I could not look him -the messenger- in the eyes. He smiled, but I knew that he was only studying me. I knew that if he stared too long into my eyes, he would see my unhappiness. I looked away, and I wondered if he noticed. I hoped that he would not look at me again, but he did. He kept trying to make eye contact, and I kept trying to pretend that I fit in. He kept congratulating me, but success means nothing to a fractured heart and spirit. I am the tin soldier that marches ever forward. Simple are my steps, and empty is my chest, except for this throbbing pain. I am nothing but accomplished goals strung together with no life in between.

Stained Glass Windows

2007-01-02T13:55:00.000-08:00

I watched from across the room as the large, sweaty, black woman shouted out, “Yes Lord!” and then went into convulsions. Her hands and hair flew in the air as she danced and hopped out of control. Then she fainted into the arms of a nearby woman, who gently lowered her to the floor. Near the front, another woman shouted out as the Holy Ghost took over her body. It was Sunday morning in the Church of God and Christ, and slanted sunrays from the East warmly poured in through the tall narrow stain glass windows.

It was a small church, constructed of pine, with a tall white steeple on top. The church sat in the center of a large grassy field with gray gravel-stones bridging a narrow pathway from the street until the church’s main entrance. There was another entrance at the rear of the church, leading into a tiny kitchen, where the women sometimes prepare meals. Beyond the main entrance, an aisle began dividing two sections of hardwood pews and ended with the front row. People of all ages filled the pews, in darks suits and ties, and colorful dresses with hats that had flowers.

Big mama watched from the piano near the pulpit, though she could not play very well. She also could not carry a tune. Even as a child of five, I noticed it, how her voice stood out like a howling cat amidst hounds that sang in harmony. Still, she loved to sing loud.

The room was hot, and colorful handheld fans waved in the air that smelled of Wrigley's Spearmint gum. I sat with my back against a pew, feet dangling and sometimes alternately kicking in the air, as I studied patterns in the stained windows and daydreamed to the sound of big daddy preaching fire and brimstone from the pulpit. He was a quiet man, except when he stood there.

Big mama then called me to sing a solo in front of the congregation. I was too young to be embarrassed. “Deep, and wide,” I sang, rocking back and forth as smiling grownups looked on, “Deep, and wide!” they rocked with me, “There’s a fountain flowing deep and wide!” Another woman jumped out from the pews and went into convulsions as I finished my song with wide eyes.

Her Escape Plan

2006-12-25T22:25:00.000-08:00

I was not impressed when I looked into her eyes for the first time. In fact, I dismissed her as simple-minded. She pretended that she was not interested in what I was doing. In the meantime, however, she was carefully watching my every move. In her dark eyes, there was a reflection of my hands opening and closing the hatch. Behind those eyes, there were well-oiled wheels craftily turning out an escape plan. I left the room after I thought she had fallen asleep. Then in the dark, when no one was watching her, her beady little eyes opened with a twinkle of mischief. She then climbed up to the hatch, pushing and pulling, and jerking on it as hard as she could; but her arms were not strong enough. Still, she struggled, “Why isn’t this thing opening?” she thought, desperately, “This is how he did it!” Outside I heard a faint commotion, her cage rattling, and I went to investigate. Light rushed into the room as I opened the door, catching her with a surprised expression on her face, and in the middle of one of her jerks. She grinned, in her way, carefully climbed down from the hatch, and then went back to bed, without uttering a sound. I had no idea that Black Bear Hamsters were so clever.

Dark Ketchup

2006-12-11T12:33:00.000-08:00

Imagine my disappointment, looking down at a lumpy fried graveyard of potatoes and bloated raisins. With my own hands, I had ruined my work, and tossing it out was all I had left to do. Hot meals were not always easy to come by, but this day, I had found three raw potatoes at the bottom of the refrigerator. I decided to make French fries.

Not to rush, I scanned the kitchen for everything I would need. The cooking oil was on the counter, next to the salt and pepper. The iron skillet was in the sink, and an unopened bottle of ketchup was on the top shelf. I smiled, ready for phase two.

