He’s making a list
Burning it twice
Last year he got pissed
and gave me lice
Krampus is coming to town!
He sees you as he’s creeping
He knows you just cooked a cake
He knows if you’ve been bad or good
So hand it over a life’s at stake!
Oh, ya better watch out,
Better not cry
Better not shout
Unless you wanna die
Krampus is coming to town!
He puffed out his chest
Dressed himself to impress
Feathers spayed
He displayed
His pride one more time
“Gobble! Gobble!”
We pulled him from the rest
Cornbread taste test
Basting him with fake butter spread
Over him we prayed
Of him a feast made
Serve him up with wine
“Gobble! Gobble”
Fate hasn’t cut my deck of cards
‘Aces are high’ he calls
When I draw a 2
And ‘Low!” when I need Blackjack
I wouldn’t bet my life on the 16 I’m holding
But I’ll call you on that 21
Everyone’s holding a 21 it seems
Everyone but me
Deal again!
Hit me! Hit me!
I’m over! I’m under
‘Aces high!’ I smile finally
A 21 with a Jack or a King
Hell, I still feel like a Queen
Hit me again fellas, I’ll take all your chips
I’ll take them Havanas from your puckered lips
Charleston, South Carolina
July 1876
Ava DeMeritt say in the bay window as her mother flew around the room. She dipped her brush into the red, swirled it around with orange, trying the capture the sunset on canvas.
“You are not to see that boy again? You hear?”
Her lips quirked, her nose twitched. Her brushstrokes were feather light.
“Your mother’s right,” came her father’s faltering voice.
Ida huffed. “Oh don’t listen to this lout. If it wasn’t for you and those God forsaken cards,” she said, waving her hand at the empty room.
Ava glanced at window, contemplating hurtling herself from it. She focused on the fleeing sun.
“And for God’s sake stop that infernal painting! No man will love you–”
“But Joshua thinks-”
“I said a MAN, not a dreamer.”
“What is a man without his dreams,” Ava wondered. “Is that not what separates us from the lower beasts?”
She closed her eyes against her mother’s fury, fists, shouts. She winced as her mother ripped the unfinished piece from the easel and flung it against the wall.
“Ida, Ida stop, she didn’t mean it!” Her father said. He latched on to the fiery sprite, ushering her to a corner.
The two shuffled out of the room, leaving Ava to her now ruined painting.
“Miss Ava?” Cece asked. “Is you ok?”
“Yes ma’am.”
CeCe walked to the wall and picked up the painting. “Did you see that boy again?”
Ava smiled.
“I done told you Mrs. DeMeritt wasn’t gonna like it.” CeCe shook her finger at Ava, then cracked a grin. “Did he kiss ya?”
“I kissed him!”
“Atta girl!” CeCe laughed and limped over with the painting. “I’m ‘fraid she did a number on this one baby.”
She looked down at Ava.
“Mama wants me to marry a bank account.”
“Ain’t you folks got enough money?”
Ava looked CeCe in the eye. “Daddy lost at cards again.” She gripped the brush harder. “Mama says it’s the Devil’s agent.”
CeCe pretended to faint. “Lord help me Jesus. This might be the first time I agreed with that woman.”
She looked at the painting. “Why don’t you sell your paintings?”
Ava snorted. “I can only copy, not do original paintings. Originality sells.”
“I noticed.” CeCe looked around, then rushed to close the door. She pulled out a dollar bill.
Ava put her hands up. “No, no that’s your’s.”
“Damn right baby. Take a look at this.”
Ava took it gently. “Why? It’s a dollar bill.”
CeCe grinned. “Is it now?”
“Well it looks like any other dollar bill I’ve ever seen.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out one.
She held them both up to the dying sunlight, wishing they hadn’t had to sell those lamps. CeCe waited.
“Son of a gun,” Ava said. “Is this funny money?”
CeCe nodded. “It sure don’t grow on trees. I got a business proposition for you, if you want to.”
Ava shoved the dollar bill back at her. “CeCe you could go to jail for this. The government doesn’t like to be beaten at their own game you know.”
“Guess you want to marry that bank account, huh baby?”
Ava pouted and inspected her bill again.
“I got a brother, I bet he’d teach you. But you better not forget me.” CeCe pointed at the empty room. “I know I’m next.”
Ava picked up her painting and nodded at CeCe.
“I’m all ears.”
I disagree that love is seeing all flaws and accepting them.
That is infatuation.
Love would not stand for mistreatment.
Love is just. She would not turn her eyes from the sins that are thrust upon the innocent. Love rewards love, while she spurns hate. Pain and sorrow are her enemy.
Laying down her weapons To bed with the Devils? No.
