“Jackpot!”
Evelyn Turner had just found a half eaten hamburger hiding under a piece of junk mail in a city trash can. She didn’t care that it had a bit of fuzzy green mold growing on the bun. She picked it off and took a huge bite. “Mmm…still warm,” she whispered to herself as she closed her eyes and pretended it was a giant turkey leg she picked off the platter of a Thankgiving dinner table.
“Garbage Picker!”
“Bum!”
“Yeah, you stink,” mocked several boys standing at a nearby bus stop.
Evelyn knew these boys, most days she avoided them. They were always causing trouble in the town, but no one could ever catch them in the act and they knew it.
“Do it, Lukas,” yelled the oldest boy in the gang to a small boy hunched over on the bus shelter’s bench. “Do it now!”
Lukas, the small boy, just stopped and stared at Evelyn.
“Hey, Dufus Lukas, you better do it or else!”
Hesitantly, Lukas stood up and nervously reached into a plastic grocery bag that was given to him by one of the other boys. He pulled out a rotted and stringy ball of pumpkin pulp from a gutted Halloween jack-o-lantern.
“Chuck it at her!” Peter the oldest boy said
“I don’t want to Peter. I can’t,” pleaded Lukas.
Angrily, Peter grabbed some of the disgusting mess and forcefully hurled it at Evelyn. She ducked, but some seeds and a bit of the fleshy insides caught her left arm as she used it to defend herself.
Then, Peter took the rest of the pumpkin’s entrails from Lukas’ shaky hand and smashed it in his face. “I told you to do what I said or else.” Then he knocked him backwards and Lukas smacked his head on the corner of the metal grate bench. The boys laughed at what happened and ferociously looted Lukas’ back pack.
“What a baby, he has a set of colored pencils and some weird drawings in here. You like coloring pictures baby boy?”
They snapped each of the pencils in half and threw them down a nearby sewer grid. They pocketed his mp3 player, his cell phone and ripped all the pages out of his sketchbook. Evelyn watched as the awful scene unfolded.
“What are you looking at tramp?” A boy grinded his fist in his other hand threatening Evelyn with the same fate.
Dark alleys and unlit street corners were their usual stomping grounds, but this gang’s violence had now escalated to broad daylight. Peter the older boy had been to juvie hall four times. He was nineteen and still attending high school. Because of this, he always blamed those long absences on having bouts of rheumatic fever, which he knew nothing about except what he looked up on the excuses-ipedia website.
Just then, the bus approached the shelter and the boys loaded it swiftly. One of them flipped off Evelyn though the back window as she stared in disbelief.
After the bus was out of sight Evelyn reluctantly walked over to the booth. The boy was crawling out from under bench holding his head. Evelyn pulled an old rag from her coat pocket and gave it to him.
“They’re gone. Are you ok?”
“Yeah, I think so,” mumbled Lukas.
“Well, we finally caught ‘em,” Evelyn said excitedly.
Lukas pressed the rag to his cut and gave a wince in pain. “What are you talking about?”
“Its daylight….those boys didn’t know, but this bus stop has a security camera.”
Friday, November 12, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The Wishing Stone
A flicker of firelight emanated from the cabin window onto the lake. It was getting darker outside.
“Hey short-shit, mom says dinners ready,” her brother Charlie yelled from the partially opened screen door. Then he slammed it shut against the house with a sharp crack from its wooden frame.
Crouched down, Terry looked skyward and talked softly to herself.
“I wish….,” she closed her eyes tight. “You were here.” A small ripple expanded out onto the glass surface of the lake where Terry kissed the stone and placed it in the water. This stone was the last her father had touched and she kept it with her for three years.
Every Saturday evening she sat here with her father while he fished. He’d pick up a stone from the shore; Terry kissed it, made a wish for good fishing and gently placed it in the lake. The wishing stone was a special tradition between them.
Terry whispered aloud again, “Mom’s good. Charlie still picks on me. I made it through the sixth grade.”
With a sound from the woods, Terry turned and her foot slid into the soft mud that lined the edge of the lake.
“Need some help?”
It was the first time she noticed the man standing there.
“No, thank you. I…,” she stuttered. “I need to get home.”
She reached into the thick mud and retrieved her shoe.
“You know, I come here every Saturday evening. It’s the best time for fishing. The cool air makes the fish swim to the top. They’ll bite on almost anything,” said the stranger.
“Yeah, my dad used to tell me that… I have to go.” Terry slipped on her muck covered shoe and ran swiftly back to the cabin.
The next evening Terry sat in her bedroom thinking about the mysterious man she met the evening before. She needed to see him again. After dinner, she jumped from her bedroom window and snuck down to the lakeside.
“Are you there, Mister?” She whispered into the woods.
After several minutes, Terry felt a breeze brush against her arm.
“Hi there little Tee-Tee,” the stranger appeared leaning against the same tree.
“Only my dad called me that and he’s gone.”
“What happened to him?” The man hit his cigarette.
“He died three years ago.” Terry was reluctant but after a few seconds, she spoke again.
“We saw him from shore. He stood up in the boat, probably to reach his smokes that he kept in the tackle box. The boat turned far to the right side. We knew he was in trouble because he started bailing water with his metal minnow bucket,” Terry stared at the bucket at the man’s feet. “Within three minutes the boat and dad were gone. Charlie, my brother, jumped in and swam to the place where we last saw him. He dove down several times but the water was too cloudy. When the police divers came they found him still in the boat. His foot wedged underneath the front bench and caught on some rope. They pulled him from the water. Right about where… you’re… standing...,” Terry paused and looked closer at the man. He was fully dressed and she could see he was sopping wet from head to toe. She stepped forward and his now translucent figure started to fade in the twilight.
Terry gasped.
“Tee-Tee, I told you wishing stones are real. You wished I was here. Now, take care of Mom and Charlie for me. I have to go. I love you always.” He faded completely now.
“Love you too, daddy,” she whispered into the blackness of the woods.
“Hey short-shit, mom says dinners ready,” her brother Charlie yelled from the partially opened screen door. Then he slammed it shut against the house with a sharp crack from its wooden frame.
Crouched down, Terry looked skyward and talked softly to herself.
“I wish….,” she closed her eyes tight. “You were here.” A small ripple expanded out onto the glass surface of the lake where Terry kissed the stone and placed it in the water. This stone was the last her father had touched and she kept it with her for three years.
Every Saturday evening she sat here with her father while he fished. He’d pick up a stone from the shore; Terry kissed it, made a wish for good fishing and gently placed it in the lake. The wishing stone was a special tradition between them.
Terry whispered aloud again, “Mom’s good. Charlie still picks on me. I made it through the sixth grade.”
With a sound from the woods, Terry turned and her foot slid into the soft mud that lined the edge of the lake.
“Need some help?”
It was the first time she noticed the man standing there.
“No, thank you. I…,” she stuttered. “I need to get home.”
She reached into the thick mud and retrieved her shoe.
“You know, I come here every Saturday evening. It’s the best time for fishing. The cool air makes the fish swim to the top. They’ll bite on almost anything,” said the stranger.
“Yeah, my dad used to tell me that… I have to go.” Terry slipped on her muck covered shoe and ran swiftly back to the cabin.
The next evening Terry sat in her bedroom thinking about the mysterious man she met the evening before. She needed to see him again. After dinner, she jumped from her bedroom window and snuck down to the lakeside.
“Are you there, Mister?” She whispered into the woods.
After several minutes, Terry felt a breeze brush against her arm.
“Hi there little Tee-Tee,” the stranger appeared leaning against the same tree.
“Only my dad called me that and he’s gone.”
“What happened to him?” The man hit his cigarette.
“He died three years ago.” Terry was reluctant but after a few seconds, she spoke again.
“We saw him from shore. He stood up in the boat, probably to reach his smokes that he kept in the tackle box. The boat turned far to the right side. We knew he was in trouble because he started bailing water with his metal minnow bucket,” Terry stared at the bucket at the man’s feet. “Within three minutes the boat and dad were gone. Charlie, my brother, jumped in and swam to the place where we last saw him. He dove down several times but the water was too cloudy. When the police divers came they found him still in the boat. His foot wedged underneath the front bench and caught on some rope. They pulled him from the water. Right about where… you’re… standing...,” Terry paused and looked closer at the man. He was fully dressed and she could see he was sopping wet from head to toe. She stepped forward and his now translucent figure started to fade in the twilight.
Terry gasped.
“Tee-Tee, I told you wishing stones are real. You wished I was here. Now, take care of Mom and Charlie for me. I have to go. I love you always.” He faded completely now.
“Love you too, daddy,” she whispered into the blackness of the woods.
The Tribune Democrat Chapter 2 Submission
“Excuse me Miss…is he in?”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” The secretary asked with solemn uniformity in her voice.
“Um…no,” he muttered apprehensively.
“He does not see anyone without an appointment,” she answered then began typing briskly on her laptop.
“He will want to see me. It is of the utmost importance that we speak. My name is Mr. Nicodemus…Jeremiah Nicodemus.”
“Well, have a seat please. I can check if he is possibly available,” she retorted annoyingly.
Jeremiah sat in a chair that lined the wall of the stark and barren waiting room. Even the secretary’s desk had an achromatic finish. It bore only a laptop computer and small white box which held a cord that stretched from its side to her headset. The floor and walls were bathed in alabaster tile. Jeremiah felt more like a vagabond then an accomplished attorney compared to his aseptic surroundings.
The secretary tapped the white box and spoke austerely into her headset.
“Excuse me sir. Sorry to bother you, there is a Mr. Nicodemus here to see you.” She paused and spoke again, “Ok, sir…right away sir.” She tapped the small box again.
“He will see you now.”
Jeremiah swiftly walked toward the ominous office door. He entered the room which was a complete contrast to the waiting area where he had just been. It was if he entered another world, one of great opulence. The walls enveloped the room with mahogany paneling that flowed from floor to ceiling. The faint smell of cedar, earth and cocoa lingered in the atmosphere of the space. Jeremiah hesitantly strode forward to the enormous desk at the end of room. A small man clad in an expensive pinned-striped suit waited expressionless as Jeremiah ogled at his surroundings. The man ignited his butane lighter and warmed a large snifter laden with brandy.
“Well, did she sign?”
Jeremiah didn’t response. He had fix aided on a gilded cage in the corner of the room that housed several different species of birds.
“Did….she…..sign, Mr. Nicodemus?” The man asked again, this time with much less patience.
“Yes, but it took some convincing.”
The small man at the desk grinned and leaned back in his throne-like chair.
“Good,” he whispered to himself then took a puff of his cigar and a sip from his brandy glass.
“So anyway,” Jeremiah plopped down in the closest chair, “what’s so special about Rose Hill and this Sherri Travers-McMinn lady? From what I saw it’s just an old farm with some junk and ten acres of dead weeds. And what if they check into The Great Aunt Penelope?” Jeremiah made a set of quotes with his fingers when he said Penelope’s name.