Next, I carefully peeled each potato, slicing them with precision, and put the pieces in a large white plate. Then I placed the plate on the stove while I preheated the cooking oil in the large black skillet. Hunger began to fade with anticipation.

Once the oil was hot enough, I poured the slivers of potatoes into the skillet, and washed the plate to the sound of running water and sizzling fries. Not to waste time, I quickly dried off the plate and climbed to retrieve the bottle of ketchup from the top shelf.

I watched the fries come to a golden brown, and then transfer them to the waiting plate. I had carefully laid out my plan; that I would enjoy my meal in front of the TV, but I should have paid closer attention to my instincts.

Something whispered that the ketchup was too dark, but I did not listen. I simply broke the lid, turned the bottle upside down above my fries, and began smacking its bottom. On the third smack, brownish-red ketchup and bloated raisins poured out over my fries.

On closer examination, my heart sank with the knowledge that the raisins were the bloated corpses of once imprisoned cockroaches.

The Apocalypse Riders

2006-11-24T21:00:00.000-08:00

In this dreams, a representative from another dimension came to notify our world leaders that our world end the following day. While the leaders listened, I saw a portal open, and a large burly man peered from the other side.

“I can’t wait to kill them all!” he said, speaking to someone I could not see. He resembled a viking warrior, very large, rough looking, and with whiskers. He became so eager, that he fell through to our side – almost as if someone pushed him. Then, approximately fifteen other men that resembled him followed him through.

The men then gathered themselves into a military formation and slowly began to march. They almost appeared calm, but I knew that they were only waiting for the signal to attack. As they marched passed me, I wondered how such a small group of men could possibly reach and defeat everyone on earth in one day. Then the portal opened again; wider this time, and four horseback riders came through.

The dark hooded robes they wore made them resemble reaper warriors. Ominous they were, as bladed weapons protruded from their flowing garments. Their bodies swayed hypnotically back and forth to the rhythm of the powerful black horses they rode on heavy battle-weathered armor. Solemnly, they moved with slow, purpose driven strides, as the wind then whispered their name, “apocalypse riders”, and an eager voice sang out from the portal, “This is going to be painful!”

The Hen House

2006-11-14T15:37:00.000-08:00

“Come on. You can trust me,” she said – and I foolishly opened the gates. Once inside, she became like a Tasmanian devil, ripping out the lining of my heart and devouring secrets. I was the chicken that let in the fox; then watched as it ate my peers. She brushed against me on her way out; fangs dripping, full bellied, and arrogant. Lost trust doesn't easily grow back. Time passed, but not enough. Her belly grew empty and she came back with the same words. “Come on. You can trust me.” I must look like a fool.

New Villains

2006-11-07T18:42:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, while we are fleeing one villain, we stumble into another, one that is more calculating, sneaky, and unstable. This one is clever, how it clouds my thoughts with harsh words and stumps out my self-esteem. It is a love that has become my captor and a villain that knows my every secret. “Attack the heart and break the spirit!” it said, “He is vulnerable there!” Moreover, it offers, “Use my opinion of thee to measure thyself, that you are destined to fail in life because you are too dumb and ugly to change. It works to twist my loyalties, encouraging neglect and self-destructive habits. It knows that the best way to destroy me is to break my heart and then watch me self-destruct. “Fear is ever eager to replace confidence,” my angel then whispers, “Remember that I am with thee still and always.”

Something is Biting Me !!

2006-11-03T18:25:00.000-08:00

It was spring break, and while my mother worked, we kids busied ourselves by roaming the new neighborhood and playing random games. Hide and seek was one of our favorites, and the house next door was vacant. That made it, what we thought to be, a perfect hiding place.

While Debra counted, Richard and I entered the vacant house and went inside the same closet.

“Hey! I was here first!” Richard complained.

“Be quiet,” I whispered, “It’s big enough for both of us… and she’s coming soon.” We tried to make ourselves comfortable, but Richard kept squirming. “Hey, stop moving around,” I complained.

He kept squirming.