That is not love, but fear. Love knows fear well and she despises him. Fear declares war on love and acceptance. He would hold them hostage. They would tremble under his rule. He would make them marionettes. For when fear is done playing with his dying victims, he rends their clothing and dresses himself up. It is in this way that he goes to fool the innocent, preying upon their rich, creamy souls for sustenance.
Love accepts flaws, not fear nor mistreatment.
Love is married to trust and respect. Together they beget a wonderful family together: honor, humility, grace, courage, empathy, and of course more love and respect.
Without trust, without respect, we lose everything.
If someone can not be trusted or does not respect those around them, you can not love them. They can not love you.
Trust and respect starts with ourselves. We must trust and respect AND DEMAND it in return.
That is the only way LOVE overcomes flaws.
Part 6
Marjorie shifted the rubble around with her hands, calling out in the darkness.
“Jolie? Jolie!” Her voice was close to giving out now. She coughed.
Her eyes swept over the scene, once, twice, but no hand nor foot could be seen.
“Jolie,” she whispered through tears.
“Marj, I think she’s gone,” Edie said, bouncing a bawling Tavis on her hip. She held up a lantern covered in soot.
They had huddled together in the shelter beneath the barn when the bomb dropped. Hours of digging each other out had followed.
“No. No, we’re going to find her, even if it’s to give her a proper funeral.”
Tavis sniffled, Edie’s stomach growled.
Marjorie stopped. She had made a promise to keep them ALL safe and she had failed.
She coughed and stood up. “Have you found any meat?”
Edie nodded. “The food cellar is intact.”
Marjorie threw her hands up and thanked the Virgin Mary.
“We need wood and pots and water,” she said, ticking them off her fingers. “And oil.”
“Let’s build it close to the barn.”
Marjorie perked up. She could keep looking for Jolie.
Edie looked at her older sister and felt her heart break. Marjorie was trying so hard to be their mother, but she wasn’t a day over 17. She handed a fussy Tavis to Marjorie.
“You get what you can from the pantry.” She pointed to a spot by the apple orchard. “I’ll look around for firewood.”
They built a small fire and Marjorie hung two small hens to roast. She kept her eyes on the debris pile.
Marjorie sat Tavis on her lap and played with him for a bit. After a bit, Edie offered to go for more wood, but when she turned she stopped cold.
“Marj,” she said softly.
“Hmm?”
“There’s a man over there.”
———–
Part 7
Fleming and Captain Kirkham had split up hours ago trying to search for the rest of the troops.
“I imagine they cut through the forest,” Captain Kirkham said. “There’s farms that way, but there’s a temporary camp that way. The General wanted us all to rendezvous after the battle. You take that path by the barbed wire. I’m cutting to the right. If I don’t see anything by dawn I’ll go back to the path. We should sight them by dawn.”
And if we don’t? seemed to be the unasked question. Fleming was ordered to make for the nearest held village approximately 25 miles away.
“God help you,” Captain Kirkham said, and shook Fleming’s hand.
He waited until the private was out of sight before bolting off to the left. He was going home even if branded a coward. He had to see his Sweet Rita one more time.
But by and by, that leg began to howl at him. Kirkham slowed to a limp, then a crawl.
Around 2 AM he cleared the woods and entered the rolling countryside, or what was left of it. There he caught sight of a fire and without regard to his safety, Kirkham made for it.
There upon the scorched earth were two German girls, a blonde and a brunette, and a boy child roasting guinea fowl.
Nothing smelled sweeter to his nostrils. He stepped into the light and the brunette saw him.
She must have alerted the other because the blonde stood up and passed the child to the other.
“Wer sind Sie?” She said.
———–
Part 8
The snow hissed beneath Fleming`s boots. He kept to the designated path for about 300 yards before turning back to see if Captain Kirkham had followed.
He veered to the right, heading towards the temporary headquarters. By now night had folded around the forest, dark and cold. Fleming imaged it was a cloudless night, though he could not see through the blackened tree boughs. It had always been colder on clear evenings.
Daddy had always said clouds were like God`s blankets. Well Fleming didn`t know about GOD, but he could do with a blanket and a stout.
In the distance he heard voices and Fleming threw himself down, and loaded his service pistol.
He thought of the Captain and his “fellow” soldiers when he took out the men.
The Lt cursed at him while Fleming dug into his pockets for tobacco and weapons He spit on the dying man, and stripped him naked.
He made camp late that night, greeted with a rowdy “Hallo Fitz!”
Fleming delighted in their screams as he lobbed his looted grenades.
———–
Part 9
Marjorie nearly choked on her heart as the man stared back at them.
All the months of hiding, scrounging for food seemed for not.
Marjorie turned to her siblings, kissed them both. If God would have no mercy, then perhaps the devil would.
