Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in a dozen countries and has authored three books of poetry. More about Gale at the end of this section.
turn, so I have to get ready even
though I'm only ten years old, I could die
at any time and if I'm not saved be
-fore then then I'll wake up dead in Hell and
there's no future to that, hardly even
any Afterlife worth not living at
all so I pray several times a day that if
I'm killed somehow, run over or strangled
or stabbed or shot or chucked off a cliff then
I'll go to Heaven and be glad after
all that I expired and think This ain't so
bad, I could get to like being dead so
long as I don't have to play a harp or
sing or fly too high, which would scare me good.
to be dead but that Jesus brought her back
to life so I guess maybe she means
she was pretty awfully depressed but
cheered up, she wasn't really dead at all,
her body anyway, so after class
I told her that I felt kind of cheated,
I wanted her to be dead for real, it
would make for a much better story, like
in my comic books or from Hollywood
and she laughed and said Well, now, what I mean
is that I was sad but God made me glad
so I said That's another thing--Jesus
getting sacrificed, I think that's a waste.
So I'm happy to say she's sad again.
judged when they're dead and some get to stay but
most get packed off to Hell my Sunday School
teacher says and I guess I believe her
but I'll learn the truth for sure when it's too
late, when I'm dead that is and can't relay
such information to folks still alive
on Earth and as for being alive in
Eternity no one there will need to
know and maybe no one curious so
I'm not sure what I'll do with knowing all
there is to know or just-about when I'm dead,
I'm ten years old and don't know very much
now but I do know one thing for certain,
I just forget what. But it will come back.
my Sunday School teacher even though I
know the answer she'll give, it's Heaven or
Hell for Eternity and for me most
likely Hell unless I get saved and right
with God and so on but maybe she's wrong
and there's another place I can land in
that's more like Earth and for that matter why
can't I just stay on Earth itself, after
all it's my home and I know my way a
-round, at least in my own neighborhood, what
better place for Eternity than where
you came in and I said so to my Sun
-day School teacher--it was a question but
more like a question. I don't want to die.
Gale has taught tertiary English courses in the US, PR China, and Palestine. He has had hundreds of poems published in a dozen countries and has authored three books of poetry. His poems have appeared in Ascent, Reed, Arkansas Review, Poem, Slant, Aethlon, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, Roanoke Review, Danse Macabre, Ohio Journal, Sou'wester, South Dakota Review, North Dakota Quarterly, New Texas, Midwest Quarterly, Poetry Midwest, Adirondack Review, Worcester Review, Adirondack Review, Connecticut River Review, Delmarva Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Maryland Literary Review, George Washington Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ann Arbor Review, Plainsongs, Chiron Review, George Washington Review, McNeese Review, Weber, War, Literature & the Arts, Poet Lore, Able Muse, The Font, Fine Lines, Teach.Write., Oracle, Hamilton Stone Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, Cardiff Review, Tokyo Review, Indian Review, Muse India, Bombay Review, Westerly, and many other journals.
Gerald Beckman was born and raised on a farm in West Texas and practiced law in Corpus Christi. More about Gerald and his novels at the end of this section. learn more at GeraldBeckman.com
Cecil parked his pickup at the curb outside his office. A strong north wind had blown in during the night – not all that unusual this time of year, except this one seemed to be carrying a little snow with it, and that was noteworthy considering how it had been. It likely wouldn’t amount to much. This kind of wind would sweep the fields and plains clean of snow no matter how much fell, piling it into drifts with fantastic shapes along fence rows and bar ditches and on the lee sides of buildings.
Ah well, neither drought nor blizzard slowed his practice down any. Legal problems proliferated in good times and bad, and that’s why he was here. A problem solver is what he was. He rejected the notion that he made a living off the sufferings of other people, though there was more than a kernel of truth in the contention. It was a matter of how you looked at it.
He hung up his coat and checked his calendar. A deposition at ten, a docket control conference at two. He glanced at the street outside his window. The swirling flurries seemed to be coming straight from the arctic ice cap. This was not a day to be outdoors.
He checked the call slips Rosie had stuck on his spindle. Standard stuff – a realtor, an adjuster, a court reporter – he’d return them after the two o’clock conference. This morning he’d concentrate on the deposition. He had developed a knack for finding the gold nugget in a witness’s testimony. He felt like he could do it in his sleep. Most of his injury cases were small potatoes, but this one involved the death of a young father. It would mean a huge payday if the defendant’s expert testified as expected.
He had just begun reviewing his notes when the intercom buzzed. “Better take line three,” Rosie said. “He won’t identify himself but says he won’t call again.” She had perfect pitch when it came to deciding which calls demanded immediate attention. He lifted the receiver.
“Ain’t none of my business,” the caller said, “but I drive by your pasture every day, and I been noticing your cows crowding the fence bawling like they’re starving to death. Ain’t Otto supposed to be taking care of ‘em?” Otto was a fifty year-old bachelor who earned minimum wages doing odd jobs for local farmers and ranchers. He worked hard when he worked, but never let ambition get in the way of hunting or fishing.
“Yes, as a matter of fact…”
“Well then, I guess you ain’t heard. The damn fool stumbled chasing after a downed goose and his gun went off…”
“Oh for…!”
“Shot three toes off his left foot. He ain’t been out of his house for nearly a week.”
A week? His cows hadn’t been fed for a week? Ah Christ…he asked the caller if he knew anybody willing to carry a pickup load of hay out there right now, this morning, maybe check the windmill – he’d be glad to pay whatever it took.
Nah, the caller said, he didn’t know anybody like that. He sounded angry saying it, and made it clear that somebody better get off his ass and feed those cows pretty damn quick. He hung up without waiting for a response.
Cecil had spent his whole professional life standing up to intensely practical people who didn’t hesitate voicing aversion to his charging a hundred dollars an hour for examining leases and attending water district meetings, or a minimum of a thousand dollars defending a DWI charge. Even less was he inclined to defer to them in a matter of personal conduct. Yet this coarse, angry voice had stirred an intense flush of shame.
Now what? He didn’t know anybody willing to face a blizzard to save the hide of an absentee land owner who didn’t have sense enough to take care of his own cows. He knew the opinion many farmers had of arrogant doctors and lawyers who bought up all the land they could get their hands on, then flaunted their ownership like an English Lord while paying bottom wages to misfits to do the dirty work rather than leasing it out to self-respecting farmers like themselves. The caller was undoubtedly one of them.
What could he have been thinking, buying a 640 acre patch of dry caliche pasture with barely enough ground water to feed a windmill and steep bluffs dropping a hundred feet all along the south half? The idea had been to buy a few acres, hold them till he got tired of practicing law, then sell the whole shebang for enough to retire on. But the land was worth less now than when he bought it ten years ago. So why not make a few bucks raising cows? Hire somebody like Otto to haul them a load of hay every other day, count them to make sure they were all alive, check the windmill and see not it that the fence stayed in good repair – it would be easy…
It might have been a crank call, but since Otto didn’t have a phone, Cecil couldn’t call him to verify the story. He’d have to run out to check on his cows personally. Thirty minutes to the pasture, thirty back. If they really were short of feed, it wouldn’t take more than a day to find someone to take Otto’s place. The cows could wait that long.
He put his coat back on and hurried out the door, assuring Rosie he’d be back in time for the deposition.
The wind nearly jerked the door out of his hands.
His pasture was four miles south of the community of Bright, and Bright, sometimes still referred to by its German name Hell by people who saw the humor in it, was fifteen miles west of his office. The wind picked up on the way, buffeting his pickup and sending the snow flying horizontal. Visibility was down to a quarter-mile and the temperature couldn’t be over twenty degrees. Tumbleweeds blew across the highway like they were fleeing in terror. He pulled on his driving gloves and shivered.