“MR. NICODEMUS,” yelled the man brutishly which made Jeremiah sit up at attention. “It is not your place to ask these questions. The Rose Hill Estate must remain in the Travers’ family it is the only way our secrets can be protected. If you do not recall we have a binding and sacred agreement regarding this matter.”
The man opened the top drawer of the desk and retrieved a large scroll of parchment.
“You must remember the signing of this contract.” He unfurled the page of aged vellum and the words, Frater in Fortius Quo Fidelius, appeared at the top in fiery crimson and brilliant gold.
“Is this not your signature at the bottom of our scared laws, Brother Jeremiah?” He pointed to the small shaky handwriting at the bottom of the document.
Jeremiah began to shift nervously in his chair as he answered, “Yes, sir.”
“We welcomed you into our circle. You must not make us regret that decision. We will be watching you. Well then… there is just one more item that we must address. It officially seals our deal and the ancient secrets of our brotherhood.”
The man reached into the drawer again and emerged wielding an ornately decorated dagger.
“Give me your hand.”
Jeremiah froze in horror then warily lifted his right hand and placed it over the parchment. In one swift motion the man sliced through Jeremiah’s right palm and let the warm liquid flow onto the paper sealing their secrets of Rose Hill with his blood.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” The secretary asked with solemn uniformity in her voice.
“Um…no,” he muttered apprehensively.
“He does not see anyone without an appointment,” she answered then began typing briskly on her laptop.
“He will want to see me. It is of the utmost importance that we speak. My name is Mr. Nicodemus…Jeremiah Nicodemus.”
“Well, have a seat please. I can check if he is possibly available,” she retorted annoyingly.
Jeremiah sat in a chair that lined the wall of the stark and barren waiting room. Even the secretary’s desk had an achromatic finish. It bore only a laptop computer and small white box which held a cord that stretched from its side to her headset. The floor and walls were bathed in alabaster tile. Jeremiah felt more like a vagabond then an accomplished attorney compared to his aseptic surroundings.
The secretary tapped the white box and spoke austerely into her headset.
“Excuse me sir. Sorry to bother you, there is a Mr. Nicodemus here to see you.” She paused and spoke again, “Ok, sir…right away sir.” She tapped the small box again.
“He will see you now.”
Jeremiah swiftly walked toward the ominous office door. He entered the room which was a complete contrast to the waiting area where he had just been. It was if he entered another world, one of great opulence. The walls enveloped the room with mahogany paneling that flowed from floor to ceiling. The faint smell of cedar, earth and cocoa lingered in the atmosphere of the space. Jeremiah hesitantly strode forward to the enormous desk at the end of room. A small man clad in an expensive pinned-striped suit waited expressionless as Jeremiah ogled at his surroundings. The man ignited his butane lighter and warmed a large snifter laden with brandy.
“Well, did she sign?”
Jeremiah didn’t response. He had fix aided on a gilded cage in the corner of the room that housed several different species of birds.
“Did….she…..sign, Mr. Nicodemus?” The man asked again, this time with much less patience.
“Yes, but it took some convincing.”
The small man at the desk grinned and leaned back in his throne-like chair.
“Good,” he whispered to himself then took a puff of his cigar and a sip from his brandy glass.
“So anyway,” Jeremiah plopped down in the closest chair, “what’s so special about Rose Hill and this Sherri Travers-McMinn lady? From what I saw it’s just an old farm with some junk and ten acres of dead weeds. And what if they check into The Great Aunt Penelope?” Jeremiah made a set of quotes with his fingers when he said Penelope’s name.
“MR. NICODEMUS,” yelled the man brutishly which made Jeremiah sit up at attention. “It is not your place to ask these questions. The Rose Hill Estate must remain in the Travers’ family it is the only way our secrets can be protected. If you do not recall we have a binding and sacred agreement regarding this matter.”
The man opened the top drawer of the desk and retrieved a large scroll of parchment.
“You must remember the signing of this contract.” He unfurled the page of aged vellum and the words, Frater in Fortius Quo Fidelius, appeared at the top in fiery crimson and brilliant gold.
“Is this not your signature at the bottom of our scared laws, Brother Jeremiah?” He pointed to the small shaky handwriting at the bottom of the document.
Jeremiah began to shift nervously in his chair as he answered, “Yes, sir.”
“We welcomed you into our circle. You must not make us regret that decision. We will be watching you. Well then… there is just one more item that we must address. It officially seals our deal and the ancient secrets of our brotherhood.”
The man reached into the drawer again and emerged wielding an ornately decorated dagger.
“Give me your hand.”
Jeremiah froze in horror then warily lifted his right hand and placed it over the parchment. In one swift motion the man sliced through Jeremiah’s right palm and let the warm liquid flow onto the paper sealing their secrets of Rose Hill with his blood.
The Meeting
“Is it hot in here for October?”
The man fanned himself with several papers that jetted out from all sides of the podium. Seconds later, a loud screech came from a push-latch on a nearby fire door. A gust of warm wind entered the opening and sent his papers blowing off the stand onto the smooth floor of the church hall.
“Oh crap..,” he said nervously.
He gathered the papers and grabbed a nearby Thesaurus from the Sunday CCD class bookshelf to hold them down.
He took a deep breath.
“Hi everyone, my name is Charlie…..I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi Charlie,” said the group sitting in a closed circle on brown metal folding chairs.
“Eye…arly,” mumbled Evelyn, the local homeless woman who just finished shoving several bites of a powdered donut in her mouth which spewed onto the floor like a miniature snowfall.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” she said as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Several members glared at her with disgust as she squirreled away another donut down the front of her bra.
“What?!” She glared back. “I’m saving it for later.”
Charlie let out a small laugh and continued.
“Well everybody, today is my three hundred and sixty fifth day of sobriety.”
The group gave a round of applause which died down shortly in anticipation of hearing his story.
“Aww..shit!” It was Evelyn again shouting from the back of the church hall. She had left the spigot of the coffee pot open and it poured down the church’s white linen table cloth embellished with a dove holding an olive branch in its beak.
“Father’s not gonna like that,” she said unusually loud, again dawning the attention of the entire group. Annoyed, Charlie gave Evelyn a fixed stare and tried to start again.
“Anyway, my first AA meeting was actually three years ago. I was drunk, of course, and a friend dragged me here; literally. My wife Laura left and took my little girl just a week before. I didn’t even remember what happened in those seven days in between. She tried everything to get me to quit. Once she partly emptied my fifth of whiskey and filled it with cider vinegar. Not knowing, I drank it down so fast I never even tasted it. I threw up for two days straight and still couldn’t stop the madness. It was at that first meeting an old timer came up to me and asked if I knew what it meant to ‘Give it to God.’ I said rather sarcastically, ‘hell yea, I give it to God every chance I get!’ ‘God darn it, where’s that effen bottle? I know I had it stashed here somewhere!’ ‘So help me God, if I don’t get a drink soon I’m gonna go effen crazy!’ Then I laughed in his face. I didn’t know then, but that man and my Higher Power would save my life.”
Charlie looked his sponsor.
“Thank you, this one year chip is because of you….and him.” He pointed skyward and paused a moment.
Evelyn, who finally settled down was playing with a stinkbug that was crawling up her ring finger. At that pause, she stood up and started clapping loudly sending the bug flying to a nearby light which made an awful tink sound as its tiny coat of armor hit the fluorescent bulb.
“Oh sorry, thought you were done.” She plopped back down in her seat.
“It’s alright Evelyn, I just want to end by saying to everyone,” he held up his one year chip, “I’m living proof that if you ‘Give your problems to God’, he does give back in blessings. Thank you for listening. ”
The man fanned himself with several papers that jetted out from all sides of the podium. Seconds later, a loud screech came from a push-latch on a nearby fire door. A gust of warm wind entered the opening and sent his papers blowing off the stand onto the smooth floor of the church hall.
“Oh crap..,” he said nervously.
He gathered the papers and grabbed a nearby Thesaurus from the Sunday CCD class bookshelf to hold them down.
He took a deep breath.
“Hi everyone, my name is Charlie…..I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi Charlie,” said the group sitting in a closed circle on brown metal folding chairs.
“Eye…arly,” mumbled Evelyn, the local homeless woman who just finished shoving several bites of a powdered donut in her mouth which spewed onto the floor like a miniature snowfall.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” she said as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Several members glared at her with disgust as she squirreled away another donut down the front of her bra.
“What?!” She glared back. “I’m saving it for later.”
Charlie let out a small laugh and continued.
“Well everybody, today is my three hundred and sixty fifth day of sobriety.”
The group gave a round of applause which died down shortly in anticipation of hearing his story.
“Aww..shit!” It was Evelyn again shouting from the back of the church hall. She had left the spigot of the coffee pot open and it poured down the church’s white linen table cloth embellished with a dove holding an olive branch in its beak.
“Father’s not gonna like that,” she said unusually loud, again dawning the attention of the entire group. Annoyed, Charlie gave Evelyn a fixed stare and tried to start again.
“Anyway, my first AA meeting was actually three years ago. I was drunk, of course, and a friend dragged me here; literally. My wife Laura left and took my little girl just a week before. I didn’t even remember what happened in those seven days in between. She tried everything to get me to quit. Once she partly emptied my fifth of whiskey and filled it with cider vinegar. Not knowing, I drank it down so fast I never even tasted it. I threw up for two days straight and still couldn’t stop the madness. It was at that first meeting an old timer came up to me and asked if I knew what it meant to ‘Give it to God.’ I said rather sarcastically, ‘hell yea, I give it to God every chance I get!’ ‘God darn it, where’s that effen bottle? I know I had it stashed here somewhere!’ ‘So help me God, if I don’t get a drink soon I’m gonna go effen crazy!’ Then I laughed in his face. I didn’t know then, but that man and my Higher Power would save my life.”
Charlie looked his sponsor.
“Thank you, this one year chip is because of you….and him.” He pointed skyward and paused a moment.
Evelyn, who finally settled down was playing with a stinkbug that was crawling up her ring finger. At that pause, she stood up and started clapping loudly sending the bug flying to a nearby light which made an awful tink sound as its tiny coat of armor hit the fluorescent bulb.
“Oh sorry, thought you were done.” She plopped back down in her seat.
“It’s alright Evelyn, I just want to end by saying to everyone,” he held up his one year chip, “I’m living proof that if you ‘Give your problems to God’, he does give back in blessings. Thank you for listening. ”
The Craftsmen of Crafton
It was one of the most poignant days of my husband’s life when he packed the last of his grandfather’s ten foot long tool bench. Over three thousand pieces, each with its own place on twenty-six specially cut wooden shelves and a handcrafted tool board that stretch the length of the cinder block wall. His grandfather, Harold Burrows or Hally as he liked to be called, was the last in a line of home builders that made Crafton, PA the quaint friendly town it is today. The Burrows family spent much of their lives giving to their much loved community. They were home builders, firemen, veterans and devoted church members at The Crafton Untied Presbyterian Church.
