Early in dem mornin'

It was early in dem morninn, at the end, before their beginnin … before we knew anythin about anythin, before we felt safer and never ‘gainst. Moonlight in dem nights terror moments makes a circle round all of dem whats good. Not everyone can see her but mine blind eyes blessed by dem Ones could see clear her halos in relief.

“Watcha gonna do to dem dere angry runts dem Constantine?

He just lookin round his eyes so wide and beautiful like dem stars beyond the way beyond. After dem minutes she tell time day gonna run I turn and see he stop and washed with tears and dem trembling.

“For Holy Soul such a time you have with dem washin your face so pretty! Cantcha wait dem Constatine for yer relaxin later?!”

I keep dem runnin.

Wakin' Up in Winchester

This is a story idea about an enlisted man that is killed and then wakes up to find he is part of an ancient organization of what are called "Grims".

Grims are responsible for witnessing all deaths in the world.

The first chapter is the short story I wrote two years ago, "12:01".

This, the Second Chapter, takes place at the end of the Second Battle of Winchester in 1863.

"Awakin sound is the first miracle of a dead man. Soaked in mud and blood with an old dog lying at my side, I thanked the Lord for letting me die beside a friend and if for nothin’ else, cuz it was the last warm thing I felt."

I got up and soon realized that death was nothing like the preacher said.

I remember when my ol’ pappy told me he used t’ hear voices after people died, not in his head mind you, but near the bodies. I used t’ think he was maybe high on his own lightnin’, if y’ take my meanin’, but now I know ... Death follows you as certain as God’s will.

There was still fightin goin on but I wasn't part of it. It's like they didn't even notice. I stood in horror, impotent, and screamed while Ewell's forces howled like banshees as they set our tents alight ... a sound I may never forget while I am amongst the livin.

I was dead surely but where was God’s voice? Where was his Archangel Michael? Where was St. Peter? Suddenly I realized I could see through my hand … through everything. I wasn’t made of flesh anymore but mist. Mist that only I could see …

“Zachariah?”

It was a voice I recognized but still I was frightened … Grams died 15 years or so …

“Zach, you hear me boy?”

It was her, still telling me what to do.

I turned around and nearly fainted, if that’s what ya call it when your flesh is spiritual.

She was standin before me like the old crow she was but even more menacing, I shuddered,

“Ya Gram I hear you. What are you doin here? You been dead nearly 15 years?”

For the first time I can remember, the old lady smiled,

“I’m here because you are a worthless human being and you need help boy!”

I paused and wondered if maybe I was dreamin.

“WAKE UP STUPID! You ain’t sleepin, you’re dead just like me.”

I fell down but nothing touched me, and then everything went black.

In an instant, I felt the hands of my Gran round my neck as she pulled me from the darkness,

“BOY ARE YOU CRAZY! THIS AIN’T NO TIME TO SLEEP!”

It was like I was wakin from a nightmare of the kind you get when you got a fever, then I felt a slap.

“I said WAKE UP BOY! You can’t leave us now!”

I heard angels singin and then the sound of the ocean like I was dreamin of Folly and I thought, I don’t need to fight no more…

And then I felt another slap, only harder…

“DAMMIT! YOU NO GOOD SON OF A BASTARD! DON’T YOU LEAVE YOUR OL’ GRAM HERE TO CLEAN UP YOUR GOD DAMN MESS! Jesus save me.”

And my eyes opened, and there she was again, standing over me, and if mist could have a color, I’d say her cheeks were pink,

“Stop hittin me GRAM, I’m awake!”

The Lost ReD Poppy aka. the end of WWI

“Isn’t there seed neath your apron Mattie?” I asked but knew the answer before she spoke,

“Aye, there is. Seed from your garden, and the like,” she answered with a smile.

I felt relieved.

“The trail leads us all Mattie, whether the flowers bloom or not,” I said in earnest.

Mattie reached into her apron and pulled out a remembrance poppy and gave it to me.

“Lead that,” she said.

I took the flower and raised it up. It shined like a blood red sky with a black sun in the middle.

“Mattie, you sure no one will notice?” I asked with a smirk.

She stood and stared while I pinned it above my tit, “I doubt anyone will care John,” she said with a note of sadness in her voice.

Johnny and the Devil

Johnny was dancin with th edevil nice and slow, like lovers on their last dance.

I stood there and watched in amazement, all slack jaw and wide-eyed,

finally I called out, “You can’t do that Johnny Boy! That Devil is gonna BURN you son!”

But Johnny just smiled at me, like he knew better.

He was dancin on that fire boy, not burnin!

And I laughed and cried like a wild man let loose,

“You go now Johnny Boy! YOU GO NOW SON!

DANCE like you ain’t never gonna see the sun rise again!

DANCE NOW BOY!”

And they danced, and they danced, and then suddenly Johnny started to scream out in a sweat,

“I FEEL IT BOY! I FEEL THE HEAT! I FEEL IT!”

It was like waking from a dream. I got up off the floor, my eye’s were aflame, dried streaks of sweat and tears upon my cheeks and I screamed like I was a god,

“JOHNNY DON’T YOU LET THAT OL’ DEVIL TAKE YOU! DON’T YOU GO!”

But I was too late.

Johnny and the Devil were gone.

Mowing Normandy

I remember the smell of grandfather’s beard, the smell of his polyester shirts. I remember how his skin folded in creases on his forehead, the liver spots. I remember he was a great man, survived the invasion of Normandy,

“Hey Grandpa, tell me about the War. Tell me about the Invasion. Did you have to kill anyone?”

Grandpa didn’t look at you when he told stories, as if he was recalling the event straight from a vision only he could see. He would rest his head on his hand, with his index finger aside his nose, and his thumb below his chin, and then he would start talking,

“There isn’t much to say, I was just trying to stay alive. Bullets were flying everywhere. Men were falling like rag dolls. There was lots of blood and flashes, and screaming. I just kept running, running away from the bullets.”

He paused to adjust his black, horn-rimmed glasses, as if replacing the first memory with the next.

“Did you have to kill anyone?”

He looked up at me, “Who knows? Not then. Why are you so interested in killing?”

I felt guilty but didn’t know why. I thought about it for a minute, my grandfather’s steely grey eyes still upon me, waiting with infinite patience.

I shrugged, “I don’t know. I guess I wonder what it feels like …to…to kill a man.”

I waited for him to respond, and waited. He took off his glasses and pulled a dingy hanky from his pant pocket and began wiping the lenses.

“What benefit is it to you to know what I felt? You’re not me.”

He put his glasses back on and again rested his head on his hand and stared at me. A soft breeze came through the window behind us and blew the curtain gently inward. I looked outside. It was a brilliant summer day in the Bay Area.

I watched the neighbor mowing his lawn. For a moment, I fantasized, he and I were locked in mortal combat on the TURF PRO sod outside his house. I snapped out of it.

“Still, I want to know what you felt, whether it applies or not.”

He pursed his lips and took a deep breath through both nostrils, and then exhaled. He sat up,

“I felt nothing, except fear. Fear of dying, fear of living, fear of killing.”

Then he walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, pulled out a beer, and went out back to sit by the pool. While I watched our neighbor mowing our lawn.