Thirty head of cattle. Three hundred dollars a head, tops, probably not that given the shape they would be in if they hadn’t been fed properly. Nine thousand dollars at most if they were all still alive, and the deposition was part of a case that would bring ten, maybe twenty times that, just for his fee. So why was he wasting time on a miserable bunch of cows? If he had any sense he’d turn his pickup around and get his ass back to the office.
Instead, he turned off the highway onto the section road running by his pasture.
What he saw nauseated him. The animals were skin and bones, heads hanging, necks scarred and bleeding from pushing their heads through the barb wire fence reaching for dry weeds; listless, facing downwind, visibly shivering. Clearly they had been hungry for longer than a week. He had assumed that even if the call were genuine, it would be an exaggeration. The cows had 640 acres, after all, and there were only thirty of them. Surely they could find enough pickings between the caliche rocks and prickly pear to survive on, but they looked like so many sacks of rattling bones.
He called his office from his cell phone. “I can’t make the deposition,” he told Rosie, “and I can’t get hold of Joe. Call him for me, will you? Tell him…tell him I have to feed my cows.”
He detected disbelief in her silence.
“I have to have more than that,” Rosie said. “His expert is driving in from Tulsa – he’s probably already here – and you know what a jerk Joe can be. He’ll go for sanctions, and with Judge Harlan he just might get them.”
Yeah, opposing counsel didn’t owe him any favors, and Joe was the type who believed his duty to his client obliged him to take every advantage. And Judge Harlan – Cecil wished he had never gotten involved in that particular campaign. Harlan was a vindictive son-of-a-bitch with a long memory. Cecil had already tasted the bitter fruits of choosing the wrong side of that race, and Harlan wouldn’t let a few hungry cows get in the way of his idea of justice, especially if their condition was the result of Cecil’s own neglect, which Joe would be sure to point out. Joe might even argue it was a case of cruelty to animals, and he might be right. How much of a defense would trusting a guy like Otto amount to?
All of which was beside the point. These poor animals were suffering the pains of the damned and his only choice was to get them feed immediately. He’d have to take his chances with Joe.
He had been buying hay from Edwin Wilke, a shrewd old farmer who had bought up all the wheat straw he could get his hands on the past summer for nearly nothing, then baled it for resale to cattlemen he knew would be in desperate need long before the drought ended. His farm was five miles north of Bright, but when Cecil got there Edwin had taken a load of hogs to market so Cecil had to load the twenty bales himself.
Suit, tie, overcoat, low-top shoes, thin socks and driving gloves of fine Italian leather – hardly the garb for loading hay. Thirty years since he had lifted a bale, but the feeling of the taut wire under his gloved fingers was as fresh as the wind in his face.
The load had shifted on the way to the pasture, making it too unsteady to stand on. He had to remain on the ground and pull the bales off the tail end of the pickup while the hunger-crazed animals pushed and shoved against him, smearing their freezing and dripping snouts on his clothes. Then he had to jostle the animals to retrieve the wires so they wouldn’t get tangled in their hooves.
He extricated his pickup from the melee and drove to the windmill near the breaks. Six inches of ice had formed on the water in the stock tank. After thirty frustrating minutes of chopping with his lug wrench and producing a hole the size of a dinner plate, he thought to turn on the windmill. The wheel spun for five long minutes before water finally began pouring out of the discharge pipe.
By now a thin line of cows was trotting clumsily toward the water, heads low, swinging from side to side, slinging saliva as they came. It broke his heart to see them.
The day began to clear, but the wind, strong as ever, continued pushing wispy clouds across the sky. It forced bitter cold through his ruined clothes and tattered gloves, but he continued facing into it, numb, shivering, and dejected by what awaited him at the office. By now Joe would have produced his witness, made his record, and dictated a motion for sanctions. What defense could Cecil muster against a hostile opponent and a judge nursing a grudge?
He thought he remembered Rosie paying his E&O premium but felt a sudden need to be certain. With frozen fingers he punched autodial on his cell phone. He turned away from the wind so he could hear Rosie’s voice.
He finally understood Joe had left a message asking Cecil to agree to resetting the deposition.The freezing rain had closed down Interstate 40 stranded his expert in Shamrock for at least a day.
Suddenly the frigid air wasn’t so frigid. The biting wind wasn’t so biting. In an instant they changed from biting and bitter to clean, and fresh, and friendly. He breathed deep, savoring his salvation. His gaze lingered out over the barren breaks and the range country beyond. The bullet he had just dodged was the size of a mallet, and as it whizzed by his head he took another look around him. How lovely the world now appeared. How wild and free and oh, so lovely.
Baseball as seen on television is the sport in its purest form. It’s where a superman makes a perfectly timed jump against an outfield wall to snatch a fly ball over his back; where a third baseman dives for an 85 mph grounder, scoops it out of the dirt, rolls to his feet and in the same graceful motion shoots it like a rifle shot to first in time to make the out; where a pitcher throws a ball at 100 mph to a target 17 by 30 inches over sixty feet away, almost never hitting a man hunkered six inches away from the target, while making the ball curve and jump, hop, drop, or rise; where hulking batters who can swing a bat nearly as fast as the pitch face those brain-rattling fastballs zipping inches past their skulls without fear; where every player knows instantly and exactly what to do on the next play, no matter what it is, and does it time and time again, flawlessly. That is what people call baseball nowadays. That’s what they talk about, that’s what they analyze, and that’s what they bet on while sitting in their living rooms sipping suds and nibbling nachos. It’s baseball to be sure, but it’s baseball in sanitized perfection. It’s nothing like the baseball I once knew and loved.
I loved the nitty-gritty, the wild, untamed, unsponsored and unorganized, almost totally infertile spawning grounds for professional players that thrived before the disappearance of tiny country schools, before unlimited school sports budgets, manicured playing fields, and helicopter parenting; where kids discovered the game on their own, where they played without adult interference for the pure love of it, where money and fame and free-agenting and endorsements were as immaterial, albeit unattainable, as the back side of the moon; where coaching was nil, rules unknown, or misunderstood, often, even, not applicable, even in the unlikely event a rulebook could be found and the pertinent rule pinpointed. I loved that version of the game so much that, forty-five years later, I still dream of playing it.
I was in first grade when I first swung a bat at a slow pitched softball. I remember it to this day. The ball was tossed by some chubby girl in the fourth grade from what must have been every bit of ten feet away, and I couldn’t hit it worth a flip. There was no backstop, no bleachers, no coaches, no organization, and no rules other than 1) try to hit the ball, and if you managed that, 2) run to first base, not third (a common mistake); 3) chase the ball (actually catching it was rare; even a slow grounder bouncing over the native pasture sod was harder to grab than a panicky ground squirrel); 4) throw the ball when you finally got to it, 5) run after it again, on and on until the bell rang at the end of recess.
Our equipment was one broken bat whose handle was repeatedly repaired by black electrical tape, and a ball whose cover kept coming off until some enterprising young lady had her mom stitch it back on. Rusty plow discs of different sizes placed at stepped-off distances forming a rough square served as bases, and a short piece of flat board placed somewhere close to the middle of the square was the pitcher’s mound — except, of course, there was no mound. In the early grades boys and girls played the game together. Later we played boys against girls, and because we were stronger (loading hay bales all summer long) and faster (endlessly chasing livestock from one pasture to another), the boys usually won. But not always.
As we got older, we got more sophisticated. We chose teams, taking turns, starting with the best, ending with the worst. That was usually Joey Saren, a poor kid absolutely devoid of anything approaching physical grace, but who bore his repeated humiliations with a different kind of grace and no apparent psychic scars. No longer were the games played only at school, where we were limited to a fifteen minute recess at midmorning, a one hour lunch break—wolfing down our sack lunches in less than five minutes so we could play ball—and another fifteen minute recess at mid-afternoon. Now, with the freedom afforded by a few additional years and balloon-tired bicycles, we could play for hours at a time in some farmer’s cow-pasture, using gunny sacks and flattened cardboard for bases. Still no coaching, bleachers or properly laid out diamond, but we did sometimes manage the side of a barn or storage shed as a backstop, and we had learned some of the rules, like a tie goes to the runner, a caught foul tip is a strike and not an out, and what a balk meant, though we could never agree exactly when it happened; and since the umpire was always the worst player (that’s why he was umpire) and knew even less about the rules than the rest of us, he wasn’t much help. It came down to which side shouted the loudest or was the readiest to quit if it didn’t get its way.