My husband’s great grandfather, David Burrows Sr., emigrated from County Down in Ireland where he worked in the booming shipyards of Belfast. He honed his craft as a master carpenter on the elegant ships that sailed the Atlantic during the turn of the century. David Sr. came to America in 1906 sponsored by his future contracting partner William John Stouppe who emigrated four years earlier. Together they formed Stouppe and Burrows- Building Contractors in 1910 on Noble Avenue in Crafton. They remained business partners until 1935 when Mr. Stouppe left the business to work at H.J. Heinz Company. It was in that year that David Sr. started the family business.
David Burrows Sr. and Sons Builders consisted of my husband’s great uncle David Jr. and his grandfather Hally. Two years later David Jr. left the business. The name was changed again to David Sr. and Harold Burrows Building Contractors until 1942 when David Sr. decided to retire. Soon after Hally was called to serve in the United States Army Air Corps as an airplane mechanic in WWII. As a family they built some of the most well constructed homes that line the streets of the town today.
In 1947, upon returning from the war, Hally and his brother Jack, an independent electrician, built several more homes in the area. But, it was Hally’s house on Bell Avenue that was his pride and joy. The Bell Avenue house is a beautifully constructed Cape Cod with an arched oak front door. It was a gift to his new wife and baby son in 1949. Hally also worked as a finishing carpenter for the University of Pittsburgh in Oakland, and several other schools and businesses throughout the area. Hally remained in his home until his death at age 99 in June of last year.
Now, as the house changes ownership and we watch the auctioneers hastily remove its last contents, we take comfort in the thought that they can never take away the home that he built.
These Crafton homes are my husband’s family legacy. So if you ever have a chance to drive on the avenues of Bell, McMunn, Noble, Willard, Craftmont, Barr, Lyons Street or Baldwick Road, to name just a few, chances are you will see one of the homes built by our family, the Craftsmen of Crafton.
My husband’s great grandfather, David Burrows Sr., emigrated from County Down in Ireland where he worked in the booming shipyards of Belfast. He honed his craft as a master carpenter on the elegant ships that sailed the Atlantic during the turn of the century. David Sr. came to America in 1906 sponsored by his future contracting partner William John Stouppe who emigrated four years earlier. Together they formed Stouppe and Burrows- Building Contractors in 1910 on Noble Avenue in Crafton. They remained business partners until 1935 when Mr. Stouppe left the business to work at H.J. Heinz Company. It was in that year that David Sr. started the family business.
David Burrows Sr. and Sons Builders consisted of my husband’s great uncle David Jr. and his grandfather Hally. Two years later David Jr. left the business. The name was changed again to David Sr. and Harold Burrows Building Contractors until 1942 when David Sr. decided to retire. Soon after Hally was called to serve in the United States Army Air Corps as an airplane mechanic in WWII. As a family they built some of the most well constructed homes that line the streets of the town today.
In 1947, upon returning from the war, Hally and his brother Jack, an independent electrician, built several more homes in the area. But, it was Hally’s house on Bell Avenue that was his pride and joy. The Bell Avenue house is a beautifully constructed Cape Cod with an arched oak front door. It was a gift to his new wife and baby son in 1949. Hally also worked as a finishing carpenter for the University of Pittsburgh in Oakland, and several other schools and businesses throughout the area. Hally remained in his home until his death at age 99 in June of last year.
Now, as the house changes ownership and we watch the auctioneers hastily remove its last contents, we take comfort in the thought that they can never take away the home that he built.
These Crafton homes are my husband’s family legacy. So if you ever have a chance to drive on the avenues of Bell, McMunn, Noble, Willard, Craftmont, Barr, Lyons Street or Baldwick Road, to name just a few, chances are you will see one of the homes built by our family, the Craftsmen of Crafton.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Sparrow's 'Wing'
The enormous spotlights that illuminated the tranquil
“Are they gone yet?” His eyes glanced left to right and back again.
“I think so.” Only the corner of her well carved alabaster lips moved. “Ah…chew! Ah…chew!” She bent forward clenching her nose and mouth.
“Bless you my dear.” He said still standing motionless.
“Oh, this darn rhododendron always makes me sneeze.” She furiously brushed away the thick branch, tipped with a round puff of pink blossoms, from her nose.
“I think the coast is clear.” He jumped down from his chiseled soapstone plinth. “Let me help you, my love.” He extended his right hand toward her, still clutching his anvil in his left and helped her down from her scallop shell.
“Hermes, it’s time! Wake up!” Hephaestus yelled across the immaculately manicured lawn.
Hermes woke suddenly as the sprinkler system engaged and sprayed a chilled mist on his patina. He made a loud screeching sound when he moved his bronze silhouette.
“Geez, Hephaestus you don’t have to yell. I know what time it is. They have me practically welded to a sundial for goodness sake.”
“The sun isn’t shining, genius,” said Hephaestus in cynical tone.
“Oh, yeah,” Hermes chuckled and turned to Aphrodite. “Mmm…mmm…mmm, girl you’re lookin’ good tonight.”
She would have blushed if she could. She smiled instead.
“Watch it, Hermes,” he snarled. His face nearly cracked as he distorted it in anger. “That’s my wife you’re talking too.”
“What did you expect marrying the goddess of love and beauty? You should have married Medusa then no one would ever be looking at your wife.” Hermes smirked then spoke again. “She would have turned you to stone if you ever made her mad though.”
“We’re already stone, Einstein,” he said facetiously.
Hermes stretched his arms and shook out his legs like a sprinter getting ready for a 25K race.
“Well, time for a long night of work. See you at the wing, beautiful.” He winked at Aphrodite then turned to Hephaestus, “Later sucker!” He soared out of sight leaving only a golden beam of flaming bronze and the outline of his winged sandals lingering behind him in the darkness.
“The wing, what wing?” She asked. He deliberately didn’t answer her.
“Gosh, I hate that guy. He’s always ogling you and flirting.”
“Oh honey, don’t let him get to you. He has a hard job waking everyone with the swish of his cheesy, little magic wand. This park has over 7,000 acres,” Aphrodite said gently petting the tiny marble dove perched on her shoulder.
“He is a messenger god, that’s his job. He was built for speed and still he complains,” remarked Hephaestus.
“Let’s go to Myrtle Grove. You know it’s my favorite place,” she said.
“We will, I promise, but first we have somewhere to be. After you my dear,” he bowed and waved his hand in a romantic gesture.
They walked hand in exquisitely sculpted hand for several minutes.
“Where are we going?” Aphrodite asked. “I haven’t been to this part of the grounds before.”
“They are still working on it.”
Flowers and small plants were splayed along the edge of the red brick walkway. Freshly dug holes showed their future resting places. As they rounded the tall trees of The Myrtle Grove, Hephaestus lifted the bright orange fence closing in the newly constructed area.
“What is this place?” She asked.
Suddenly, her eyes stared in amazement as fuchsia, azure, emerald and violet lights shimmered up into the atmosphere. The source of the radiance was coming from the pink granite statue of Hyperion, Titan god of light. He was standing in a large circular pond surrounded by every statuette that inhabited the gardens.
“It’s a new installation,” Hephaestus said pulling Aphrodite closer to the crowd.
“Glad to see you made it,” said the goddess Isis as she turned and approached Aphrodite handing her a luscious bouquet of white lilies.
“Ouch! Watch where you’re going with those wings
“Don’t mind him,” whispered
“Wine here, get your wine here!” Dionysus yelled as he poured the jade Ganesh a goblet from the infinite supply of his decanter. “It helps to be the god of wine. I make a fortune at these events.”
“Honey,” Hephaestus turned to Aphrodite. “Welcome to our new home, The Sparrow’s Wing!” The crowd cheered. She stared closer at the pond. Two gilded golden platforms were flanked by thirty-four glimmering Kordofanian sparrows and eight winged cherubim each spouting water from the center of the pond.
“That one looks like its peeing!” Hermes yelled from somewhere in the crowd.
The night sky was slowly turning lighter now. A ram’s horn blew in the distance. It was the signal that the first employees of the day had entered the front gate.
“Go everyone, now!” Hyperion announced in a deep piercing voice. “Get back to your stations.” Everyone scattered back to their nooks hidden in the maze of the gardens.
Hephaestus and Aphrodite climbed onto their newly built plinths and then froze back to solid stone just as the first landscape gardeners entered the area.
“Glad you guys moved these sculptures yesterday on my day off. They have to be two thousand pounds each,” said the gardener.
“We didn’t. The crane isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.”
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
The Midnight Garden
The enormous spotlights that illuminated the tranquil Huntington Gardens and its one hundred and six over-sized sculptures shut down acre by rolling acre. The waning crescent moon and the starry night sky bathed the grounds in a soft, glistening ashen hue. The smell of honeysuckle, sweet peonies, and gardenia infused the high humidity of the breeze that lifted off the ocean a mile away.
“Are they gone yet?” His eyes glanced left to right and back again.
“I think so.” Only the corner of her well carved cream alabaster lips moved. “Ah…chew! Ah…chew!” She bent forward clenching her nose or mouth.
“Bless you my dear.” He said still standing motionless.
“I hate this stupid rhododendron.” She furiously brushed away the thick branch, tipped with a round puff of pink blossoms, from her nose.
“I think the coast is clear.” He jumped down from his chiseled soapstone plinth. “Let me help you, my love.” He extended his right hand toward her, still clutching his anvil in his left and helped her down from her scallop shell.
“Hermes, it’s time! Wake up!” Hephaestus yelled across the immaculately manicured lawn.
Hermes woke suddenly as the sprinkler system engaged and sprayed a chilled mist on his patina. He made a loud screeching sound when he moved his bronze silhouette.
“Geez, Hephaestus you don’t have to yell. I know what time it is. They have me practically welded to a sundial for goodness sake.”
“The sun isn’t shining, genius,” said Hephaestus in cynical tone.
“Oh, yeah,” Hermes chuckled and turned to Aphrodite. “Mmm…mmm…mmm, damn girl you’re lookin’ good tonight.”
She would have blushed if she could.
“Watch it, Hermes,” he snarled. His face nearly cracked as he distorted it in anger. “That’s my wife you’re talking too.”
“What did you expect marrying the goddess of love and beauty? You should have married Medusa then no one would ever be looking at your wife. She would have turned you to stone if you pissed her off though.”
“We’re already stone, Einstein,” he was being facetious.
Hermes stretched his arms and shook out his legs like a sprinter getting ready for a 25K race.
“Well, time for a long night of work. See you at the ceremony, beautiful.” Hermes said then turned to Hephaestus, “Later, sucker!” He soared out of sight leaving only a golden beam of flaming bronze and the outline of his winged sandals lingering behind him in the darkness.