“Something is biting me,” he said, “Stop touching me.”

“I’m not touching you.” However, I could feel it too. Something was crawling around. “I think something is in here. Be quiet,” I said.

The sound was faint, but definitely there, a distant scratching, but near, or the sound of raindrops striking a hillside. Whatever it was, it was with us inside the closet.

“What’s that sound?” Richard whispered.

“I don’t know,” I answered, cracking the door to let in some light.

“Hey… the walls are moving,” Richard said. I cracked the door further, until I could also see it.

Fleas were everywhere, like a dark blanket all over the walls and us. To say that chills ran up my spine would be an understatement. Richard and I burst from the closet and out of the house, out into the opening, patting ourselves down as Debra yelled in the background, “I see you!”

Desert Notes

2006-10-13T15:06:00.000-07:00

I was looking through some old boxes and found the journal I kept during the Gulf War.

The pages called back many mixed feelings,

fond and not so fond

It reminds me of how my thoughts became more and more secretive as the weeks and months passed by.

So much so, that I began to write in codes.

In those months, I lost and then found myself.
Likewise, I found the meticulous keeping of these notes to be a needed outlet.

I am thankful that those days are behind me.

The Catch of the Day

2006-10-08T00:10:00.000-07:00

One day Big Mama took us to a park near Benbrook Lake. I had never been there before. There were no rides in the park, but there were plenty of picnic tables, shade trees, and large fields to play in. There was also a large stream running through the park, and Big Mama had brought her fishing poles. I had never been fishing before, but I wanted to collect some of the tadpole eggs that were near the edge of the stream. Richard and I looked for a cup.

Nearly an hour passed and Big Mama had not caught anything. She then called me over to watch her poles while she went to the restroom. The restrooms were inside a white building, clear on the other side of the field. My sisters went with her, while Richard played over by one of the picnic tables. I was concerned, wondering what to do if a fish came, and Big Mama explained everything.

“Just keep watching those corks,” she said, “pointing at three small, plastic red and white balls that were floating on the water. “If they sink, that means that a fish is trying to get my bait.”

“What should I do?” I asked.

“Catch it,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back. Just don’t throw anything in the water. That would scare the fish away.”

She then turned and walked away. My attention shifted back to the water, the floating corks, and the jelly-like glob of tadpole eggs I had collected in a plastic cup.

From my peripheral vision, I thought I saw one of the floating balls move. I leaned forward on the rock I was sitting on, and stared… hoping that it was only my imagination. I was excited and worried. I glanced over towards the white buildings to see if Big Mama was coming. She was nowhere in sight – and I looked back at the ball. It bobbed again. Then it completely submerged and popped back to the surface.

Part of me was dreading what I had to do. I remembered what Big Mama had said, but still, it was the unknown. Where is she? I thought and checked once more. Then I moved over to the pole. When I touched the pole, whatever was on the other end went wild. The pole jerked, and I had to catch it before it went into the water. The floating ball was not completely submerged and running all over the stream. It jerked me with the pole off balance, and that began a tug-a-war.

I yelled for Big Mama, who must have heard me from the restroom, and she came sprinting across the field. My tug-a-war continued, as I turned my back to the water with the pole over my right shoulder. I walked forward, away from the water as if I was carrying a heavy sack of toys. By the time Big Mama arrived, I had dragged the exhausted fish from the water. So strong and graceful it had been in its element. It was now the catch of the day.

Dead Man Walking

2006-09-24T00:13:00.000-07:00

I hate this feeling; I hate its source; and I hate myself for allowing it to persist. Life is the most precious gift of all; born of passion. But what darkness that compels me to give it away; whether abruptly, or the slow sting of this curse, compassion for my enemy, where there is none for me. Who shall nourish a lonely heart; that while this skeleton possesses meat, my enemies shall feast. She tells me that I can do this. But the spirit is a heavy price to pay; that I shall gain what at the price of my life? Then when it is finally over; when there is no more meat to be taken; will I then rest in peace, or shall my bones also be pulled apart? Heavy eyed; yet I look upwards to my Lord in prayer; then forward towards the mist. Only faith sustains me here; for I feel no love. Now step aside! For this skeleton still has meat!