It was then she noticed the man’s gaze shift to her sister Edie.
She shuddered. So it was to be like that.
“Wie sine sie?” She asked. Who are you?
“A friend.”
Tall, slim, high cheek bones, she could practically see a Union Jack branded on his uniform.
He began to walk their way, with a noticeable limp.
“I mean you no harm. I’m cold.” He pointed at the fire.
Marjorie pointed at the ground, “that’s far enough.”
She signaled to Edie, who kicked the rifle to her. Picking it up, she swallowed her heart down, hoping the gun would still fire and that he couldn’t see her terror.
Edie pulled some meat off the spit and began to divide it up.
The man was looking at Edie again, like he would devour her.
“She’s not on the menu. But I am.”
———–
Part 10
Private Fleming slept for the first time in months. Not the uneasy sleep of a soldier in battle, nor the vigilant sleep of a new mother, but the sleep of a child. He never thought slaughtering so many would bring about such a feeling, that it would be so refreshing.
Gone were the feelings of remorse. He no longer wondered if he would in other circumstances greet his appointed enemies as drinking buddies. No. He was what his country had always dreamed of in a soldier: a killing machine. A tank. Yes, Private Fleming would like to be their tank: untouchable, unflappable about his duty. A tank had no business in dealing with regret, it only dealt in misery and death.
However, tank is a man-machine, and Fleming was a man made into a machine. Someday he feared he would remember that distinction.
But as he dreamed of ploughing the farm and watching his children feed the chickens, Fleming was at ease. Tonight was a respite from guilt and memories.
Part 1
The men were singing “Sally Let Your Hair Down” to the stamping of the guns. Flasks passed up and down the ranks, Fleming savored his watered down bourbon. He bounced his feet and blew on his hands, but was too far from the fire.
Fleming patted his chest down, then remembered he was out of rolling paper.
“Here.” Captain Kirkham thrust a lit fag into his hand.
“Cheers.” He held the crumpled cigarette like it was fine china.
Fleming tossed him the flask and was soon under the spell of the first tobacco he’d had in weeks that hadn’t tasted like mud or horse shit. Mud was everywhere. In his hair, on his clothes, in his shoes, underwear. Fleming polished his service rifle with muddy rags and he shaved with rusty mud caked razors. What he wouldn’t give for a little sunshine.
He’d read about monsoon season during his studies, but the private had not expected to endure them in France. It’ll snow soon, he thought. I’ll freeze my socks off but it will be damn sight better than all this rain.
The Captain appeared lost in his own thoughts so Fleming was loath to break the silence. In this manner they sat until the marching orders were issued.
—————–
Captain Kirkham sat next to the private listening to the distant gunners in the waning daylight. The rain had let up and he felt the need to step away from the men a moment. He pulled out a creased photo of his lady and rubbed it between his fingers a minute.
He smoked the fag down to the ashes, just thinking of Sweet Ida with her rosy cheeks and ample bottom. He liked to slap her buns and give them a good squeeze. “Mmm, darling that must be jelly cause jam don’t shake like that.”
If he ever got home he’d make her his for all time. They’d have a couple of little kiddies, maybe he’d buy a little farm. At that last thought, he smiled. He, who’d never been on a horse before the war, he with a farm. What a notion.
A runner brought him the marching orders, and Captain Kirkham stood, heart faltering in his chest. This was it. All of his training in leadership, all of his fears realized. He was to lead a charge at the opposing trenches. Sure , he’d directed a few from the camp headquarters, but they didn’t have enough officers to spare. Captain folded the paper up and gestured to Fleming.
“Get your rifle in order.”
His left foot ached and sang for his attention, but Kirkham had to ignore it now. If he lived, maybe he could get a clean pair of socks or see the medics. He called the men to attention.
“Gentlemen! Now’s the time not for words but for swords, guns, for blood and for tears! Now, draw your weapons and go!”
—————–
Part 3
Marjorie was in the barn when the first blast woke her. Boards, nails, and tack clanked to the ground, covering the trap door. She huddled there with her sisters and nephew.
“Who is it?” Little Jolie asked. She held a copy of His manifesto in her shaking hands.
“I can not tell.” To her ears, all of the guns sounded the same, though she knew that the GM had better technology. Bigger guns, she reasoned. More dead.
Boom! They could hear screaming above the debris crashing down. Then voices shouting in a mixture of German and French.
“Why are they bombing us? Aren’t we their allies?” Edie asked.
She stared at her little sisters and wished they had the childhood she was allowed instead of it being taken from them. They had their lives still, but they lived them in constant fear of their own countrymen. What kind of life was that? Was not death better?