Though these games lasted longer than the ones at school, they had a downside that made them less popular than they might have been. Dodging prickly pears and cow pies while chasing balls detracted considerably from the fun of the game.
I was fifteen when I took the next step up the ladder. I was accepted to play for the Umbarger Blue Socks, one of seven teams made up of farmers from my age on up (some guys were pushing fifty) who got together and organized themselves into what they called the West Texas Irrigation League.
We played every Sunday, each team taking its turn to host the game in the town closet to their farms. Never any practice sessions, no warmups, just show up and play. Still no coaching, no grandstands, no snack bars, and mostly worn-out equipment, except for our gloves. Every player had his own glove, a significant investment, and he kept it clean and oiled. One player named Billy Tubman (more about him later), on the theory that if a little bit of oil was good, a whole lot of oil was a whole lot better, soaked his glove in a bucket of motor oil overnight. Like the rest of us, he had no money to spare, so he did everything imaginable to undo the damage, including backing over it with a truck tire to squish the oil out of it, soaking it in a bucket of gasoline to dilute the oil, stuffing flour in and around it, hanging it from a tree limb to evaporate whatever would evaporate, and washing it over and over in hot water and detergent. He finally got it back to a useable condition, and years later, when I got married and quit the team, he was still using it. True story.
The hosting team would provide two new baseballs for that day’s game, which we tried our best to make last. Young kids would race each other chasing the fouls, and if they returned it soon enough to use for the next pitch, we’d pay the winner a dime. Actually, we paid the dime anyway.
Our ball field was bounded on two sides by cow pastures, one along third base, the other beyond left and center fields. There was something about our games that attracted cows. They would start gathering along the fence toward the beginning of a game, and by the bottom of the ninth there were more cows watching than people. And since it’s not easy to housebreak a cow, lots of manure piles were scattered about. Sometimes a foul ball rolled through a fresh pile, which was one of the fastest ways to age a new ball. We had a sackful of used balls for such occasions. We all agreed that if spitballs were illegal, shitballs ought to be illegal too. I don’t remember who came up with that one, but everybody thought it was pretty funny.
But by then we did have a backstop. It was made of chickenwire mesh and cedar posts, and where the mesh overlapped, it was stitched together with baling wire. It didn’t take long for gaps to develop, which were patched, and repatched, and repatched again, until finally a good portion of the backstop was nearly impossible to see through. It made little difference though, since there were so few spectators. Human ones, anyway.
The quality of play was pretty pathetic. Pathetic: how else describe hitting a slow grounder to the shortstop, the shortstop scooping it up to throw to first, overthrowing the first baseman, the ball bouncing off the bumper of a parked car, careening into a patch of pigweeds, the batter rounding first and heading for second while the first baseman looks frantically in the weeds for the ball, finds it, hurls it to third, which by now is the destination of the runner, who rounds third and heads for home while the third baseman, figuring on a sure out, grips the ball to throw home for the tag, only to learn the hard way that a goathead was stuck in the ball which is painfully transferred to his hand, causing another wild throw, all of which results in a home run?
How else describe the visiting team showing up only to discover it forgot its sack of bats, so we, ever the gentlemen, offer to share ours, until the home plate umpire, which they supplied, calls a strike on one of our guys when the pitch was so wild it went behind the batter, and later called another strike when the ball bounced six inches in front of the plate with enough speed and power to cover home plate in dust, which the ump duly swept off with his little brush, and in neither case would change his call, so when their time came to bat we repossessed our bats and forced a forfeit?
Or the time one of our players who had been in a month-long slump hit a solid line drive down the third base line which should have been an easy base hit, but, in an excess of elation, tossed his bat up in the air and when it came down hit his head, dropped to the ground in front of him causing him to trip and stumble, and while he’s picking himself up, the left fielder throws the ball with all his might to first base, which doesn’t quite make it, so the first baseman runs to pick it up, dashes back to first base just as the runner gets there, they crash head on, both collapse to the ground, the first baseman drops the ball and a huge argument ensues as to whether or not the runner is out. It was a complicated question: did the first baseman beat the runner or vice-versa? And what about the dropped ball? Was it dropped before the collision or after? The runner and the first baseman were in no mood to be toyed with and both had already been humiliated beyond tolerance, so the umpire, fearing for his life, refused to make the call. Some genius solved the problem and saved some broken noses in the process by suggesting a coin toss. I don’t remember who won the toss, but everybody was satisfied.
And one more: How about the time during wheat harvest when everybody on the other side was busy cutting wheat (they were from a town a hundred miles south of Umbarger, so their harvest was in full swing and ours was just about to begin), and when their team showed up they were all girls! A high school girl team of fast-pitch softball players. Well, there were rules about who could or could not play on a West Texas Irrigation League team, one of which was, you had to be on the team’s official roster for a certain amount of time, and none of these girls were on that roster for any amount of time.
And they were girls! Sweet innocent little high school girls. So what the hell, a sure win, right? Not exactly a macho thing to do, but the possibility of another mark in our win column trumped any notion of chivalry lurking in our black hearts, so yeah, okay, we’d waive the rules, hee-hee! We‘d even let them pitch to us underhand. From forty feet away instead of sixty? Sure, why not? As long as our side could stick with the overhand style from sixty feet. Let’s get it done and over with.
Who knew they were tenacious, single-minded, organized, coached, trained, talented, dedicated, determined, capable, fast, agile, coordinated, and for this game, particularly motivated? Ever try to hit a baseball thrown underhand at 70 miles an hour from forty feet away?
They beat our pants off.
We had only two pitchers, Sammy Nelson and Billy Tubman, he of oiled glove fame. Sammy was a tall, lanky kid, clumsy and slow as a milk cow, but had a fastball that could suck the whiskers off your chin. And he was wild; oh man, was he ever wild. We won more than one game because of the fear he instilled in at least half of all opposing batters. I can still see the pose of the terrified batters: absurdly open stance, gingerly crowding the left back corner of the batter’s box, crouched, butt sticking over the edge of the box, front leg poised to collapse in a twisting plunge to the dirt, holding the bat at an impossible angle; what made it so fearsome was, the batter never knew whether a plunge toward the plate or away from it would give him the better chance. It’s hard to hit a pitch from a stance like that, but those that did, and the ones brave enough to squelch their fears, were the ones that regularly beat us. Vengeance of a sort was ours though, because a good many of them went home with saucer-sized bruises on their hips and arms.
When he was on, Sammy would whizz the ball so straight down the center that the catcher didn’t have to move his mitt a single centimeter to catch it. Sometimes he could do that several innings in a row, then something deep inside his control center would snap, and the walkathon would begin. A batter would be doing his jittery ready-to-dive dance at the corner of the batters’ box, suffer through four or five, sometimes six pitches flying in his general direction, then, with great relief, trot off to first. Same with the next, and the next. Soon a slow, musical-chairs sort of shuffle was milling around the bases as one player after another took his place in the queue heading for home.
Five walks in a row wasn’t unusual. That’s two runs, assuming no one was on base when the first batter walked.
That’s when Billy would take over.
Billy was a hulking bachelor who lived by himself on a farm about six miles west of town. His hands were the size of boxing gloves and his fingers the size of bratwurst sausages. His regular position was right field, but when he pitched, his specialty was the knuckler.
We all know that when you throw a ball, it spins, and if it spins fast enough in the right direction, it curves, rises, or drops. The reason is that the spin, in combination with the stitches, causes uneven air pressure on one side of the ball or the other. A good pitcher can control the spin so as to make it go up, down, or sideways.