Trained Fleas

2006-09-23T08:01:00.000-07:00

Resolved to take fate by the throat and shake a living out of her.
-Louisa May Alcott-

Sometimes to follow our dreams we must first wake up. For, the obstacles that bind us in poverty are effective, and sometimes calculated. Like trained fleas, many that live in this culture have learned false boundaries and have since ceased to dream beyond them. Discrimination once served as a stained glass ceiling around our communities. Evil it was; as a boogeyman that comes out in the day; and the residences learned well, where not to tread. Today, after the removal of legal restrictions, though glass ceiling are no longer stained, mental chains remain; sometimes through generations, for some trained fleas teach their young. We must resist and fight back, for the spirit of our lives is at stake.

Sanctuary

2006-09-16T22:04:00.000-07:00

In my time, I have found sanctuary in prayer, dreams, and in fantasies. Somewhere between the aisles of my imagination; beyond the sands of distant shores, where there my soul caresses, sinking softly from warm to moist, and slanted sunrays across my chest; amid these shimmering sky-born lights, reflections old and new; amid these lonely days and nights, my fondest thoughts of you. Then, gently receives my gentle touch, my legs, my thighs commit; I softly breathe in heavens mist, and more I long of it. Full lungs of care, the sweetest air, submerge these ancient depths; where warmth shall fade as levels sink, and all our dreams are met. There lies the entrance to hidden caverns, to distant under shores, and sanctuary in ye whom I adore.

Pros of Fear

2006-09-13T22:10:00.000-07:00

Clichés such as “The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree,” concerned me greatly as a young boy. Especially that the closer I observed my father as Mr. Hyde, the more convinced I became, that I did not want to follow in his footsteps. I worried that some genetic flaw, out of my control, would one day bring me to crave his addictions, and that I would lose myself forever. In response, I prejudiced myself against the things I feared; vowing never to use nicotine, illicit drugs, or liquor. I believed that each of these things hold the potential to destroy a life. Therefore, that which cannot be repaired should be avoided. Over the years, peer pressure would take many of my friends down a dark path; some never to return. For me however, peer pressure was no match for the fear I had of (1) becoming my father, (2) losing myself, (3) failing in life, or (4) letting myself, and the people that count on me, down. While the apple may not fall far from the tree, it has infinite potential to roll.

From Where Does it Come?

2006-09-07T22:37:00.000-07:00

Whether it is of failure, loneliness, ridicule, harm, disappointment, or the unknown; rare is the soul that has not been touched by fear -of some sort- at some point in its life. Some people are able to rise above it much easier than others. Fear seems to wash over them and simply pass away; while in others, it is absorbed into the very marrow of their bones, where it then drives them to defeat. From where does this fear come? In 2 Timothy 1:7, it was Paul that wrote, “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” Therefore, fear must be an adversary of God’s will.

Breakfast is Served

2006-09-06T21:20:00.000-07:00

In this dream, I am holding a rifle and sitting in a tall tree. I am inside a hunting reserve of extinct animals, and looking out at a dinosaur. The dinosaur looks vulnerable, so I choose it as my prey.

Using my rump muscles, I scoot along the branch and then leap out from the tree. Airborne, I began to fly and approach the creature from behind. It does not see me; but it quickens its pace, traveling to the far side of the lake. I want to put it down with one shot, so I hover above its head. I then fire a single round into its brain and watch as it crashes to the ground like an elephant on an old National Geographic show.

I then fly to the other side of the lake and watch until I think it was safe. Minutes pass, and I fly back over to the creature and land on a limb that hangs above its head. Its eyes are open; but lifeless; and its body periodically twitches.

Suddenly its nostrils flare. It sniffs the air and life reenters its eyes. In one swift motion, the creature springs to its feet and glares up at me. It has the look of a hungry man looking at a menu. Then, with pure aggression, it leaps at me, thrusting its mouth and bladed teeth through snapping braches. I scoot backwards along the limb; so panic stricken, that I forget that I am able to fly.