“I don’t think He has any allies, only people who are useful,” said Marjorie. She looked at their gaunt faces, and she reached out to little Tavis. No, she must think of the future.
“Get some sleep, we will be down here for some time.”
—————–
Part 4
The rain formed a curtain between private Fleming and the enemy line. Beyond it he could make out the dark shapes of the guns and men scrambling out of the trenches. They reminded him of a fire ant nest, the workers swarming out to protect the queen. As he advanced, men cried out in anger, fear, and pain.
Fleming found himself cowering behind fallen bodies more than he was firing.
His measly rifle felt no match for the machine guns, and he was saving the grenades. For what, Fleming couldn’t say, he just wanted to get closer and take out as many as possible in a single attack.
The battle reached a crescendo of blasts and screams while the temperature steadily dropped. Fleming huffed on his raw hands and then he heard a hiss. Then he lose consciousness.
He was floating then ,up and away from the blackened earth He prayed to God this was death, but God had a sense of humor.
Fleming came to at twilight, his body quivering under a thin layer of snow and mush. Shots echoed across the field now and then, but the great openness had transformed into a scene from Dante’s Inferno. He could not tell then, who was the victor, and Fleming supposed that victories are meaningless to the dead.
He began to creep towards his target again. Whether he would be greeted by a barrel of ale or gun, Fleming could not say. Both were better than freezing to death.
—————–
Part 5
Captain Kirkham was shivering and thinking about his Sweet Rita again. He’d lost sensation in his leg and had a hole in his shoulder trickling blood.
All around him laid his comrades and his enemies in the muddied snow. If not for the darker boots, he would not have told them apart. He pulled himself up and surveyed the damage.
A thought occurred to him. A treasonous thought, a cowardly thought. Why continue? This wasn’t his war, this wasn’t his land. Sod them all. Captain sat up straighter. He reached for his dog tags and stopped when he heard groaning to his right.
Stealing a rifle from the corpse next to him, Captain limped closer. An enemy soldier lay there writhing, his hands firmly attached to his abdomen. Blood escaped between his interlaced fingers. The man saw Captain Kirkam and began to reach for a weapon. Kirkham could see his intestines.
He pointed at the man’s stomach and to his own eyes. The soldier set down his weapon and shook his head. Captain Kirkham made the sign of the cross and put him out of his misery.
There was no satisfaction in killing his fellow man, but in giving the man an honorable death, he found peace for a few minutes.
It was nightfall when Captain Kirkham reached the enemy trenches, and there he found Fleming passed out. Sleep sounded like a sweet respite now. He would lay down and ask the private where the men were, but for now he settled against the shaking form and closed his eyes.
I haven’t been updating like I should, but I promise to rectify this by reposting a few older stories until I get back into the swing. I will try to link my multi part stories together as well.
As always, thank you for your patience and support. It is an absolute joy to read and interact with every single one of you.
Versed in courage, pain,
And war, thy strength in wounding
Liars and tyrants alike, thy
Herculean acts deserve
A greater spoil than just
Lying in earthly tomes forgotten
Lichen laden memories of thy honor but save today
Always thou have deserved our thanks, great warrior
Stephanie Harmon clutched the microphone in her gloved hands, her pasted on smile almost a grimace. Her eyes darted to the right where a lanky man leaned against the station van. A suit.
“Ready?” Wendy asked her, adjusting the camera.
Stephanie nodded, swallowed hard. “Just the cards?”
“And nothing more.” The man lit a cigarette, the smoke blowing back in Stephanie’s face.
The camera woman gave a thumbs up. “We’re on in 3…”
She coughed.
“2….AND…”
“This is Stephanie Harmon reporting to you live from Oak Ave. An “attempted” detonation of a biological weapon this morning around 9:05 am by the Court House has claimed the lives of 4 officers and 10 civilians. The CDC has ID’d the pathogen and asserts that it only causes mild side effects. ..”
Stephanie coughed. She swallowed, her smile faltering.
“We ask that if anyone works or lives in a 5 mile radius that they report to Mercy General for a free examination. For more information, please call the station or the CDC help line on the screen. I’m Stephanie Harmon for News Channel 6.”
“And…we’re clear,” Wendy said.
Stephanie peeled of her gloves, the skin blistered and turning black. She hissed and stared at the suit.
“Was that alright?” she asked.
“Perfect.” He pulled out his 9mm and shot her before beckoning to the ambulance to pass by.
Wendy recoiled, the brain matter splattering all over her and the tripod. “Do you mind? This shit’s expensive.”
He turned and spat, “Put it on my tab.”
Wendy packed up her camera and the body, dreading the outbound traffic on the massive government set.
She passed dozens of ambulances bearing body bags and mangled corpses on the way back to the CDC.
A Study in Equinoxes 