But what if you throw the ball so it doesn’t spin? When that happens, the air makes the ball wobble and the stitches to randomly change positions relative to the direction the ball moves through the air, with the result that it floats like, to quote Willie Stargell, a butterfly with hiccups. It’s nearly impossible to hit. It’s called a knuckle ball, or knuckler, and Billy, with his oversized hands, had the knuckle ball down pat. I always believed that if he had thrown the knuckle ball exclusively, we could have won every game we ever played.
But he wouldn’t do it. He’d generally use it to strike out however many batters remained in the inning he relieved Sammy in, but then, no matter how much we badgered him, he’d revert to throwing what he considered his fast ball and his slow, sissy curve ball. Only problem was, his fastballs were as straight and pretty as the sunrise and not at all fast, and his curve balls had no more curves than a girl marathoner. That’s why he never started. Nobody could persuade him to throw his knuckler if he didn’t want to.
All that was the soup, the unitdy, unholy morass, the confusing, confounding, and endlessly fascinating and mostly unproductive breeding grounds where on rare occasions, true genius nevertheless germinated, and on even rarer occasions came to fruition. I saw it happen. One of our players, a kid named Barry Sizemore, two years younger than I, joined our team when he was fifteen. We went to the same small country school (total number of students including grades one through 12, hovered around fifty. That’s fifty, five-o, fifty), so I knew he was pretty good, but what the hell; he was just a skinny little twerp. He wouldn’t jeopardize my team standing any.
Then in one season he must have added five inches to his height and twenty pounds of muscle to his frame. Long story short: he showed enough promise that his daddy sent him to a month-long baseball school somewhere in Oklahoma, and when he returned, not only did he dominate every game he played in, which was all of them, but scouts began showing up around the League’s dilapidated facilities, not quite believing the five carat diamond they had found in the detritus. Whatever the rules were that governed professional recruiting, they prohibited scouts from even talking to Barry until he graduated high school, but when he walked off the stage on graduation night, he, under his daddy’s wing, signed with one of the majors. I think it was Brooklyn. Later that summer Brooklyn played a demonstration game in Phoenix, and the first time at bat, Barry hit one out of the park.
His mistake was marrying the wrong girl. She didn’t like him gone all the time, so he quit baseball after one year, bought a farm with his bonus money, fathered eight children, lost the farm, divorced his wife, remarried, and now lives in some small West Texas town pumping gas and bemoaning his lost chance. And what a chance it was. He was a natural. The only coaching he ever got, from anybody, was during the month he spent in Oklahoma, where he beat Mickey Mantle’s record for time from home plate to first base. True story.
That’s the baseball I remember and love. Is today’s version of the game better? Undoubtedly.
But it’s not as much fun.
Copyright Gerald Beckman
A South Texas lawyer gets sucked into the seamy underworld of drug dealers. Read the first chapter
or
Two youngsters try to find their way in a clannish West Texas town. Read the first chapter
or
An aging drug lord needs an ally with a particular skillset to help him win an ongoing war with competing cartels to supply America’s illicit narcotics market. One of his minions finds a prospect, a high school senior who’s smart, follows orders, has no fear of the Man, and proves himself by tackling a job no other man would dare undertake. What forces compel a young man to embrace a world where torture and murder are commonplace, where love and loyalty are considered the marks of weakness?
Gerald Beckman was born and raised on a farm in West Texas and practiced law in Corpus Christi. Since retirement he has written numerous novels. He writes, travels, and does all those things he always wanted to do but never had time for. He serves on numerous committees and boards, and enjoys volunteering in community activities such as World Affairs Council of South Texas, International Education Committee at TAMUCC, the Building Committee at St. John’s Catholic Church, and Beautify Corpus Christi.
learn more at GeraldBeckman.com
Grady Hunter had a varied career in executive management positions around the world for government, military and industrial organizations. He is a member of the United States Coast Guard Auxiliary and has received several commendations for activities related to search and rescue missions while coxswain of boat crews on Coast Guard orders. Grady enjoys putting pen to paper expressing his life adventure in prose and poetry.
My experiences as a widowed and somewhat-senior male when venturing into a kitchen challenge gain little sympathy from the ladies.
We can agree that some experiences could befall even the most experienced homemaker. But when they befall the independent male, it somehow serves us right.
For example—Pureed Asparagus.
I receive many suggestions from well-meaning friends about all the things that will assure my living beyond my life savings—and—in such great health and vigor that younger men will wonder and younger ladies will note my entrance.
Certainly I am vain enough to accept the admiration and warmth of ladies who note my skills on the dance floor, but in reality appreciate my competency behind the wheel after sunset.
So, when the benefits of pureed asparagus were sent with assurances the aching knees or lagging libido might magically repair, I dutifully added the contents to my shopping cart.
And when I emptied the simmered contents of two cans into the blender, added some exotic spices (salt and pepper) and punched the switch, a few stalks on the bottom began to disintegrate into a really nasty looking mess.
A serving spoon moved the escaping upper mess about—and then the phone rang.
Today, I know the choices I will make in future efforts.
Let it ring—that's what the answering machine is for; or
Turn off the blender; or
Take spoon with me to the phone.
The option of dropping the spoon into the operating mechanism is not practical.
A full day of cleaning the kitchen, laundering clothes, washing out eyes, and washing hair did little to take the aroma away. And months later, I am still finding specs and globs of asparagus in unbelievable locations.
Yes, I returned to the challenge and have been enjoying asparagus-cured knee joints and lagging libido for months.
Which now brings me to Yams.
Two of them have awaited me in a basket on the counter for two months. I thought it cannot be too difficult to heat one up and enjoy it for lunch with my thawed out leftover Kentucky fried chicken thigh. A chuckling neighbor lady told me, just cut one into quarters, heat it to soften it in the microwave, then cook for a few minutes in a frying pan.
I will save the second Yam, and bring it with me to Sam's club where I hope to see the man who demonstrated those knife sets that slice tomatoes paper thin, or cut through the heaviest food can with equal effort. Yams do not yield to the effort.
No knife in my drawers would do it, I am sure. I gave up after about an hour with the blade firmly stuck midway into the thing. I actually carried it out to my table saw, having dismissed the chain saw option when I spied a green asparagus spear on the ceiling fan blade.
Does anyone know the difference between a sweet potato and a yam? Perhaps it was discussed in a Lou Costello episode. And by the way, make sure you turn off the ceiling fan before you attempt to remove an asparagus spear.
Grant Mays is an electrical engineer. An ardent sci-fi fan, he started randomly writing this unnamed journal
14:30 Hours 2:30.
Doesn’t matter that it’s well into day planetside in N.A. To Eric 14:30 felt as shit as 04:30 would. The dull hum and vibrations, creaks and lurches and occasional flickering of light, the ship felt like 04:30 no matter the hour.
Of course, in space, the day/night cycle isn’t set by the stars but by the duty roster. The wonder of humanity’s greatest accomplishment was marred by its faults; its propensity to place the human in a situation so estranged from its evolutionary comfort zone that they almost lose sight of what it means to be human.
Eric sighed. Another shift (not day, shift). After 14 months they blurred so completely that the Magna Soviet–Fed border was more clearly defined.
Mr. Sardan’s thoughts weren’t this articulate; a blip intuitively understood and processed but lacking the specificity that this articulation gives.
Time for caffeine.
14:31 hours, Engineering Specialist II, Petty Corporal Eric Sardan, Serial No. 1823947265-C12B,
Federation Frigate operating under Federation Charter §74.6.13.2, research and exploration in sector Archimedes, onboard the vessel Leibniz. Nothing going on today.
End Log.
Eric Sardan got a kick out of sounding overly formal in logs, only to be followed by the inevitable nothing that permeated this region of space. Much like most of space, actually. Maybe that’s why they call it space? Either way, little quirks and bits of sarcasm kept him sane.