I fight vines as the creature violently bits the air, leaves, and branches around me. The sound of its sharp teeth coming together is dizzying, and I try shooting it once more. This time my bullets only bounce off its hard head, infuriating it even more.

Just as I run out of limb, I look across the lake and see the entrance of the reserve. The gate is tall and heavy, standing over thirty feet high. I jump from the limb and begin to fly towards the gate. The dinosaur chases wildly after me, knocking down small tress along the way.

By the time I reach the gate, the dinosaur is only a short leap and a bite behind me. I tug against the locked gate twice before running out of time. I fly higher and land on a rusted knob that is protruding from the gate, only slightly above the creature’s head-level; so I am sure it can reach me.

The creature then moved underneath me, looking up and sniffing the air as it speaks, “Umm, chocolate coco puffs!” and I am jutted awake.

Muzzle Flash

2006-08-30T15:43:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of the thin walls, my siblings and I usually knew what was going on between my parents – and this night was no different. While we children watched TV in the front room, my parent’s raised voices fought in the background from their bedroom. The fight had something to do with daddy coming home drunk – and he was in his Mr. Hyde form.

“Leave me alone!” he yelled, not wanting to answer my mother’s query as to where he had been.

A scuffle broke out - and through the thin walls, I could hear furniture being knocked around. My brother and sisters could also hear it; each of us silent, wide-eyed, and hanging on to each sound. None of us were watching TV anymore.

My parent’s bodies slammed against their bed. The sound of the bed’s heavy feet dragging across the wooden floor was unmistakable – and then it’s metal frame slamming against the wall. It didn’t matter that the door was closed. I could see everything in my mind.

Suddenly, my mother broke away from him, and he knew that she was headed for the closet. That’s where he kept his loaded pistol. Daddy tried desperately to catch her, but he was too drunk and she was too determined. When he finally caught up to her, she spun around pointing the heavy pistol center mass on his chest. Her finger had already begun to squeeze the trigger. Shockwaves fired through daddy’s body as he leaped away from her. His bloodshot eyes were wide open and focused on the gun. It was almost sobering.

BANG!

Everyone in the house jumped. Especially daddy, as every hair on the back of his neck stood up. The bullet had barely missed him and gone through the window, out across the street, across the field to rest in high grass. Mama was already taking aim for a second shot, as daddy darted from the room. The door flung open as daddy's stumbling body slammed against it. He ran past me and out the front door, reeking of alcohol, with mama running screaming after him, pointing the pistol at his back. The dark revolver looked large in her light brown hands, as she and daddy vanished into the night. We kids could still hear everything.

BANG!

Another loud blast seemed to shake the house. It was the first time I had heard real gunfire, not counting what I had seen on TV. The tension in the air could have been cut with a knife. Something compelled my brother Richard and I to tiptoe outside in our bare feet, peering into the darkness with our unfocused eyes.

BANG!

Another shot fired… this time from the side of the house. It seemed to draw Richard and I like moths to a flame. In fact, I was sure that I saw a flash coming from the gun’s muzzle. Mama was holding the pistol with both hands, pointing it toward the dark alley behind our house. She had a hard time steadying it as she jerked off another round at daddy’s fleeing shadow. He was a fast runner, even in Mr. Hyde form.

Echoes of the blast bounced off nearby houses and faded as neighboring dogs barked. Mama then lowered the pistol, still staring towards the alley and breathing heavy. She then turned towards Richard and me.

“Get in the house!” she yelled.

We quietly and quickly ducked back inside, listening and wondering if the last shot had found its mark. It was silent. Even the crickets were quiet, as we had turned down the TV’s volume. Mama soon reentered the house, holding the pistol at her side. She took it into their bedroom and closed the door behind her. Perhaps she didn’t want us to know that she was hiding it back inside their closet, inside the old shoebox on the lower right-hand corner. Their closet was "off-limits" to us kids.

She poked her head out moments later and told us to go to bed. Considering her tone and expression, no one dared ask any questions. Daddy returned the following day, as if nothing had happened.