“What ceremony?” She asked. He deliberately didn’t answer her. The surprise would be ruined.
“Gosh, I hate that guy. He’s always ogling you and flirting.”
“Oh honey, don’t let him get to you. He has a hard job waking everyone with the swish of his cheesy, little magic wand. This park has over 7,000 acres,” Aphrodite said gently petting the tiny alabaster dove perched on her shoulder.
“He is built for speed and still he complains,” remarked Hephaestus.
“Let’s go to Myrtle Grove. You know it’s my favorite place,” she said.
“We will, I promise, but first we have somewhere to be. After you my dear,” he bowed and waved his hand in a romantic gesture.
They walked hand in exquisitely sculpted hand for several minutes.
“Where are we going? I haven’t been to this part of the grounds before.”
“They are still planting it.”
Flowers and small plants were splayed along the edge of the brick walkway. Freshly dug holes showed their future resting places. As they rounded the tall trees of Live Oak Alley, he lifted the bright orange fence closing in the newly constructed area.
“What is this place?” She looked amazed as crimson, azure, emerald and violet lights shimmered in the atmosphere. The source of the radiance was coming from the pink granite statue of Hyperion, Titan god of light. He was standing in a large circular pond surrounded by every figure that inhabited the gardens.
“It a new installation,” Hephaestus said pulling Aphrodite closer to the crowd.
“Glad to see you made it,” said Isis as she turned and approached Aphrodite handing her a luscious bouquet of white lilies.
“Ouch! Watch where you’re going with those wings Isis. I almost dropped it,” grumbled Atlas.
“Don’t mind him,” whispered Isis. “He’s just grumpy because he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. I’d be grumpy to if I had to carry a three ton sphere on my back everyday.”
“Wine here, get your wine here!” Dionysus yelled as he poured the jade Ganesh a goblet from the infinite supply of his decanter. “It helps to be the god of wine. It makes me a fortune at these events.”
“Honey,” Hephaestus turned to Aphrodite. “Welcome to our new home.” The crowd cheered. She stared closer at the pond. Two gilded golden platforms flanked by eight cherubs spouting water rose out from the center of the water.
“That one looks like its peeing!” Hermes yelled from somewhere in the crowd.
The night sky was slowly turning lighter now. A ram’s horn blew in the distance. It was the signal that the first employees of the day had entered the front gate.
“Go everyone!” Hyperion announced in a deep piercing voice. “Get back to your stations.” Everyone scattered back to their nooks hidden in the maze of the garden.
Hephaestus and Aphrodite climbed onto their newly built plinths and then froze back to solid stone just as the first landscape gardeners entered the area.
“Glad you guys moved these sculptures yesterday on my day off. They have to be two thousand pounds each,” said the gardener.
“We didn’t. The crane isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.”
“Are they gone yet?” His eyes glanced left to right and back again.
“I think so.” Only the corner of her well carved cream alabaster lips moved. “Ah…chew! Ah…chew!” She bent forward clenching her nose or mouth.
“Bless you my dear.” He said still standing motionless.
“I hate this stupid rhododendron.” She furiously brushed away the thick branch, tipped with a round puff of pink blossoms, from her nose.
“I think the coast is clear.” He jumped down from his chiseled soapstone plinth. “Let me help you, my love.” He extended his right hand toward her, still clutching his anvil in his left and helped her down from her scallop shell.
“Hermes, it’s time! Wake up!” Hephaestus yelled across the immaculately manicured lawn.
Hermes woke suddenly as the sprinkler system engaged and sprayed a chilled mist on his patina. He made a loud screeching sound when he moved his bronze silhouette.
“Geez, Hephaestus you don’t have to yell. I know what time it is. They have me practically welded to a sundial for goodness sake.”
“The sun isn’t shining, genius,” said Hephaestus in cynical tone.
“Oh, yeah,” Hermes chuckled and turned to Aphrodite. “Mmm…mmm…mmm, damn girl you’re lookin’ good tonight.”
She would have blushed if she could.
“Watch it, Hermes,” he snarled. His face nearly cracked as he distorted it in anger. “That’s my wife you’re talking too.”
“What did you expect marrying the goddess of love and beauty? You should have married Medusa then no one would ever be looking at your wife. She would have turned you to stone if you pissed her off though.”
“We’re already stone, Einstein,” he was being facetious.
Hermes stretched his arms and shook out his legs like a sprinter getting ready for a 25K race.
“Well, time for a long night of work. See you at the ceremony, beautiful.” Hermes said then turned to Hephaestus, “Later, sucker!” He soared out of sight leaving only a golden beam of flaming bronze and the outline of his winged sandals lingering behind him in the darkness.
“What ceremony?” She asked. He deliberately didn’t answer her. The surprise would be ruined.
“Gosh, I hate that guy. He’s always ogling you and flirting.”
“Oh honey, don’t let him get to you. He has a hard job waking everyone with the swish of his cheesy, little magic wand. This park has over 7,000 acres,” Aphrodite said gently petting the tiny alabaster dove perched on her shoulder.
“He is built for speed and still he complains,” remarked Hephaestus.
“Let’s go to Myrtle Grove. You know it’s my favorite place,” she said.
“We will, I promise, but first we have somewhere to be. After you my dear,” he bowed and waved his hand in a romantic gesture.
They walked hand in exquisitely sculpted hand for several minutes.
“Where are we going? I haven’t been to this part of the grounds before.”
“They are still planting it.”
Flowers and small plants were splayed along the edge of the brick walkway. Freshly dug holes showed their future resting places. As they rounded the tall trees of Live Oak Alley, he lifted the bright orange fence closing in the newly constructed area.
“What is this place?” She looked amazed as crimson, azure, emerald and violet lights shimmered in the atmosphere. The source of the radiance was coming from the pink granite statue of Hyperion, Titan god of light. He was standing in a large circular pond surrounded by every figure that inhabited the gardens.
“It a new installation,” Hephaestus said pulling Aphrodite closer to the crowd.
“Glad to see you made it,” said Isis as she turned and approached Aphrodite handing her a luscious bouquet of white lilies.
“Ouch! Watch where you’re going with those wings Isis. I almost dropped it,” grumbled Atlas.
“Don’t mind him,” whispered Isis. “He’s just grumpy because he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. I’d be grumpy to if I had to carry a three ton sphere on my back everyday.”
“Wine here, get your wine here!” Dionysus yelled as he poured the jade Ganesh a goblet from the infinite supply of his decanter. “It helps to be the god of wine. It makes me a fortune at these events.”
“Honey,” Hephaestus turned to Aphrodite. “Welcome to our new home.” The crowd cheered. She stared closer at the pond. Two gilded golden platforms flanked by eight cherubs spouting water rose out from the center of the water.
“That one looks like its peeing!” Hermes yelled from somewhere in the crowd.
The night sky was slowly turning lighter now. A ram’s horn blew in the distance. It was the signal that the first employees of the day had entered the front gate.
“Go everyone!” Hyperion announced in a deep piercing voice. “Get back to your stations.” Everyone scattered back to their nooks hidden in the maze of the garden.
Hephaestus and Aphrodite climbed onto their newly built plinths and then froze back to solid stone just as the first landscape gardeners entered the area.
“Glad you guys moved these sculptures yesterday on my day off. They have to be two thousand pounds each,” said the gardener.
“We didn’t. The crane isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.”
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Cloaked Illusions
Cloaked Illusions is the name of our new five women writing team. I am currently working on the first Chapter of our online novel and will be posting it in the next two weeks. Our team consists of Hana, Sharon, Norma, and Rosemary.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
After-Life: A Mystery
Chapter 1
Minya, Upper Egypt 1204 BCE
She was taken to the ubi, a place of purification. The embalmers washed her body with richly scented palm wine and rinsed it with water from the Nile River. Then an incision was made with a fine flint blade to the left side of her body to remove some of the internal organs for preservation. The liver, lungs, and stomach were each washed and covered with natron for dehydration. Her heart was left intacted. It was the center of all emotions and knowledge and would be needed in her afterlife.
Her body was filled and covered with natron for forty days. The embalmers then washed it away and bathed her skin with exotic oils. The dehydrated organs were washed and wrapped in linen. Each was placed in its own canopic jar to be buried with her in the tomb. Again, they covered her skin with fine oils and wrapped linens tightly around her body. She was placed inside a coffin of pure gold adorned with her name in hieroglyphs inside of a cartouche. This was a symbol reserved for only royalty. The four corners of the sarcophagus were protected by the goddess Isis. Her brightly painted wings spread out along the coffin’s sides enclosing and guarding its valuable contents.
Princess Chione, mystical daughter of the Nile, lived and died under the reign of her father Pharaoh Mermeptah. Her death, by suspected poisoning, rattled the citizens of her kingdom. She was loved by the people. Upon her father’s death she would have been named Pharaoh to the dismay of her brother and husband, Nefru. Her younger brother became obsessed with obtaining this power of the gods and the need to be king. He despised her, but they had to be married for sake of the family and their place on the thrown.
It was a common practice in ancient Egypt to marry within a family. This insured royal blood stayed royal and commoners could claim the power of the thrown. However, Mermeptah was still King of Egypt and even in his frail state he refused to relinquish power to anyone.
“Why does she deserve a Phararoh’s burial? You are King, father!”
“She was to be Queen and Pharaoh of all Egypt, my son. That is all that is needed to be said.”
“Would you have done the same for me, father?”
“Her heart was lighter than the feather of Anubis. She has successfully entered the afterlife. You have a selfish heart, my son. To be a true king you need purity of heart and the strength of a fierce lion,” his father was sweating and shivering. “You show no promise with either of these traits. I have decided to pass the kingdom to your brother, Coseru. It was the decision made by the gods and cannot be changed, my son.”
“He is only six years old, father! I am the true heir and rightful king! He is the son of your whore! I have made sacrifices to the gods. The priests have accepted me as their new Pharaoh. I want to build monuments and temples.”
“Running a kingdom is what you do for its people, not your selfish purpose.” His father coughed and wheezed. “Water please, my son.”
His son watched his father’s pain with no response.
“Water, I need water.”
“You need water! You...need...water!” His anger was building. “I married my sister to have this kingdom! I killed my sister for this kingdom! Now, I will kill you for MY KINGDOM!”
With that, he pulled his sacrificial obsidian blade, encrusted with precious stones of alexandrite and arabian rubies, from his tunic and stabbed it through his father’s heart, killing him instantly. Then he ran away. With the help of his trusted servant, Katawu, he stashed the blade where it would never be found. Members of the household were gathered together, by the reigning King Nefru. They were questioned then immediately condemned and executed before anyone could reveal the truth of his father's demise. Nefru had gotten away with murder. He had fulfilled his destiny. No one knew of his father’s plans to make Coseru heir to the throne. Nefru was now Pharaoh.