14:34
Eric slipped into his fatigues. He put on his larger pair. I look like shit in these, he thought. Actually, I always look like shit. But the more form-fitting ones look less shit.
14:39
Conduct of Federation Personnel While Deployed
§18.3.2
Comradery & Fraternity
§18.3.2.1 To foster community and comradery, personnel shall take First Meal prior to beginning shift.
§18.3.2.2 Further, personnel shall—
(because, according to the psychological Board, attaché to the Grand bitch Admiralty, Personnel on extended deployment are at risk of developing mental health issues to monotony, confinement, and general boredom)—socialize during First Meal to alleviate psychological fatigue.
Did they consider that sitting with Jacob—with the charisma of a fucking goat—and Armando, who only seemed to talk about the faults of the Pan-Solar Soviet, or the Primary Gladis, or the latest nutjob theory lost colony ships that were stolen by monastic radicals, or football.
God, fuck football.
He was seated with extremes from the platonic spectrum of shitty table conversation.
Of course, Jacob, when he did chat, only ever talked about the latest human rights violation of the Pan-Solar Soviet.
Mr. Sardan recognized the benefit of organized society. Processes and procedures pertaining to the minutia of society kept the bacteria out of the Verts, and made sure another Hercules doesn’t happen.
Sure, he had opinions on politics. On what humanity should aspire to (such as leaving him alone), and recoil from (i.e., table conversation with Armando and… fuck… who – Jacob. A man almost as easy to overlook as one’s own flaws), but he had little interest in the ideologue minutia.
He felt he was neither unprincipled, nor overzealous, just reasonable!
The irony of this self-praise, that everyone probably sees themselves as the sole practitioner of reason, and the lack of introspection that required, was not lost on him per se, but was an ugly thought he was cognizant of for a flash, before subduing and rationalizing his thoughts.
I want to shit, but don’t want the hassle of undoing my fatigues. Does the ship smell funny, or am I having a stroke? Nah, probably burning insulation. Maybe that will give me cancer? Fuck, maybe space radiation will. Maybe Rebecca’s a bitch. Maybe Rebecca’s bitchiness will give me cancer –
“ENGINEER SARDAN! THAT INSULATION IS BURNING!”
Oh shit, that was burning insulation.
Usually the fire alarm goes off if shit’s burning, although his curiosity regarding the lack of an alarm was superseded by the burning shit.
Okay, at least this is an easy fix. Ship’s power provides anywhere between 28 VDC and 75 VDC, which requires buck regulators to step down the voltage to power the mess hall subsystems. But, there is a manual cutoff—fortunately, it’s easily accessible (Per AN-1083, §12.4.1.3, manual cutoffs for all power supplies powering secondary subsystems must be readily accessible by authorized personnel and conform to §34.5.1.2 of AN-1011 PANELS AND EQUIPMENT INTERFACES), so I can just cut power to the mess subs.
Eric jogs over to the corner of the mess, keys in his 8 digit PIN, and disables power to the mess subs.
The insulation is still smoldering, but since the overtemperature condition in the circuit which caused the insulation (which, he now notices, was not regulation but a shitty repair. Probably Jack. Or Uladzimir?) to burn has ceased, the insulation cooled and –
Tschhhhhhhh!
Eric collapsed to the ground, his lungs filling with the foam from the extinguisher that Jacob was now bravely operating.
That fuck. That boring fuck.
Eric passed out, his last moments of consciousness lamenting the lack of air in his longs.
What a shit day for Eric.
Heather Twardowski hails from Houston, Texas and came to Corpus Christi to pursue both her B.A and M.A in English at Texas A&M University- Corpus Christi. While in the M.A. Program, she worked as an instructor for the university’s First-Year Writing Program where she showed students that everything they knew about writing was wrong. She has also traveled quite a bit, visiting places such as Scotland, France, and England.
Heather can be defined in three words: Writer, Dancer, and Cosplayer. A dedicated dancer, an avid writer, and a big anime fan, Heather brings her passion in whatever she does. The genres she is most interested in are dystopian, sci-fi, mystery, and supernatural. She is currently working on several projects, including her debut novel, Rebel Fire.
If you asked the young Will Powers where he thought his life would go, never would he imagine himself in an old, ritzy estate in the center of Scotland. Or himself incarcerated in an old, ritzy estate in the center of Scotland. Or himself incarcerated in an old, ritzy estate in the center of Scotland, forced to solve murder cases with an ex-art thief, an ex-Mob boss, an ex-terrorist, and ex-murderer.
Nope. He would not think that in the slightest.
As it begins, Will had a run-in with a bit of legal trouble back in his home of Stonehaven. Without going too much into detail this early in the story, Will had faced several accusations of causing a woman to disappear, as he possessed the slightly undesirable trait of sociopathy...
“The Town”
It’s funny how quickly things can change. You get so used to routine that it seems impossible to be anything different. That’s what I thought as I gazed out at what was left of the once-flourishing town which had bustled with merchants selling ripe fruits. Sensational smells of pumpkins and cranberries had filled the alleys and roads, weaving throughout the mahogany shops and stands. Children played their innocent games of tag until the sky blazed a brilliant red and orange…
…Now nothing even remotely recognizable stood from that quaint town.
Soot and ash littered the rocky soil, dyeing it a black that resembled the call of death. My eyes glanced over to the shambling splinter of the town hall that used to stand proudly in the center; a building that symbolized the power and strength of our struggle.
Symbol of strength?
No.
More like a mark of stubbornness that came crashing down because of its ego.
I counted the steps it took me to reach the outskirts of the former town. The crystalline river that once drifted peacefully and housed so much aquatic wildlife, now transformed into a wretched field of mud and decay. I remember marching down to the bank with my adventurous brother and sister to see how many of the rough-skinned critters we could capture. I remember our little dances that inevitably came about while we sloshed through the mud and grass, before the more klutzy member of our group unexpectedly stepped into a fish hole and graced us with a shower. My eyes lay on the spot where a branch used to reach out over the water that held our rope swing.
Spanish Jews fleeing the Inquisition arrived in New Spain as early as the 16th century, were founders and settlers of Monterrey and other settlements. They were the ancestors of many South Texas families. Herb Canales, a former Director od the Corpus Christi Library System, is researching this.history
My interest in family history placed itself within historical context to create a broad narrative when I was in high school. My mother one day commented that a lady at work would go to La Retama Library in Corpus Christi at lunch time to work on her family tree.
I found that fascinating and wanted to do the same. So, one summer day, with time on my hands, I boarded a bus at Louisiana Avenue and Alameda and headed down to the library. Arriving in the Local History room I located just one relevant book – “The Romance of Spanish Surnames,” by Charles Maduell. That was it. The rest of the genealogy collection consisted of works of Southern ancestry and English heritage. Understandably so, as the library depended largely on donations for its genealogical collection.
Also, as I would find out later, works on Hispanic genealogy were literally few and far between. The research and publishing boom had not begun, the Internet was decades away, and what little that had been published in Mexico was difficult to acquire.
The next point of inspiration was the series “Roots” which ran on the ABC television network in 1977. Who can forget LaVar Burton’s portrayal of Kunta Kinte? At the time the series ran, Alex Haley, author of the book upon which the series was based, but not without controversy, appeared on the Johnny Carson Show and presented Johnny with a genealogy of the Carson family which had been compiled by the LDS Library in Salt Lake City. Intriguing!
But still, it would be years before I would be able to advance research, one among others. That opportunity came in 1985 when Corpus Christi City Manager Ed Martin appointed me as director of the Corpus Christi Public Libraries. That was a critical time as a new library to replace La Retama Library was in the planning and construction stages and would open the following year.
To expand and create a Hispanic genealogy collection I enlisted the support of Dr. Clotilde P. Garcia, otherwise known as Dr. Cleo, sister of Dr. Hector P. Garcia who had recently been awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by Ronald Reagan. She provided financial support which helped acquire a growing body of work.