Beyond the Fog

2006-08-16T14:12:00.000-07:00

Talking to someone who does not reply is like playing tennis in the dark with fog. You volley another ball into the scattering fog and wait for its return, hearing only nightsounds and echoes of the ball you have sent. You then reach for another ball; not considering that more than a court may lie beyond the fog, and that you may not be properly equip to receive a return. Check your self.

Eternity in Thee

2006-08-14T11:04:00.000-07:00

Rockerbye in peace we slumber; thy silky wings caress. A moments clear then fleeing haste; in thee I am my best. Then wits they slip with courage fall, thy heart of love with none at all. We reach; we wait; we want – once more a soft lullaby.

Longing still these reaching thoughts and waters flow, we long to know not letting go. Thy tender calm embracing winds, a love of old begins again. We touch; we fall; we love – clarity and eternity in thee.

In earnest she whispers, “Self-preservation is indeed a master distracter; the root of cowardness and anchor from dreams. Only in its release may ye move forward and truly know what ye seek.” Her voice then softens; angel arms outreached, “Take my hand.”

The Dark Figure: Searching

2006-07-26T13:53:00.000-07:00

Nearly a year had passed since my encounter with the dark figure in the alley. I was visiting with my friend Tong from Taiwan and had all but tucked the memory away somewhere between the Stinking Gum (a menacing creature from childhood stories my grandmother had told me) and Bloody Mary; somewhere between fact and fiction. I wasn’t quite sure how I should categorize it; but it was about to become clearer.

Tong had spent his early childhood in Taiwan, before his mother met and married an American Airman. They then came to settle in Texas.

During my visit with Tong, something prompted him to share a childhood memory. He described his school in Taiwan; how it sat in a forest surrounded by trees, and the winding dirt road that led up to it. The school was of simple structure, little more than four walls and a leaky ceiling, with a small wooden outhouse out back. It was from that outhouse that Tong witnessed something he’d never forget.

He had gone there during recess while his classmates played at the front of the schoolhouses. He could faintly hear their laughter in the distance, while he searched for a clean spot on the filthy stool.

The walls of the outhouse were weathered and full of knotholes, a small distraction from the stool’s moistness and smothering scent. He peered out through a perfectly round knothole that set directly in front of him; out into the thick forest that set behind the school.

Something suddenly moved at the edge of the forest, gliding unnaturally, a dark figure that appeared to be looking for something.

“I could hear it thinking inside my head,” Tong’s voice cracked, and my stomach sank. Memories of my encounter in the alley came rushing back… and Tong now had my undivided attention. He used his right hand to demonstrate in the air how the creature glided around the trees, fast and then slow. “It was blacker than anything I had ever seen,” he said, and my eyes began to well.

“Is this really happening?” I thought, not saying a word, “Is he describing the same creature?”

Perhaps the creature has a special interest in children; that with its ability to read minds and project its thoughts, it is also capable of entering dreams and planting thoughts – so that it may observe how the subject acts upon them.

Tong continued... describing how the creature searched. “I don’t know what it was looking for,” he said.

The creature then moved out from the trees… and suddenly halted. Tong could hear the laughter of his classmates moving closer. The creature had also heard it. Tong adjusted his forehead against the weathered wall and refocused his right eye through the knothole. Still in disbelief, he watched as the creature glided back into the forest.

Surging Spirits Restrained

2006-07-05T15:31:00.000-07:00

This heat is suffocating; how it wells up from within my soul, silently… and longingly spilling out emotions that cannot be acted upon, quelled nor captured nay by my tongue nor will, only their salty wet footprints that soon evaporate from all but memory. My attempts to decipher them are pointless, for they are primitive and I am compelled by logic. In this crowded room of strangers and artificial surging winds, my passion burns lonely, while logic hushes in all sincerity I long.

The Dark Figure

2006-06-10T23:39:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it was some sort of stalker with special abilities; capable of reading minds, moving at the speed of thought, and disappearing in the blink of an eye. With its ability to read minds, it could follow closely behind its subject, and then vanish at the instant the subject thinks of turning around. I however had a quirky way of suddenly turning without reason or thought.