The next morning his sister’s body was to be finally laid to rest. She was then placed inside a pink granite sarcophagus. It was tightly sealed with plant resin to keep her body preserved. She was transported by a lavishly decorated funeral boat to her tomb in the hills of the Valley of the Queens. Many gifts from her people were laid with her to take into the afterlife. There were jars of olives, barley, oil, clothing,and gold. One gift was given without love and respect, but with hatred and greed. Lying next to the mummified body of Princess Chione sealed in her tomb, was the jewel encrusted black obsidian blade that killed their father.
Chapter 2
South Western Pennsylvania 1898
The mysterious woman greeted her guests with a strange, unplaceable foreign inflection.
“Velcome ladies and gentlmen. Zee zpiritz are rezless…quickly be zeated!”
Their eccentric hostess, dressed in a jade Kosa silk sari with swirls of shimmering gold thread and matching Pagri turban headdress, suddenly rose puppet-like from her mahogany gothic armchair. A bell rang somewhere in the room. Their eyes widened. The hostess’s piecing green eyes appeared to roll back into her skull and she began to shake violently. Then she abruptly stopped.
“She iz ‘ere. I can feel ‘er zpirit. Your Molly iz ‘ere wiz uz.”
The room, lit by several beeswax candles, was shrouded in near darkness. The bronze ivy leaf wall sconces emitted the tiniest glint of pale ginger gaslight.
“Help…me…Mummy.”
It was the soft voice of a young girl.
“Molly is that you? Oh, my darling girl, is it really you?”
“Where...are….you…Mummy? I…need…you. I’m...scared.”
“I’m here. Mummy is right here,” cried a pale, thin, young woman sitting across the table.
She was exquisitely dressed in a Victorian black crepe mourning gown with a plain collar, broad weepers’ cuffs of white muslin, and a bombazine cloak. A handmade lace weeping veil draped the taut flesh of her face.
“I need to see you, Molly!”
The woman burst into a desperate, frantic sob. A well dressed gentleman, who was trying to comfort the young mother, spoke into the dark abyss of the room.
“I’m so sorry my darling girl. We tried everything, but it was too late.”
Materializing behind the apparently still possessed hostess was a faint trace of a figure clad in a long, flowing nightgown. She appeared to have an iridescent aura emanating from her body.
“I can see you! You are so beautiful, like an angel,” said the distraught mother.
Entranced by the angelic figure before her, she started to get up from her chair.
“Zit down, pleaze. Do not break zee circle. Zee vindow between zhat worlt and zhis worlt iz fragile and zee circle must ztay complete!”
The hostess’s assistant, that slowly paced the parlor ominously, gently placed her hands on the young mother’s shoulders insuring she wouldn’t move. The room fell silent. The five other anonymously invited guests stared at the ghostly image with pure terror in their eyes. Each dared not move for fear of spiritual retribution. Everything in their minds said this was the devil’s work. They should not be tampering with this black magic, but they were invited here for a purpose that was yet to be known.
The brass bell that was sitting in the center of the table started to hover above their heads as if it were enchanted by some mystic being. They could just make out the shine of its outline as it flew across the room. It landed loudly on the hard pine floor with a tremendous clang from its clapper. The large robust table began to vibrate vigorously. It lifted slightly from the floor then crashed down hard again. The beeswax candles blew out spewing wax onto a gentlemen’s cravat, narrowly missing his face. A loud gasp and a scream came from the other side of the room. Then a loud thump as one woman fainted, slumping in her chair and hitting her forehead hard on the tabletop. The elderly man sitting beside her tried to help.
“Let ‘er be. Do not break zee circle,” cried the crazed hostess. Her head was spinning wildly side to side.
“Zpiritz, come clozer!”
The light surrounding the ghostly figure brighten. The guests tried to shield their eyes from the blinding light.
“Do not break zee circle! Rize, my children!” She motioned to her guests.
With their hands still clenched together they rose from the table, still grasping to the woman that was passed out on the tabletop.
Madame Rousseau reached her hands into the air as if absorbing some intense invisible energy.
“Ztay wiz uz mighty zspiritz,” she shouted to the heavens.
The girl’s image slowly faded into the shadows.
“They…are….taking…me…away! Don’t…leave…me…Mummy.”
The young mother yelled in pure desperation, “Bring her back Madame, please! My little Molly, do not leave me again! I can not bare it!”
Madame Rousseau fell backwards, with the help of her assistant, landed squarely in her armchair. She let out a huge gasp of air and began to heave billowy clouds of grey smoke from her mouth and nose, as if expelling a dark force from her body. Her eyes rolled back to their normal placement in their sockets. The room lay still. The guests did not speak; they were paralyzed in their chairs.
The gas sconces along the wall lit brighter now. The room was left a disheveled wreck. The frighten visitors grabbed their belongings and tried to exit the parlor as fast as they could. The woman that fell faint was still resting unconscious on the purple silk cloth covering the table. As the room grew lighter the guest realized she would never recover from her horrific ordeal. The razor-sharp, jewel encrusted, obsidian blade of Nefru that pierced her neck insured her of that.
To Be Continued......
Minya, Upper Egypt 1204 BCE
She was taken to the ubi, a place of purification. The embalmers washed her body with richly scented palm wine and rinsed it with water from the Nile River. Then an incision was made with a fine flint blade to the left side of her body to remove some of the internal organs for preservation. The liver, lungs, and stomach were each washed and covered with natron for dehydration. Her heart was left intacted. It was the center of all emotions and knowledge and would be needed in her afterlife.
Her body was filled and covered with natron for forty days. The embalmers then washed it away and bathed her skin with exotic oils. The dehydrated organs were washed and wrapped in linen. Each was placed in its own canopic jar to be buried with her in the tomb. Again, they covered her skin with fine oils and wrapped linens tightly around her body. She was placed inside a coffin of pure gold adorned with her name in hieroglyphs inside of a cartouche. This was a symbol reserved for only royalty. The four corners of the sarcophagus were protected by the goddess Isis. Her brightly painted wings spread out along the coffin’s sides enclosing and guarding its valuable contents.
Princess Chione, mystical daughter of the Nile, lived and died under the reign of her father Pharaoh Mermeptah. Her death, by suspected poisoning, rattled the citizens of her kingdom. She was loved by the people. Upon her father’s death she would have been named Pharaoh to the dismay of her brother and husband, Nefru. Her younger brother became obsessed with obtaining this power of the gods and the need to be king. He despised her, but they had to be married for sake of the family and their place on the thrown.
It was a common practice in ancient Egypt to marry within a family. This insured royal blood stayed royal and commoners could claim the power of the thrown. However, Mermeptah was still King of Egypt and even in his frail state he refused to relinquish power to anyone.
“Why does she deserve a Phararoh’s burial? You are King, father!”
“She was to be Queen and Pharaoh of all Egypt, my son. That is all that is needed to be said.”
“Would you have done the same for me, father?”
“Her heart was lighter than the feather of Anubis. She has successfully entered the afterlife. You have a selfish heart, my son. To be a true king you need purity of heart and the strength of a fierce lion,” his father was sweating and shivering. “You show no promise with either of these traits. I have decided to pass the kingdom to your brother, Coseru. It was the decision made by the gods and cannot be changed, my son.”
“He is only six years old, father! I am the true heir and rightful king! He is the son of your whore! I have made sacrifices to the gods. The priests have accepted me as their new Pharaoh. I want to build monuments and temples.”
“Running a kingdom is what you do for its people, not your selfish purpose.” His father coughed and wheezed. “Water please, my son.”
His son watched his father’s pain with no response.
“Water, I need water.”
“You need water! You...need...water!” His anger was building. “I married my sister to have this kingdom! I killed my sister for this kingdom! Now, I will kill you for MY KINGDOM!”
With that, he pulled his sacrificial obsidian blade, encrusted with precious stones of alexandrite and arabian rubies, from his tunic and stabbed it through his father’s heart, killing him instantly. Then he ran away. With the help of his trusted servant, Katawu, he stashed the blade where it would never be found. Members of the household were gathered together, by the reigning King Nefru. They were questioned then immediately condemned and executed before anyone could reveal the truth of his father's demise. Nefru had gotten away with murder. He had fulfilled his destiny. No one knew of his father’s plans to make Coseru heir to the throne. Nefru was now Pharaoh.
The next morning his sister’s body was to be finally laid to rest. She was then placed inside a pink granite sarcophagus. It was tightly sealed with plant resin to keep her body preserved. She was transported by a lavishly decorated funeral boat to her tomb in the hills of the Valley of the Queens. Many gifts from her people were laid with her to take into the afterlife. There were jars of olives, barley, oil, clothing,and gold. One gift was given without love and respect, but with hatred and greed. Lying next to the mummified body of Princess Chione sealed in her tomb, was the jewel encrusted black obsidian blade that killed their father.
Chapter 2
South Western Pennsylvania 1898
The mysterious woman greeted her guests with a strange, unplaceable foreign inflection.
“Velcome ladies and gentlmen. Zee zpiritz are rezless…quickly be zeated!”
Their eccentric hostess, dressed in a jade Kosa silk sari with swirls of shimmering gold thread and matching Pagri turban headdress, suddenly rose puppet-like from her mahogany gothic armchair. A bell rang somewhere in the room. Their eyes widened. The hostess’s piecing green eyes appeared to roll back into her skull and she began to shake violently. Then she abruptly stopped.
“She iz ‘ere. I can feel ‘er zpirit. Your Molly iz ‘ere wiz uz.”
The room, lit by several beeswax candles, was shrouded in near darkness. The bronze ivy leaf wall sconces emitted the tiniest glint of pale ginger gaslight.
“Help…me…Mummy.”
It was the soft voice of a young girl.
“Molly is that you? Oh, my darling girl, is it really you?”
“Where...are….you…Mummy? I…need…you. I’m...scared.”
“I’m here. Mummy is right here,” cried a pale, thin, young woman sitting across the table.
She was exquisitely dressed in a Victorian black crepe mourning gown with a plain collar, broad weepers’ cuffs of white muslin, and a bombazine cloak. A handmade lace weeping veil draped the taut flesh of her face.
“I need to see you, Molly!”
The woman burst into a desperate, frantic sob. A well dressed gentleman, who was trying to comfort the young mother, spoke into the dark abyss of the room.
“I’m so sorry my darling girl. We tried everything, but it was too late.”
Materializing behind the apparently still possessed hostess was a faint trace of a figure clad in a long, flowing nightgown. She appeared to have an iridescent aura emanating from her body.
“I can see you! You are so beautiful, like an angel,” said the distraught mother.
Entranced by the angelic figure before her, she started to get up from her chair.
“Zit down, pleaze. Do not break zee circle. Zee vindow between zhat worlt and zhis worlt iz fragile and zee circle must ztay complete!”