Dr. Cleo also funded the computerization of 18th and 19th century records from early border settlements, the culmination of a sort of Oregon Trail, but in this case from south in New Spain (Nueva España) to the frontier at or near the Rio Grande. This is where many South Texas Hispanic families originated.
From this research we learned of early land grants of vast acreage of as much as 8,000 acres in elongated strips north of the Rio Grande that our families were awarded by the King of Spain as early as the mid-18th century. They brought traditions with them as vaqueros that would later be adopted by the mega ranches of South Texas. This was history not taught to us in Texas history classes.
Since the time I began to build this collection so much has been published. What might have remained hidden history, i.e., the land grants representing the earliest land ownership in present day South Texas, received ample and official treatment in “New Guide to Spanish and Mexican Land Grants in South Grants,” published the Texas General Land Office under Commissioner Jerry Patterson. Thus far I have personally found five ancestors who owned lands as early as the 1760s in South Texas.
But history is not straightforward. It can be inspiring, fascinating, messy, horrific – sometimes all at once. Such is the case of the Sephardic Jews of the Iberian Peninsula. The word Sephardic is derived from the Hebrew word for Spain, Sepharad (and variations). In 1492 the Catholic Kings of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabel, chose to expel its Jews, who had arrived very early on following the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem by the Romans in the first century CE. They could remain if they converted and would be called conversos or New Christians. Portugal would be pressured to follow suit.
I am researching the arrival of these Jews in present day northeastern Mexico who were founders and settlers, but hiding their heritage, in the 16th century of Monterrey and other settlements – right next door to us in South Texas.
This story is, as I said earlier, fascinating.
Of what befell Luis de Carvajal y de la Cueva, a converso, and his sister’s family, Crypto-Jews, that is secret Jews, is indeed tragic. His story began with him as a rising star at court in Spain and would end with his death in prison, and with his sister’s family executed in Mexico City for relapsing to Judaism, or what the Spanish called, observing the Law of Moses.
Carvajal was born in Mogadouro, Portugal near the Spanish border around 1537 and was educated and partly reared in the home of an aristocrat in Spain. So thorough his education must have been that he learned to speak the Castilian of the upper classes such that he could function at court in Spain and later granted access to King Phillip II of Spain.
In 1579 the king appointed him governor of the newly established province of el Nuevo Reino de Leon, today, Nuevo Leon, with Monterrey as its modern capital.
This province included large areas of Texas and New Mexico as well as the modern Mexican states of Nuevo Leon, Tamaulipas and Coahuila. And because his post included Texas I submit that he should be considered the first governor of Texas.
It should be noted that Carvajal as a New Christian, would, under official policy, be forbidden to enter the new colonies in the Americas and would much less be given a high position. The concern of the crown and the church was that new converts could not be trusted not to return to their Jewish faith, settling in the hinterland, as they came to do. Only Old Christians were officially sanctioned.
But there was a pressing need to settle the northern reaches of New Spain, Christianize the natives and seize treasure. Carvajal convinced the king that he was the man to do it.
At the same time of the appointment the king authorized Carvajal to raise cattle. As many settlers would have some cattle for their personal needs this would seem to have been for the purposes of establishing a large operation, thus requiring the king’s signature and seal. Many cattle would over the centuries become free-roaming and be gathered by later settlers. Thus, the genesis of the cattle industry.
Also unusual was that in authorizing Carvajal to recruit 100 families to colonize the new province that no questions would be asked of them, such as their status as Christians, by Spanish officials. This can only mean that many who arrived in the Carvajal flotilla at Tampico, 300 miles south of present-day Brownsville, were either New Christians or still of the Jewish faith, officially barred.
Included among the colonists was his sister’s family.
By all accounts Carvajal carried out his assignment thoroughly. But as with many leaders he engendered envy and resentment even among officials. Some may even have suspected that he was a New Christian, again, forbidden in the Americas. But they could not pin anything on him. That he practiced the Catholic faith, at least outwardly, was unquestioned.
But that did not hold true for his sister’s family as the case unfolded. Francisca de Carvajal and her children Luis the younger, named for his uncle, Isabel, Leonor and Catalina were arrested in Mexico City on the charge of being Crypto-Jews, secretly practicing Judaism. They underwent years of trial, release following contrition, re-arrest as a result of new accusations, and were eventually executed in 1596. Years later, two other daughters, Mariana and Ana would be executed on the same charges.
Carvajal’s crime was that he did not report his sister to the Inquisition. He died in prison in 1591.
His heir, Luis the younger, has received attention recently. He kept a journal with religious thoughts and prayers. That provided the evidence needed to convict him. Decades ago, the journal disappeared from the Archivo General de la Nación in Mexico City. In 2017 it showed up at auction in New York. A collector of Judaica purchased it. Once realizing from experts what it was, he had it digitized by Princeton University where it can be downloaded free, and then had it repatriated to the Mexican archive.
This is one area of my research which will hopefully result in a book. I am studying other families and tracing Sephardic Jews from Spain and Portugal to New Spain, as well as their ancient story in Iberia. Suffice to say now that many South Texas families can trace their lineage to these Sephardic Jews, victims in Iberia and New Spain of religious intolerance of the worst kind.
I can trace my interest in this history to one individual who I met in graduate school at Columbia University in New York – Jackie Kamerow, now Ben-Efraim, a linguist and librarian at the American Jewish University in Los Angeles. She introduced me to Sephardic history of which I knew nothing about. As it turns out she was correct in that I, and I must say, many others, share this lineage.
EXCERPT
Spanish Jews fleeing the Inquisition arrived in New Spain as early as the 16thcentury, were founders and settlers of Monterrey and other settlements. They were the ancestors of many South Texas families. Deep research in family history will lead you there.
H. L Dowless is an international ESL instructor. He teaches in the US in multiple locations as well. He travels frequently and enjoys a wide variety of outdoor activities, from hiking, trapping, sailing, camping, and deep-sea fishing, to big game hunting. He also enjoys participating in archeological fieldwork of many varieties.
The rhythmic melody of the seductive sirens' whispering chant rode upon the midday wind; inviting, enticing, hexing, seizing hold of mortal mind, invading the very heart, and capturing the very soul. It was a low whisper, it was at first, then it increased in it's gradual volume, until the very curiosity aroused and one's resistance to it dulled just as gradually.
This rhythm continued in perpetuity; enticing, hexing, mesmerizing, and there was no escape into the secular world without. Indeed, no matter where the physical body raced to find solitude, there was none. Be it down the street, into the cellar, into the secluded closet, behind closed doors of one's fortress walls; behold, even into deep, most dark and dreary woods, there was no escape!The chanting rhythmic song sang on the very wind, breathed into the heaving lungs, enticing, motivating, employing the brain, the legs, the arms.., until there was no resistance.. Here, on this very page I shall declare, any desire to fight was literally vacuumed from the soul’s deepest pit!
The legs were then forced, compelled beyond imagination, to move into a forced direction with the same compulsion that a magnet bears when near the opposing end of another. Even in-spite of the very imagination desiring the body at a specific destination, the legs ambled forward as though going by their own free will, in absence of the mind. The hands may grasp and railings, the arms may wrap the light stands, but the allure grows with more intensity.., and the eyes inform the mind of this new direction.., in absence of any permission from the mind. Soon the mesmerizing song grows in volume and intensity until every sound the ears behold.., is of an eerie, haunting beckoning.
The eyes behold the sidewalk path that leads toward an ancient two story brick home, eerily speaking of wealth and glory somewhat faded. The feet then transport the body forward, to the direction in the song of the occultist siren. Slowly they enter into the threshold, now into the foyer, and the eyes behold the large extravagant, upward winding wooden staircase. The hands feel and grasp the railing as the feet slowly.., ever so gradually.., slink their way upward toward the rhythm of the haunting chant.., that spellbinding, rhythmic chant, pulling even at the very heart and soul. Slowly.., ever so gently.., they walk.., one foot in front of the other.., until they take that last step onto an ancient creaking heartwood floor of a spellbinding candle lit hallway.