Our encounter occurred one summer afternoon while I was walking in the alley behind our house. Impulsively, I suddenly spun around, and there it was standing before me. It apparently had been observing me from behind. And because my turning was not premeditated, my thoughts had not pre-warned it to vanish. I had caught it completely off guard.

It resembled a man, but it was clearly something else. It stood approximately seven feet tall, had broad shoulders, and was darker than any color I had ever seen. It felt as though I was looking into another dimension; that if I had stepped through it, I would have been in another place. I could not see its expression, for it had no facial features, eyes, nose, nor mouth. But it was clearly alarmed. I know this because I could somehow hear its thoughts.

“I should not be seen!” its thoughts cried out.

The creature then trembled before me; not because it was afraid of me, but because it had broken an important rule. It was suppose to stealthily observe and never be seen, and now it had to answer to something I could not see. It had a superior.

In disbelief, I stared at the dark figure - and oddly, I did not feel threatened by it. Through its loud thoughts, I knew that it meant me know harm.

“What are you?” I thought, knowing that it could hear.

It did not answer.

Instead, it tremble faster, vibrating from left to right. It was trying to decide which directoin to flee; and it appeared to be unaccustomed to making sudden decisions on its own.

It then began communicating with what I could not see - and I realized that it and I were not alone.

“What shall I do!” its thoughts cried, not directed at me.

I sensed that it somehow had the ability to erase what had happened, but it was not authorized to do so. It was still caught up in its dilemma, whether to go left or right. It did not consider simply vanishing.

The entire encounter lasted approximately eight seconds before the creature decided to flee to its left, into a green shed that stood to my right. It didn’t run like a man. Instead it glided through the wall as though it was cutting through dimensions. I ran after it, to the far side of the shed to see if it would come out the other side. But it did not. I then looked back at the spot where I had first seen the dark figure, and wondered if it had been my imagination.

Nearly a year later, another event would remove all my doubts.

Bitter Fruit

2006-06-07T17:44:00.000-07:00

How many times will history repeat itself? How they maneuver; convinced that they are what they describe themselves to be, righteous because they smile, not due to their deeds. My wounds still ache from their last assault, and yet they return bearing sweet words and bitter fruit. Their eyes speak another tongue, almost disarming, that I might doubt myself. “They want that thy gates shall fall,” the angel whispers. They have never failed to strike my lowered guard; yet, I wonder if perhaps this time they truly want peace. But how can I trust them? “Seek ye not peace in soft words,” she says, “Nor in warm eyes… for they believe themselves righteous, while their deeds seek thy destruction. Look only to their deeds.”

The Source of Their Strength – II

2006-05-30T16:56:00.000-07:00

I prepared my strategy, and gathered the tools I believed I’d need to confront my demons. The angel’s words “put them out” echoed in my thoughts and brought me sporadic comfort. But that was not enough. Not thinking of my demons would not undo their work. “They must be brought into the light,” she says, “Else they will return.” I finished preparing my tools – and when I was ready, I entered the arena of light. I was prepared for a confrontation, but there was none. My demons had been unjust; and sustained by lies that cannot stand in the light. Therefore, there was little need for me to speak. I put down my tools and my demons were undone.

The Source of Their Strength - I

2006-05-27T23:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I forget how clever demons can be; their warm smiles and eyes that shed crocodile tears, how insincere they are, ever plotting for the advantage. No matter what they say, or do, they never forget their enemies, and I find myself bitter in their company, tormented by my own thoughts of them. “Must thee engage them in the dark?” my angel whispers, concerned that these thoughts clutter my mind. “Put them out - away from thee,” she says, “Show me thy mortal demons, that they may be undone by the light.” I gaze out the window; outside myself, and my concerns shrink. In the light, my thoughts are busied by good people moving about their day, the beauty of nature, and children at play. It is comforting – but my thoughts then drift back to the dark and the pain returns. “The source of thy pain is in thee,” the angel whispers, “Not in thy enemies. Put them out… and thy pain shall be undone.