The hostess’s assistant, that slowly paced the parlor ominously, gently placed her hands on the young mother’s shoulders insuring she wouldn’t move. The room fell silent. The five other anonymously invited guests stared at the ghostly image with pure terror in their eyes. Each dared not move for fear of spiritual retribution. Everything in their minds said this was the devil’s work. They should not be tampering with this black magic, but they were invited here for a purpose that was yet to be known.
The brass bell that was sitting in the center of the table started to hover above their heads as if it were enchanted by some mystic being. They could just make out the shine of its outline as it flew across the room. It landed loudly on the hard pine floor with a tremendous clang from its clapper. The large robust table began to vibrate vigorously. It lifted slightly from the floor then crashed down hard again. The beeswax candles blew out spewing wax onto a gentlemen’s cravat, narrowly missing his face. A loud gasp and a scream came from the other side of the room. Then a loud thump as one woman fainted, slumping in her chair and hitting her forehead hard on the tabletop. The elderly man sitting beside her tried to help.
“Let ‘er be. Do not break zee circle,” cried the crazed hostess. Her head was spinning wildly side to side.
“Zpiritz, come clozer!”
The light surrounding the ghostly figure brighten. The guests tried to shield their eyes from the blinding light.
“Do not break zee circle! Rize, my children!” She motioned to her guests.
With their hands still clenched together they rose from the table, still grasping to the woman that was passed out on the tabletop.
Madame Rousseau reached her hands into the air as if absorbing some intense invisible energy.
“Ztay wiz uz mighty zspiritz,” she shouted to the heavens.
The girl’s image slowly faded into the shadows.
“They…are….taking…me…away! Don’t…leave…me…Mummy.”
The young mother yelled in pure desperation, “Bring her back Madame, please! My little Molly, do not leave me again! I can not bare it!”
Madame Rousseau fell backwards, with the help of her assistant, landed squarely in her armchair. She let out a huge gasp of air and began to heave billowy clouds of grey smoke from her mouth and nose, as if expelling a dark force from her body. Her eyes rolled back to their normal placement in their sockets. The room lay still. The guests did not speak; they were paralyzed in their chairs.
The gas sconces along the wall lit brighter now. The room was left a disheveled wreck. The frighten visitors grabbed their belongings and tried to exit the parlor as fast as they could. The woman that fell faint was still resting unconscious on the purple silk cloth covering the table. As the room grew lighter the guest realized she would never recover from her horrific ordeal. The razor-sharp, jewel encrusted, obsidian blade of Nefru that pierced her neck insured her of that.
To Be Continued......
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Submission to Tribune Democrat Mystery Story-Chapter 4 April 2010
“Wait until you see the acreage of this place, perfect for a winery.” said the realtor excitedly.
Melissa knew it was an intentional attempt to change the focus from the picture back to the farmhouse.
“You go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute,” said Melissa with a spurious smile.
When they were out of sight Melissa used her sleeve to dust off the glass covering the picture.
The heavy portrait shifted on its nail and slid sideways. A small plaque dislodged from behind its frame and fell to the floor.
The Caplin Family – March 1975
Melvin and Loretta with our kids: Jimmy, 19 and Amy, 6
Melissa straightened the picture and studied the family in the photograph. She shuddered at the sight of Melvin with his horn-rimmed glasses and Jimmy the slender young man from her vision.
The face of an older woman with a solemn expression appeared to stare straight through her. The couple seemed more like grandparents to the children.
“This can’t be….,” Melissa recognized Amy. It was her ghostly companion.
She shoved the small plaque into her coat pocket and ran to the front porch. She abruptly interrupted the realtor, as he was pointing out the Queen Anne posts lining the porch.
“We need some time to think about the house, we’ll call you,” said Melissa shooting a look at her husband.
“Well…James...thanks for the tour,” said her husband awkwardly.
With a stunned look from the realtor, they got into their car and left.
“No…No…LET ME GO,” yelled Melissa waking out of her sleep in a cold sweat.
Every night that week she was wrought with nightmares of Amy’s abduction. Sometimes, Melissa felt she was being pulled into the dark abyss of the van.
Flashes of the older man and woman, the dusty room, the street corner, the two men arguing, and Amy plagued her every thought.
Still exhausted from lack of sleep, Melissa got into her car and drove back to her hometown.She pulled into the Johnstown library’s parking lot just as the doors were being unlocked. She rushed past the security guard and went to the third floor.
She researched the library’s digital archives and found several articles regarding the 1975 abduction. To her surprise, that’s not all she found.
February 21, 1975
Amy Davis Abducted in Broad Daylight
February 28, 1975
Eight Abductions in Two Years: Police Suspect Link
April 2, 1975
Three Suspects Arrested in Cambria and Centre County Abductions
April 4, 1975
Amy Davis, Who Helped Seven Children Escape, Still Missing
Melissa printed each article, but before she could read them Amy’s ghostly image appeared through a reflection in her computer screen.
She turned and saw the little girl standing in the stacks. Amy giggled and then ran away. Melissa followed.
“WAIT! I want to help you!”
Amy ran right through a door in the library’s backroom.
Melissa opened it.
A tiny hand reached out, grabbed Melissa’s arm and pulled her through the door. It slammed shut behind her.
She was in the secret room of the farmhouse again. It was now furnished with seven tiny cots. Several children were playing tag and two were hiding in under a bed.
“Meli, come play with us,” said a small boy.
“Meli?”
No one called her that for years.
“You can see me?” Melissa asked.
“Of course I can silly-willy. Tag…you’re it!”
Just then, Jimmy the slender young man entered the room.
“Go to bed! You got lots to do on the farm tomorrow!”
The children scrambled to their beds.
“Come on Meli, lay down before you get in trouble.”
That’s when she noticed her tiny, little feet peeking out from under her long nightgown.
“What happened to me? I’m a child!”
“Oh no..!” Melissa started to remember the childhood nightmare she blocked out years ago and now she was reliving it.
Melissa ‘Meli’ Stewart was abducted at age 7. She was one of the seven children in the secret attic.
Then his familiar face flashed in her mind.
Jimmy, the slender young man, was James Caplin, their realtor. Did he remember her?
Melissa had to find Amy.
Where could Amy be and why was she in the Caplin family portrait?
Melissa knew it was an intentional attempt to change the focus from the picture back to the farmhouse.
“You go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute,” said Melissa with a spurious smile.
When they were out of sight Melissa used her sleeve to dust off the glass covering the picture.
The heavy portrait shifted on its nail and slid sideways. A small plaque dislodged from behind its frame and fell to the floor.
The Caplin Family – March 1975
Melvin and Loretta with our kids: Jimmy, 19 and Amy, 6
Melissa straightened the picture and studied the family in the photograph. She shuddered at the sight of Melvin with his horn-rimmed glasses and Jimmy the slender young man from her vision.
The face of an older woman with a solemn expression appeared to stare straight through her. The couple seemed more like grandparents to the children.
“This can’t be….,” Melissa recognized Amy. It was her ghostly companion.
She shoved the small plaque into her coat pocket and ran to the front porch. She abruptly interrupted the realtor, as he was pointing out the Queen Anne posts lining the porch.
“We need some time to think about the house, we’ll call you,” said Melissa shooting a look at her husband.
“Well…James...thanks for the tour,” said her husband awkwardly.
With a stunned look from the realtor, they got into their car and left.
“No…No…LET ME GO,” yelled Melissa waking out of her sleep in a cold sweat.
Every night that week she was wrought with nightmares of Amy’s abduction. Sometimes, Melissa felt she was being pulled into the dark abyss of the van.
Flashes of the older man and woman, the dusty room, the street corner, the two men arguing, and Amy plagued her every thought.
Still exhausted from lack of sleep, Melissa got into her car and drove back to her hometown.She pulled into the Johnstown library’s parking lot just as the doors were being unlocked. She rushed past the security guard and went to the third floor.
She researched the library’s digital archives and found several articles regarding the 1975 abduction. To her surprise, that’s not all she found.
February 21, 1975
Amy Davis Abducted in Broad Daylight
February 28, 1975
Eight Abductions in Two Years: Police Suspect Link
April 2, 1975
Three Suspects Arrested in Cambria and Centre County Abductions
April 4, 1975
Amy Davis, Who Helped Seven Children Escape, Still Missing
Melissa printed each article, but before she could read them Amy’s ghostly image appeared through a reflection in her computer screen.
She turned and saw the little girl standing in the stacks. Amy giggled and then ran away. Melissa followed.
“WAIT! I want to help you!”
Amy ran right through a door in the library’s backroom.
Melissa opened it.
A tiny hand reached out, grabbed Melissa’s arm and pulled her through the door. It slammed shut behind her.
She was in the secret room of the farmhouse again. It was now furnished with seven tiny cots. Several children were playing tag and two were hiding in under a bed.
“Meli, come play with us,” said a small boy.
“Meli?”
No one called her that for years.
“You can see me?” Melissa asked.
“Of course I can silly-willy. Tag…you’re it!”
Just then, Jimmy the slender young man entered the room.
“Go to bed! You got lots to do on the farm tomorrow!”
The children scrambled to their beds.
“Come on Meli, lay down before you get in trouble.”
That’s when she noticed her tiny, little feet peeking out from under her long nightgown.
“What happened to me? I’m a child!”
“Oh no..!” Melissa started to remember the childhood nightmare she blocked out years ago and now she was reliving it.
Melissa ‘Meli’ Stewart was abducted at age 7. She was one of the seven children in the secret attic.
Then his familiar face flashed in her mind.
Jimmy, the slender young man, was James Caplin, their realtor. Did he remember her?
Melissa had to find Amy.
Where could Amy be and why was she in the Caplin family portrait?
"Ode to a Shoe-addict"
Oh goodness, what have we here?
A pair of Choo’s magically appear.
Buy me, buy me, says a voice in my head.
Money is no object when your husband is in bed.
Just press, submit and you can have those Chanel's.
It’ll be a month before you even catch hell.
I reach for my card and enter my pin.
Those Prada's are calling, “Carisa, give in!”
My husband awakes, what do I do?
Just press send, I must have those shoes!!
What have you done? Oh wifey of mine!
My shoes will be special, so lovely, divine.
I promise these will be the last one’s I’ll buy!
…Until next time I decide to shop online.
A pair of Choo’s magically appear.
Buy me, buy me, says a voice in my head.
Money is no object when your husband is in bed.
Just press, submit and you can have those Chanel's.
It’ll be a month before you even catch hell.
I reach for my card and enter my pin.
Those Prada's are calling, “Carisa, give in!”
My husband awakes, what do I do?
Just press send, I must have those shoes!!
What have you done? Oh wifey of mine!
My shoes will be special, so lovely, divine.
I promise these will be the last one’s I’ll buy!
…Until next time I decide to shop online.