Now the force of the song, the power of the melody, was so intense, so heavy, that any resistance was out of mind; no thoughts of such anywhere near. The eyes beheld a door ajar in the dreamy distance, and the ears could perceive this melodious song, that chanting, melodious rhythm, so vigorously pulling the limbs forward. The very heart raced with an intensity as though it desired to leap from it's very seat so firmly inside the breast. The mind energetically attempted to overpower the attraction of the song, the hands seized hold of the railing tugging the body backwards, now backwards toward the staircase; but the might of the song alwaysprevailed.., yes it always prevailed.., until the body found itself standing before the door.., yes, that very door!The heart raced with tremendous intensity, to the point that the breath heaved, causing the mind to feel as though it would only cease, and the body grow limp.
The sweating trembling hands gingerly nudged the door, and the door silently.., thankfully silently.., eased open, allowing the eyes to behold this specter of a conjuring nymph, as she whispered her enchanting song, riding forth upon the heavenly wind. She sat about in a long sable silky satin dress upon a large lace covered canopy adorned, feather bed mattress, gazing into a bronze hand held mirror, gently caressing a solid gold crucifix that she bore on a chain of emerald and gold, about her pallid neck. As she spoke into the mirror, she moved her hands about the crucifix in a caressing, loving stroke of compulsion.., as though she were speaking so lovingly unto an unseen presence.
The eyes then beheld a vapor, a somber mist, arising forth from the crucifix into the mirror, then moved forth from the mirror into the room surrounding. The mist, this haunting hideous mist.., then assumed the shape of an apparition, whose form the eyes soon beheld and the mind comprehended. The form..,this human form..,developing to the rhythm of the chanting, hexing, song of the nymph..; soon bore a chilling face, a face of intrepid evil, of wisdom but for the purpose of forever incarcerating those poor weeping souls of the damned.
The heart raced harder and faster, the hands dripped with ice cold sweat, then the mind and the legs desired a magnificent swift escape..; but now a strange curiosity compelled the body to simply stay put, for the eyes wished to observe, in order that the mind might give divine interpretation.
The apparition then slowly turned its dark head until its face met the concealed eyes at the door. Its face was of a horrid description, so dreadful that the eyes could not bear to see, and flowing tears welled up to conceal the face that stood before them. This baneful face had a mouth, a mouth that cracked into a smile, a smile that betrayed the fact it had forced the feeble body of an unfortunate mortal to propel the soul forward into its clutches. There was no escape, nowhere to hide, and now the body stood before that evil one, that nefarious mist of perdition, of Beelzebub and those legions of the damned.
The mouth parted, for those forces of evil had compelled the heart to love, to tumble deeply into a manipulating power of adoration standing beyond all mortal knowledge and comprehension.
“Madeline,” whispered the voice from within the breast, yea, that fearful trembling voice. But her ears heard not, and her mind made no response to acknowledgment of the body’s existence, as it stood so perplexingly patiently by the door. The mouth parted once again.
“Madeline!,” but still no response, only the chanting rhythm into the black stone mirror, a stone that was encased in solid brass. Her melodious chanting song still entices the soul into her somber entwine, as the carving mind beheld this vision of a greatly anticipated embrace.
“Madeline!,” whispered the voice from the lips and the heaving breast, even though the demon of enchantment still stood before the body, only to smile its smile of successful capture, its eternal clutch of mortal soul.
Still no response, no hint of knowledge that the nymph was aware of this body standing concealed behind the door. That befouled nymph, that hazed, damned, tainted, bewitching nymph; but the mind was innocent!.., innocent of any condemning judgment, emanating in the desire thrust upon it born from the might of the demon.., and the corroding lust of mortal flesh.
The lust of the flesh now blinded those mortal eyes, and the wisdom to discern that lay within the depths of the mind. The might of scorned desire now swelled within the breast.., the increased racing of the heart, the sweating of the hands, and the tainted sweat of the arms, staining and corrupting the silk shirt of the mortal body.
“Madeline!,” sharply whispered the parting lips on the wind, but now with more compulsion, more desire. She arose from the bedside, her body turning toward the one who stood behind the door; her eyes now meeting those eyes, her pale face and blood red lips smiled.., a beckoning smile of lucid compelling desire. Her breath blew her enchanted whisper into a stirring wind, having no discernible source.
“Christopher!.”
The spoken name seemed to echo throughout the contours of the home.
Her mind knew not nor cared not about the demon who once stood before her, nor did it recall her beckoning the forces of darkness. Her pallid hands rose toward her neck, as her feet seemed to glide toward the gently opening door. Softly, ever so softly, her glittering satin dress gently glided from her breasts, now gliding upon her hips, and finally onto the floor at her gentle feet. Her totally nude body eased it's way into the embrace of the mortal, who now stood breathlessly mesmerized in the opened doorway.
The door now closed by itself behind him, this mortal, and his lips hungrily embraced those lipstick adorned lips born by that wanton angel of the damned. His heart now knew no resistance, the lure of her poison was that of the luscious belladonna rose; the euphoria, the phantasm and thrill of the moment.., in spite of the demon's continuing presence! The eyes of the mortal gazed about, but the demon vaporized, and the mind sought to push the facts of what it so clearly beheld deep into the closet of deepest repression. This nymph, this befouled scorned angel of the damned, still yet singing her mesmerizing song, compelling his feet and his heart forward into her tainted embrace.
She spoke of love, behold, she spoke of commitment; she spoke only of her soul covenant with him, her forsaking of the past and all others with it! In the mind of the mortal he knew that simply by being in that very place, he was sealing his own fate, the fate of his future, the fate even of his parent's contentment and joy, that elderly joy of completion and fulfillment!; but he could not resist the euphoria.., that carnal ecstasy.., this tarnishing thrill he at times so deeply craved, and never totally satisfied. Not so much the thrill of disobeying any rules of the preordained, but the thrill of experience, the thrill of only living the mortal's life in a secular world, and simply making the best out of it.
Her house was a nest of impaired angelic bliss, of nymphs uninhibited, of those who were eternally damned, but dwelt inside the sacred bliss of total ignorance. That dreaded phantom, that angel of death, had seized up her father on the very day of her birth.., or at least the one who she was told had conspired to grant her birth.
Her mother knew no limitations, made no commitments, contenting herself in the trance of roborant herbs and fruitless pondering. She sold the entrancing herb of the ancients, and the pleasures of the flesh for a healthy farthing of gold, or necklace of precious pearl, ring of gem, or diamond decoration'. She bore no limitations, and so those of whom delighted in her company, were compelled to repeat the enchantment, that cheer filled tingle of a crying delight.
The crash of the clear sapphire beach, the cool rise of heavenly smokey hollows, the taste of the virgin agave, were all theirs simply by the asking; the sands of warm island shores.., all for the simple asking and with no limitations. Yes.., the demon was a skillful trapper!
All the while she whispered of love and eternal adoration, that befouled, wasted nymph from tarnished mansion glory. All around were mesmerized, hypnotized by the power of her spell. The glitter of her gold silenced any who knew the truth, and intimidated any of whom attempted to inquire.
By a flowing riverside we walked for hours, speaking of time well spent, of future plans. My mind attempted to chastise my heart and my poor soul, but my heart would never listen to the urgent warning; though the demon appeared right beside us, giving us his shadowy blessing. Though my eyes beheld it, but only to compel my mind to push it inside a repressed closet once again. When my eyes glanced up from our nebulous embrace, that wicked apparition only vanished once more again. His task was well done, our infinite fate was perfectly secured into his clutch!
In the holy temple she spoke of saintly acts, giving chastisement unto those of whom had so blatantly violated the sacred regulations of the preordained. Her lips spoke only of acts born in the name of kindness, in the sacred name of holiness, betraying no defilement in the company of secular men. Those among the holy delighted in her presence..,as she hugged the children.., as she spoke such kind words into the despairing ears of the diseased elderly, and those of whom humanity both ignored and despised.