The Servant's Path

2006-05-23T15:46:00.000-07:00

I made my decision last night. I took a step down the path I have chosen, and I did not feel the pain she has promised. In its stead, there was relief. I looked inside my heart and asked, “Where is the pain?” I then looked up ahead and saw that my chosen path has other forks. “It awaits thee beyond yon junction,” she whispers.

Heart of Wings

2006-05-15T23:33:00.000-07:00

Lovingly, she comforts me amidst disorder and troubled times. Soothing and confident; she whispers, “Have faith…” My thoughts have been weary and doubtful of myself; yet in silence she consoles. She knows my heart; it’s where she resides, navigating my dreams where hope and destiny collides. I suppose it makes sense, that because she knows my strengths weaknesses and fears, when I am doubtful of myself, I may believe in she who believes in me. “Yes…” she whispers, “Trust in thy heart…” her powerful wings outstretched, “For I am within thee… and through me, ye may rise above earthly fears...”

The Servant

2006-05-12T19:28:00.000-07:00

Another disappointment pushes me ever closer to a decision, and she whispers, “What will you do?” I’m tired, and there is a lump rising in my throat. It feels good, these surges of emotions that remind me I’m alive, and the coolness that gathers in my eyes. I blink, and water rolls down my cheeks. No one can see; and how my spirit stands in silence at this fork in my journey. “It is time,” she whispers, “This one is yours.” In the past I have allowed others to decide for me. That is the coward’s way, and foolish to serve while thy own heart and spirit is in jeopardy. “Either path will bring pain,” she whispers, my guardian angel, my conscience, “Slow steady misery for yourself and others, or the ache of knowing that your path brings sorrow to another.” I don’t know what I’ll find down either path, destinations are unknown. I only know that my heart is heavy. Whom shall I serve?

Chasing Clouds

2006-05-04T16:27:00.000-07:00

An angel approached me from behind and placed her hand on my shoulder as I looked out at my work. I was feeling down… but her touch was warm and uplifting to the spirit. It was a dream, and my mood could be described with one word. Lost…

“What’s wrong with me?” I asked. But she did not answer. She only watched with me, as more of my past deeds appeared before us.

I began to complain that accomplishing those deeds had brought me little gratification, and that I am seldom satisfied.

She interrupted.

“How do you select your deeds… your goals?” Her voice was strong and yet soothing… how it called me away from my troubles. I saw myself standing below us – and I remembered how I had felt.

I did not answer her question directly. Instead, I tried to explain that my goals help to focus my energies.

She interrupted again.

“Focus, or distract?” she said. I thought about her question as she continued, “If you commit yourself to chasing clouds, to the extent that pursuing them becomes your identity, you will be lost when they evaporates.”

I didn’t fully understand.

“Distract?” I said… puzzled, “Distract me from what?”

“It is important… how you select your goals and invest your energies,” she said, “United, they pursue higher objectives? Divided, they distract from one another.”

“The objective is happiness,” I said without thinking.

“Happiness?” she shrugged. Her voice then became stern, “If happiness is your objective, then why do you not feel incrementally content as you accomplish small steps towards it? Do you believe that your path true?” she looked into my eyes – her eyes were as deep as the ocean, “Does it follow the plan?”

“The plan…?”

“Yes…” still looking into my eyes, “I know that you know…” Then in silence we waited… while I wondered what she was thinking – and what she was thinking of me.

“Is it selfish to seek happiness?” I asked.

“Selfish…” her voice hauntingly echoed, “Would not seeking to make others happy be more fulfilling?”

“Yes…” I nodded… understanding and slightly ashamed.

“What is the meaning of life…” she said, “If not to nourish it? The plan is only that you should love.”

Pursuing a relationship is sometimes like chasing a cloud. If the relationship does not develop, the pursuer is left feeling lost. Like love, clouds are not to be chased and captured - and unlike clouds, love is always within our reach. It was Buddha that said, “When you realize how perfect everything is, you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky.”