Submission to Tribune Writers Contest- Week 2- Mar 2010
Horrified, Melissa became dizzy and nearly fainted. She caught herself before falling on a sharp picket fence that bordered the nearby yard.
Would she have even felt the point of its raw cut edge? Or, would she have fallen right through it as though it wasn’t even there?
Melissa wasn’t about to test that theory. She was still trying to get a grip on her new reality.
The little girl was silent and stared blankly at her. She was clad only in a white turtle neck, a bright red romper with a ladybug embroidered on the bottom, a pair of crisp white tights, and one patent leather shoe on her right foot. Her raven hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
She was not dressed for the current weather, but it didn’t seem to affect her.
Melissa felt there was something eerily familiar about her.
“Why am I here? What’s wrong with that farmhouse? Who are you?” Melissa asked apprehensively.
Without saying a word the girl lifted her hand and pointed to a crumpled piece of paper pinned to her romper. Funny, Melissa hadn’t noticed it earlier.
Hello my name is……Jaclyn Gardner.
The phantom girl turned away from her without uttering a word.
Jaclyn began walking. Melissa didn’t know what to do. Everything in her said, run.
Run where? She thought hopelessly.
Suddenly, out of the silence came a disembodied voice, “Follow Me.”
It whispered into Melissa’s ear. This sent an icy shiver down her spine.
“FOLLOW ME.”, now there was annoyance in the voice.
The little girl turned toward her in frustration.
“WALK, PLEASE.”
The girl’s pale blue lips never moved. Melissa’s ear rang as though the girl was right beside her; she wasn’t. In fact she was at least 10 feet away. Melissa’s pupils widened and her vision blurred. How is she doing that?
“WALK. WE DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME.”
“Ok... I’m…coming.” Melissa’s voice shook nervously. She felt like she was answering the air.
Melissa began walking down Johnstown’s main street. She passed familiar businesses like the hospital where she got her first cast and the old theater where she used to watch movies as a child.
After high school Melissa chose to attend the university in ‘Happy Valley’. It was always her dream growing up.
She met her husband at the local diner where she liked to study late at night. They argued over the last ‘world famous’ sticky bun and agreed to share it over a cup of coffee.
Melissa married and decided to stay in Centre County. She taught Abnormal Psychology at the university. The rest was history or a far off future.
“MELISSA, STOP!”
This made her nearly jump out of her skin. She didn’t realize that Jaclyn had stopped walking.
Jaclyn lifted her thin, insipid hand and pointed down an alley.
“GO, NOW!”
There was a sound of desperation from the voice.
Melissa started cautiously down the alley. She saw a patent leather shoe lying on its side.
Two boys started to shout.
“It was an accident. It was all her fault anyway!”
“They won’t believe it was an accident.”
“We need to get out of here! She knows who we are!”
A small cry came from behind a green dumpster.
She’s alive. There’s still time. Melissa thought.
Then she was struck with fear.
It was as though she was sleeping. That red romper, white tights, and one patent leather shoe; it was the lifeless body of Jaclyn Gardner. A small child was standing above her crying. She seemed uninjured. A tag hung from her yellow satin dress.
Hello my name is…Melissa Ellis.
“That’s me!”
“That’s why we’re here.” It was the first time her ghostly companion spoke directly to her all day.
“They know who you are. You are the only witness. They are coming for you.”
The two boys crawled through a small hole in a wooden fence at the back of the alley.
“Follow them!” Jaclyn ordered.
Melissa didn’t think twice and squeezed her way through the small hole.
Mystified, she found herself back in the hallway of the empty farmhouse. When she turned around, the alley, Jaclyn and small door to the dusty room were gone.
Would she have even felt the point of its raw cut edge? Or, would she have fallen right through it as though it wasn’t even there?
Melissa wasn’t about to test that theory. She was still trying to get a grip on her new reality.
The little girl was silent and stared blankly at her. She was clad only in a white turtle neck, a bright red romper with a ladybug embroidered on the bottom, a pair of crisp white tights, and one patent leather shoe on her right foot. Her raven hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
She was not dressed for the current weather, but it didn’t seem to affect her.
Melissa felt there was something eerily familiar about her.
“Why am I here? What’s wrong with that farmhouse? Who are you?” Melissa asked apprehensively.
Without saying a word the girl lifted her hand and pointed to a crumpled piece of paper pinned to her romper. Funny, Melissa hadn’t noticed it earlier.
Hello my name is……Jaclyn Gardner.
The phantom girl turned away from her without uttering a word.
Jaclyn began walking. Melissa didn’t know what to do. Everything in her said, run.
Run where? She thought hopelessly.
Suddenly, out of the silence came a disembodied voice, “Follow Me.”
It whispered into Melissa’s ear. This sent an icy shiver down her spine.
“FOLLOW ME.”, now there was annoyance in the voice.
The little girl turned toward her in frustration.
“WALK, PLEASE.”
The girl’s pale blue lips never moved. Melissa’s ear rang as though the girl was right beside her; she wasn’t. In fact she was at least 10 feet away. Melissa’s pupils widened and her vision blurred. How is she doing that?
“WALK. WE DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME.”
“Ok... I’m…coming.” Melissa’s voice shook nervously. She felt like she was answering the air.
Melissa began walking down Johnstown’s main street. She passed familiar businesses like the hospital where she got her first cast and the old theater where she used to watch movies as a child.
After high school Melissa chose to attend the university in ‘Happy Valley’. It was always her dream growing up.
She met her husband at the local diner where she liked to study late at night. They argued over the last ‘world famous’ sticky bun and agreed to share it over a cup of coffee.
Melissa married and decided to stay in Centre County. She taught Abnormal Psychology at the university. The rest was history or a far off future.
“MELISSA, STOP!”
This made her nearly jump out of her skin. She didn’t realize that Jaclyn had stopped walking.
Jaclyn lifted her thin, insipid hand and pointed down an alley.
“GO, NOW!”
There was a sound of desperation from the voice.
Melissa started cautiously down the alley. She saw a patent leather shoe lying on its side.
Two boys started to shout.
“It was an accident. It was all her fault anyway!”
“They won’t believe it was an accident.”
“We need to get out of here! She knows who we are!”
A small cry came from behind a green dumpster.
She’s alive. There’s still time. Melissa thought.
Then she was struck with fear.
It was as though she was sleeping. That red romper, white tights, and one patent leather shoe; it was the lifeless body of Jaclyn Gardner. A small child was standing above her crying. She seemed uninjured. A tag hung from her yellow satin dress.
Hello my name is…Melissa Ellis.
“That’s me!”
“That’s why we’re here.” It was the first time her ghostly companion spoke directly to her all day.
“They know who you are. You are the only witness. They are coming for you.”
The two boys crawled through a small hole in a wooden fence at the back of the alley.
“Follow them!” Jaclyn ordered.
Melissa didn’t think twice and squeezed her way through the small hole.
Mystified, she found herself back in the hallway of the empty farmhouse. When she turned around, the alley, Jaclyn and small door to the dusty room were gone.
Submission to Tribune writers contest- Week 1- Feb. 2010
Mystified, Julia stepped back from the oval window in disbelief. Her left foot broke through a loosened plank in the floor. She saw a large, green, leather bound photo album tied with a worn string peeking through the new opening. It stopped her foot from going through the second set of boards holding up the ceiling below. She thought, “Who would hide a photo album in the floor?” She untied the string which seemed to disintegrate in her fingers. The book let out a cracking sound from its bindings as she opened it. Inside she expected to see someone’s family photos, but instead there were pages of perfectly cut newspaper clippings. Each page bore a different headline and had the dates handwritten in the margin.
March 6, 1968
Vice President of U.S. Bank found Murdered at Incline Motel
On the night of March 4 the body of a Centre County banker, Lukas Grant, was found in room 213 of the Incline Motel in Johnstown. Mr. Grant was not a registered guest of the motel. No one knows why he was there. Cause of death is suspicious and still unknown. Autopsy will follow.
March 9, 1968
Police seek Two Suspects in Poisoning Death
Police want to speak with two possible suspects in the poisoning death of Lukas Grant at the Incline Motel. A couple from Bellefonte, PA staying in room 211 stated that on March 4 at 7:25 p.m. they heard an argument ensue through the adjoining wall. “I could hear two men shouting at each other, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying,” the man said. “My wife Ava, heard a woman’s voice say ‘Grab the papers and let’s go already.’” An employee of the motel saw the victim enter the lobby at approximately 7:03 p.m. He was alone.
September 30, 1968
Police Arrest Two Suspects for Grant Murder
Mr. Christian Mansfield, a Johnstown deli owner and Ms. Isabelle Redding, a librarian at the Johnstown Library were arrested for the murder of Lukas Grant in March 1968. They were positively identified by two witnesses. Trials will be held at Cambria County Courthouse. Dates are to be announced.
May 28, 1969
Two found Guilty of First Degree Murder of Lukas Grant
Mr. Christian Mansfield and Ms. Isabelle Redding were both found guilty of first degree murder in separate trials held days apart. Both received life without parole.
August 24, 1969
Cambria County Woman serving Life Sentence Commits Suicide
Ms. Isabelle Redding, serving a life sentence for the murder of Lukas Grant, was found hanging in her cell yesterday morning by a guard. She left a suicide note proclaiming her innocence. She wrote, “I was nowhere near the Incline Motel that night. That couple lied on the stand. PLEASE FIND RALPH WALTERS! HE KNOWS THE TRUTH!”
Julia closed the book, tucked it under her arm and opened the tiny door. She found herself not in the empty farmhouse, but a fully decorated hallway that looked off into a living room. Everything was quiet except the ticking grandfather clock that stood high against wall. There was an orange, polyester reclining chair and a matching sofa in the room. Through the large window she could see it snowing heavily outside. No one seemed to be home. In the hallway, there were pictures hanging in every empty space. Unfamiliar faces stared intently at her through elaborate frames.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of a key in a lock. The front door
opened and someone entered the house. She ran back to the small door hoping to return to the dusty room of the farmhouse. To her horror, she found only a tiny storage cupboard with two moth eaten coats, a worn down broom and a pair of old slippers. There was barely enough space for her to fit. She heard a man and woman conversing. The woman said, “I’m going to make some coffee.” The man replied, “I’ll take your coat. Feels just like the winters we had in Bellefonte, eh Ava?” Then he headed in the direction of the tiny closet where Julia was hiding. With his hand on the knob, he started to open the door.
March 6, 1968
Vice President of U.S. Bank found Murdered at Incline Motel
On the night of March 4 the body of a Centre County banker, Lukas Grant, was found in room 213 of the Incline Motel in Johnstown. Mr. Grant was not a registered guest of the motel. No one knows why he was there. Cause of death is suspicious and still unknown. Autopsy will follow.