Behold, she did give homage unto the holy cross, curtsying, bowing in humble sacrilege, kissing, caressing that most sacred of books, while singing hymns of praise unto the glorious one on high. In daylight among the mortals she did praise with ardor and solemn vigor, clutching that most holy of holy books with her right hand..; and with the drop of the sun, that dreaded demon of the damned in her left, who freely offered her his own instruction for her part to play in his diabolical stratagem.
Our walks facing the rising sun gave limitless delight as we strolled about near sand and sea, speaking of glory found in the past, and of our pleasure in ambition toward the future. We both had our plans, and our designs were to merge as one, each benefactor unto the other, giving encouragement when there was none to be found, offering new life to perishing aims, when it seemed there was no remaining hope.
As we lay face to face on those distant sands of our hearts delight, each gazing deeply into the other’s soul; with that spirit of discovered fortune seizing the lacy boundaries of her soul.., and that dreaded demon of misfortune and despair seizing mine. Oh, how sly he was indeed, so sly that I was to never know until the last.., that very last when all was lost to timeless perpetuity!
Oh, that angelic nymph, Madeline, thou enchanting fairy of my soul, thou grasping child of perceived innocence, thou trickster unto the masses untold. Though my mind is embroiled in a colossal struggle with my body, still I try with all my might! I cannot resist, I cannot win, my fortune is doomed to lay among those lost. Behold, there is only this fleeting moment! I hold it, and only it, in my perpetual cringing grasp. Let all the earth hear me as I speak these words of conviction forward into the wind. She is mine, oh Madeline, and I have her here.., right now!
On that blustery wind came glorious gifts from venerates untold. There was fine wine, splendid bourbon, silk, lace, and satin. My senses tingle from the spell of frankincense, myrrh, tincture of opiates, brass, and elegant necklace timepieces of pure halcyon. Unto Madeline, ye saint of the moonlight still, only to be betrayed by the light of the day. But of thee I love all still, in-spite of thy burgeoning taint.., in-spite of the demon by your bedside!, that demon of the damned who seeks to plunder my life and my soul, binding me into the raging fires for all future posterity. Behold, my dearest, Madeline; my mind knows thy secret plot, but my enchanted heart embraces ye still.., never to let go, not even by a pleading mother's beckoning call.
It was on the dreary twenty third of December, I so distinctly remember, that we made our way unto that decor-ant rose covered cathedral. The scene was immaculate, the blooms of holy springtime filled the majestic air with their life giving, luscious scents. The spell was cast, that bedeviled die now tossed; and my body, my dear heart and soul, knew no retreat, only my mind was left to yell. But my feet traveled anyway, my hand grasped her plush hand, graciously taking it unto my bosom, as we twain ambled down that timeless blessed aisle!
Soon we stood before the masses, facing the majestic elder, who gave us his honored dedication as we stood before the eternal spirit receiving his permission, anticipating that he will only touch us, as we speak the venerated vow. She donned the trailing white of cherished purity, she dared to don the coveted veil of chastity. She gazed forward into my very eyes, promising to honor her words for all eternity. She stood before the masses speaking her forlorn words of honor and total commitment; and they, standing as her enduring witnesses.
So I placed that golden ring upon her finger, that eternal endless bind, only to symbolize our commitment and the pledge of our hallowed, cherished oath. She was mine, eternally mine, and we sealed our pact with that fatal kiss, that kiss of immortal commitment, both in body, mind, and in soul.
We rode away into bliss, into sanctified euphoria, into the arms of each other, across the deep blue sea into hidden enchanted lands afar. We chose a chateau on a lone hillside by the sea as our abode, intending there to dwell in endless harmony.
The days gradually morphed into nights, and these new days into weeks and months, and soon our joys were multiplied by the happy cry of our newly born son. He was all of my joy and my pride rolled up tightly into a single unit; my true love, my eternal life, and hers alike. Yea, our joys were like none other to be told, there simply exists no true picture of this heart scene any mortal words may describe.
Oh Madeline.., it has now been seven long years, and where is your heart today? In the disgusting arms of the demon? Is it he, of whom has always held you in his sway? Oh my dearest Madeline, what about our time together, our travels, our many rambling adventures and our good times? What about those bad times secular life is so wrought with, when we stood by each other to give strength and counsel when they came our way? What about our son, our glorious son, who bears a head of flowing gold and the wisdom of the gods?
Hark ye, now., my mind knows of thy covert lusts, yearned for in the dreary solitude of the twelfth striking. I beheld thy treasured gifts., the gold watch, the satin clothes, and the host of Teddy bears! Though my heart and mind refuse my eyes, my mind still yet beholds the truth. Oh Madeline!, must you sell yourself to the wealthy.., no? No you did not! Your betrayal was in the very worst of ways. I know the filthy beggar. I beheld his repulsive raven arms in your embrace! May all the demons of perdition forever enchain him into the bowls of an endless furnace. You never knew I was there, did you? Oh Madeline, you not only betrayed my faith, but what about the faith of our son? Did you not ever consider him?
My hands opened the sacred book and my eyes beheld the honored instruction, my mind then knew what it must do. My feet walked up, my face now beaming with its smooth emotionless smile. My hands then seized her by her sallow throat without warning, from some unknown avenue sprang that cherished blade.., that ever so thin a cherished blade! My eyes never beheld the act, but my knicker bared legs felt the steamy heat of her oozing blood as it ran down my right thigh, only to puddle upon the ice cold stone floor beneath my bare feet.
Oh my Madeline, what has thou now done? You have forced me to act in honored vengeance, to restore the sacred virtue of family and name, and that of our dear son as well. These walls have witnessed the act, behold, and the spirits bear our horrible secret to tell. Oh Madeline, the choice that you left me was to forgo it; and unto my melancholy mortal despair, the truth you'll never tell.
As the midnight sky streaked with sapphire fire, a distant thunder rolls and I laboriously pull her corpse into the nearby wood, into that most secret of brush enshrouded clearings. I proceeded to slice the flesh from the bone, then the bone from the ligaments. I completed the dreadful act in some thirty minutes or maybe even less. Soon as this disturbing deed was completed, those grunting feral pigs came-a-running, hungrily ravishing all of the bloody flesh and the bone. Soon, not even the earth itself bore no trace. I smiled to myself in praise at my tack and skill. I have effectively done what I knew I had to do.
But the dismal months passed., and I hold not Madeline, no, not in honor nor disgrace. Oh Madeline, what hast thou now done, to go from here forever into infinite dishonor and disgrace? How could you cause such pain to our dear son? Did you not even consider how this might affect him? I now damn you into eternal flame and degradation. Be consumed by your dark sins forever more!
Then they came for me, a group of nine emerging from the gloomy mist of dawn. My ears beheld their heavy knocks. My heart raced when they eventually rammed in my solid oaken door. They have found me, I know not how. Did the pigs tell? Did some slight speck of blood on the forest floor? Did the spirits who witnessed the crime?
My weeping eyes beheld the blue of their dress. My wrists felt the clasping bite of their cuffs, and they snatched me away into that swirling somber mist, casting my quivering body upon the cold stone floor of my dungeon tomb, as an infernal wind howled and a distant, macabre thunder rolled.
So today I stand tall here on a towering scaffold of new oak on the courthouse lawn, awaiting my turn at the fall, as a sacrificial hex is chanted by fiendish elves to usher my wretched, quivering ghost forward into a merciless rushing zephyr. As they place my head into that scratching, itching loop of hemp, my eyes behold that wicked demon who had engineered this diabolical scheme, and my ears perceive his heavy roaring laugh immediately before I plunge into a bottomless void. Oh Madeline.., what hast thou now done.., only to damn mortal flesh into the dust of the earth, and the eternal soul from heaven's radiant sun!
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