March 9, 1968
Police seek Two Suspects in Poisoning Death
Police want to speak with two possible suspects in the poisoning death of Lukas Grant at the Incline Motel. A couple from Bellefonte, PA staying in room 211 stated that on March 4 at 7:25 p.m. they heard an argument ensue through the adjoining wall. “I could hear two men shouting at each other, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying,” the man said. “My wife Ava, heard a woman’s voice say ‘Grab the papers and let’s go already.’” An employee of the motel saw the victim enter the lobby at approximately 7:03 p.m. He was alone.
September 30, 1968
Police Arrest Two Suspects for Grant Murder
Mr. Christian Mansfield, a Johnstown deli owner and Ms. Isabelle Redding, a librarian at the Johnstown Library were arrested for the murder of Lukas Grant in March 1968. They were positively identified by two witnesses. Trials will be held at Cambria County Courthouse. Dates are to be announced.
May 28, 1969
Two found Guilty of First Degree Murder of Lukas Grant
Mr. Christian Mansfield and Ms. Isabelle Redding were both found guilty of first degree murder in separate trials held days apart. Both received life without parole.
August 24, 1969
Cambria County Woman serving Life Sentence Commits Suicide
Ms. Isabelle Redding, serving a life sentence for the murder of Lukas Grant, was found hanging in her cell yesterday morning by a guard. She left a suicide note proclaiming her innocence. She wrote, “I was nowhere near the Incline Motel that night. That couple lied on the stand. PLEASE FIND RALPH WALTERS! HE KNOWS THE TRUTH!”
Julia closed the book, tucked it under her arm and opened the tiny door. She found herself not in the empty farmhouse, but a fully decorated hallway that looked off into a living room. Everything was quiet except the ticking grandfather clock that stood high against wall. There was an orange, polyester reclining chair and a matching sofa in the room. Through the large window she could see it snowing heavily outside. No one seemed to be home. In the hallway, there were pictures hanging in every empty space. Unfamiliar faces stared intently at her through elaborate frames.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of a key in a lock. The front door
opened and someone entered the house. She ran back to the small door hoping to return to the dusty room of the farmhouse. To her horror, she found only a tiny storage cupboard with two moth eaten coats, a worn down broom and a pair of old slippers. There was barely enough space for her to fit. She heard a man and woman conversing. The woman said, “I’m going to make some coffee.” The man replied, “I’ll take your coat. Feels just like the winters we had in Bellefonte, eh Ava?” Then he headed in the direction of the tiny closet where Julia was hiding. With his hand on the knob, he started to open the door.
I'll Love You Forever
I’ll love you forever. We’ll always be together. You mean everything to me, Happy Valentine’s Day sweetheart. Those words rang out from the depths of my bedroom cupboard from lost voices of high school sweethearts to college boyfriends from 19 years ago. Yes, guilty as charged. I keep a small bag of stale memories from those forgotten days hidden in the depths of my darkest closet. Never too see the light of day. These are my proverbial skeletons. They have traveled with me from place to place like a favorite book you read again and again when times are tough and lonely or you need a good pick me up.
So to write this story I dug into the very back of my biggest closet, emptied every blue covered storage container and finally saw it, a small crumbling unassuming box which held a little plastic bag with a broken zipper. Years ago I placed these sacred mementos into a bag from a set of newly bought sheets. I hoped it would keep them safe from prying eyes. Kept in there are the first eight years of learning about life and love.
Reading them after 13 years made me think of such good and bad memories. Wow so loved so cherished at times. Then so hurt and deserted in others. I love you followed by I’m so sorry for what I did. It’ll never happen again.
This theme would seem to reoccur throughout my younger years over and over again, each time taking a piece of my heart with them and leaving mine an open and seeping wound.
You never think you’ll love again. You never think you’ll find the one that warms your soul. Valentine’s Day has always been one of those days we either dread because we’re alone, enjoy it with others who share our singleness, find a person to fill the void for the day and possibly the night, or have a love to share it with. It doesn’t really matter where you’re at in life every one of us has had a worst Valentine’s experience at some time or another. Sure I got the roses and the cards and the dinners, but what did it all mean?
I can tell you, until you meet the person of your dreams, the one that never hurts you, the one that forever cherishes you, and the one that stays when times are tough, you can never really understand what those cards, flowers and dinners really mean. What love truly means.
So for me every Valentine’s Day before I met my husband was the worst because it never really meant anything until now.
The Storm
It is 4:03 a.m. on this brisk Saturday morning of in the small town of
Suddenly, I hear the shrill sound of wet tires spinning but going nowhere. Occasionally, I see through my partially open blinds flashes of PENNDOT lights flickering up and down my street. Outside my seven foot tall picture windows bright white mounds of snow blanket my town like a thick layer of fluffy marshmallow. The snow sticks to every surface I see and strangely illuminates the night sky with an iridescent glow.
I like this view from my living room. I can see the traffic lights at the intersection on my corner cycle through their continuous colors of red, yellow, and green as if sensing phantom cars and trucks and the bright lights of the local gas station’s empty parking lot. However, dawn is approaching. Plow trucks emerge and arm themselves with defenses of rock salt and tire chains like an army waiting to wage war. I see a plows sharpened blade brush through the first layer of snowfall making a massive snow peak in a neighboring parking lot. In a month it will still stand ever so slowly diminishing covered with the soot that busy lives leave behind. Then I hear a plow’s horn beep three times signaling to anyone behind it, clear the way there is work to be done. Here in my small neighborhood early risers wake to see what nature chose to give to them this night. Steaming cups of coffee in hand and the dread of the shovel and its back breaking labor weigh heavy on their minds. So tempted to wait out the storm, but hospitals need their nurses, stores need clerks and customers and our mail must go through.
The unlucky Saturday morning commuters line up outside my window patiently waiting for the traffic light to change. Their faces tell of exhaustion from the morning of work that the night of snowfall has created. I can see the gas station is starting to buzz with drowsy customers needing a strong coffee and a fresh glazed donut. Some patrons are standing outside pumping gas, jumping up and down, and breathing into cupped hands trying to get warm. Delivery drivers unpack cartons of much needed supplies. The small wheels of their dollies, loaded with the essentials of milk, eggs and bread, barely make onto the freshly shoveled sidewalk of the store front.
The snow hasn’t stopped yet. The wind is blowing violently in all directions making swirls of snowflakes appear to dance to their own silent song. I have seen blizzards like this before in my hometown of
I think it’s because when the first snowfall of the year dusts our faces and we look skyward with a smile, we welcome it like an old friend returning from a long journey. It’s watching children’s faces when they finally get bundled up to go outside and create snow angels and make-shift igloos. Its neighbors helping neighbors dig out and lend a hand without complaint or reason. It’s a good snowball fight no matter what age you are. It’s something that not everyone may get to experience in a lifetime. I read a saying somewhere that “Nature is the art of GOD” and we his audience. Our nature can be so unpredictable at times, but it will still go on challenging us and so we will accept its challenge and live on.
Carisa's Creations by Carisa J. Burrows is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Living In Shadows
Skye’s hand tensely gripped through the diamond grate covering her south facing window.
She stood petrified staring at the hospital grounds below. The freshly cut lawn was buzzing with orderlies, patients and charge nurses. It was a hot, cloudless summer day; her worst nightmare.
La
Nothing about this place was warm or comforting. It was as cold, bleak and bland as its name, ‘the white house.’
Since her admittance, Skye had developed several obsessive compulsive disorders and phobias caused by reliving the death of her mother years ago. This included a fear of sunlight and an obsession with odd numbers.
She was forcibly mandated through treatment to spend one hour daily outdoors to conquer her fear. This required an immense amount of planning from her third story window. Because of her illness she plotted movements to coincide with the direction of the sun and the shadows it made.
Now, I can sit in the shade of the willow tree for thirteen minutes fifty-one seconds. Then, I’ll move to the shadow of the north facing wall for three minutes seventeen seconds. Then to the gazebo’s
It was exactly one hour, cut into five parts, made up of all odd numbers.
Perfection, she thought proudly.
“Attention please: one o’clock medications.”
A nurse’s voice rang over the loud speaker startling Skye out of her compulsive trance.
She slowly dragged herself away from the window and down the long, stark hallway. Her finger traced the grout line between every other cinder block of the wall while happily counting to herself.
1…3…5…7…
Halfway down the corridor, a note slid out from under a door. The words ‘READ ME’ were written on the outside. She opened it cautiously.
Come in and visit me. The door is unlocked. Jeremy.
It came from inside room 313. Its occupant was never seen by patients. Nurses delivered medications and meals to him through a small flap in the iron door.
Skye knocked, and then opened the door cautiously. There, huddled in the corner, was an ordinary boy of about thirteen.
“They took my Superman cape. It makes me brave. Help me.”
Skye remembered noticing the red satin cape in the orderly’s trash cart.
“I’ll help you,” said Skye.
Suddenly, an alarm sounded.
“It’s room 313, someone opened his door”, yelled an orderly, mopping the hallway.
Within a second the small boy lunged at Skye and pinned her to the ground.
“Thank you. My beautiful
A nurse ran into the room, pierced a syringe into his neck and he blacked out instantly.
“What are you doing in here?”
“He asked me to help him,” Skye said trembling.
“Don’t come in here again. It’s not safe. Go get your medications.”
In front of the medication line was a large bald man with a cut off left ear.
“Ruff!” He barked at the nurse giving the medications and crawled away on all fours.
“Don’t worry,” said Nurse Redding “He’s harmless. He thinks he’s a one eared dog. So, Ms. Skye Evans, 4 milligrams risperidone, 3 milligrams lorazepam, and 1250 micrograms of vitamin D.”
“Where’s Nurse Miller today?” Skye asked.
“She says she has H1N1 and refused to come to work. I think it’s a lousy excuse. Melvin, an orderly, called off for the same reason. The rumor is they’re helping each other ‘get better’ somewhere.”
Too much information, thought Skye as she popped her meds and went to the resident’s common area.
“Hey Skye, check out this headline”, said a resident, reading today’s newspaper. “Your sister’s book is number one on the best sellers list.”
There it was, just above The Dethroning of King Stanistovia: The Fall of an Empire. Living In Shadows was a book based on Skye’s life with OCD. She was speechless that her sister published a book that was rooted in such tragedy.
Their mother, a devout alcoholic, as if it were her religion; downed a fifth of vodka’s finest and slipped into a bath. While gawking and screaming obscenities at a neighbor lady hanging wash through the bathroom window, she seized. The tub overflowed. She lost consciousness and drowned. Skye found her body later that day.
“What goes around comes around. She asked for it,” said her sister sarcastically.
Skye went into a near catatonic state a week after the death. She was admitted to the La Casablanca for psychiatric treatment soon after. That was seventeen years ago.
Sadly, Skye still sits trapped by her illness and will possibly hide in the shadows for good.
Friday, January 1, 2010
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