About
AndrewOstrowski.com is committed to advancing the principles of philanthropy, spirituality, and humanitarianism, supplemented by a driving desire to adventure both physically and intellectually.
Who is Andrew Ostrowski? "I am a singer of songs. I also juggle" as Antoninus tells Spartacus. Ostrowski defines himself as a mild Polemicist and a fierce Apologist, often challenging mainstream complacency thinking on moral and ethical issues, preferring to put forth highly controversial topics for exposure. Rather than succumb to the "popular vote" on many issues, Ostrowski chooses to take the narrower, less traveled road in life...and death.
Nothing manifests this philosophy more than his appreciation of ancient artifacts and antiquities, outward signs of a culture's inward beliefs. Andrew Ostrowski's modern-day relic hunting resume has earned him the unique title of "Indiana Jones of Staten Island".
In between adventures, Ostrowski takes to the pen, offering a wide array of writings to meet every reader's fancy. Whether it's a 13 line poem about a bird teetering on a tree limb, or a day in the life tale of an upstate New York village, Andrew Ostrowski disinvites readers to merely read, but rather his invitation encourages the contemplative, inductive reasoning of each reader. From poetry, music, and short stories, to news columns, speeches, and novels, Ostrowski continues to "ink" the world over.
Andrew Ostrowski is proud to be Polish. His love for Polish history is surpassed only by his admiration of the Polish people themselves. When not seen in the presence of his Ms. Polonia acquaintances, his plain white T-shirt with red lettering speaks his mind well in declaring: Jeszcze Polska Nie Zgineła!
This website is the brainchild of a handful of introspective thinkers who, like Andrew Ostrowski, are determined to counter our culture's "crap" by putting forth positive exposé on issues that matter, getting people to finally realize that what lies in between "conception and crucifixion" really does mean something and is held accountable to the millisecond, ultimately ensuring our soul's destiny. You are free to choose yours...
Now, Voyager, begin your journey into the world of Andrew Ostrowski.com!
Who is Andrew Ostrowski? "I am a singer of songs. I also juggle" as Antoninus tells Spartacus. Ostrowski defines himself as a mild Polemicist and a fierce Apologist, often challenging mainstream complacency thinking on moral and ethical issues, preferring to put forth highly controversial topics for exposure. Rather than succumb to the "popular vote" on many issues, Ostrowski chooses to take the narrower, less traveled road in life...and death.
Nothing manifests this philosophy more than his appreciation of ancient artifacts and antiquities, outward signs of a culture's inward beliefs. Andrew Ostrowski's modern-day relic hunting resume has earned him the unique title of "Indiana Jones of Staten Island".
In between adventures, Ostrowski takes to the pen, offering a wide array of writings to meet every reader's fancy. Whether it's a 13 line poem about a bird teetering on a tree limb, or a day in the life tale of an upstate New York village, Andrew Ostrowski disinvites readers to merely read, but rather his invitation encourages the contemplative, inductive reasoning of each reader. From poetry, music, and short stories, to news columns, speeches, and novels, Ostrowski continues to "ink" the world over.
Andrew Ostrowski is proud to be Polish. His love for Polish history is surpassed only by his admiration of the Polish people themselves. When not seen in the presence of his Ms. Polonia acquaintances, his plain white T-shirt with red lettering speaks his mind well in declaring: Jeszcze Polska Nie Zgineła!
This website is the brainchild of a handful of introspective thinkers who, like Andrew Ostrowski, are determined to counter our culture's "crap" by putting forth positive exposé on issues that matter, getting people to finally realize that what lies in between "conception and crucifixion" really does mean something and is held accountable to the millisecond, ultimately ensuring our soul's destiny. You are free to choose yours...
Now, Voyager, begin your journey into the world of Andrew Ostrowski.com!
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The Selected Writings
Tales of Bayberry Village
~ Eight ~
Of Pfeffernusse and Gingerbread
Happening upon the Village once again, the mist seemed to lift just as the gentle meander down the cobbled curved road began. An array of poinsettia greeted me, and in the distance the source of the delightfully delicious aroma of gingerbread. The Village fully decked with balls of holly. Wreaths of red and green throughout. Grey puffs exiting from above, while warm pfeffernüsse emerged from within. This was Christmas indeed.
And, as I slowly but surely encircled the frost-covered window of the Bakery, seven little children ran randomly towards the large evergreen, covered completely in snow. Making for their toboggan was I told, and then a dash to the pond of ice.
Once inside, row upon row upon row of freshly baked goods, all in time for the holidays. Minced meat pie stood next to apple. Pumpkin neighbored cream. Coconut custard attentively guarded the eggnog. Stockings full of cut-out cookies. Even the Baker’s daughter, with her longly flowing locks of blond, seemed to fit the occasion. She smiled so sweetfully, hands filled with gingerbread.
Upon departing, the Master Baker himself emerged. A plump little man he was, with a broad smile from cheek to cheek. He was covered in flour, from head to toe, and when he spoke, puffs of white became his breath. Laughing brought down an avalanche indeed. People joyously giggling upon farewell, and little did the plump and jolly round man know, this was the reason.
Peeping into the window of the Clock Factory revealed the hastefully stunning display of carved clock after clock. The Master craftsman and his apprentice disappointed none. In tradition, the coocoo clocks carefully adorned the walls with strings of ivy in candlelight. And it was the job of the apprentice to keep the candles alight at night, so radiantly displaying what was within.
As the Robin recited, evening enveloped. A stop for tea was in order. The kindling of hardwood together with merry song was enjoyed by all at Catherine’s Tea House. Quiet invaded the upstairs room, so to set an atmosphere of contemplation.
Looking out the small colonial multi-paned window, the midnight blue stained with silver sparkles told its tale well. The squirrel fallen gently asleep...
~ Twelve ~
Infusion de Noel
Arriving in ankles covered with snow, the wispy winds waned me side to side. Evergreens bent and swayed, pine plummeting, birch bending. This was Winter. And to the Villager, the heartiest of heart.
Against white, Cardinal red guided me zig-zag through bicolored tree, down hill and over dale, and, into center town was I. The stained glass windows of the Church surreally painted their framework in multi-colored fashion. Hearing hearts singing from within made me feel not without.
And in and out they came, one by one, two by two, three by three. You see, Catherine’s Tea House is a favorite stop among all. Soothing scents of huckleberry, peppermint, and red rose amidst the warm atmosphere and warmer fire, together with cat curled up on a braided rug, in an upstairs chair, in dim light.
The casual stroll down Mulberry Street steering left of pine found me at the stoned steps of the Bakery. Peeking in, the military rollout of delight after delight was closely guarded by the man in white. Topped in a high mushroom hat and very round apron, his eye caught mine, but only for a second.
Exiting, the bundle of buns swung over shoulder, I hesitantly yet deliberately approached the Clock Factory, anxious to hear the tic-toc tic-toc. Black wood, beige face, green bird. The world within a world absorbed me. Time not tethered. And greeted by five silver tuners surrounding a cherrywood knocker, each hitting their high note alone, together a symphony, I was warmly welcomed with a blissful Infusion de Nöel offered with a smile at the Bookshop. Hearts were one.
Strolling to see Chippadee, the pond covered in ice, I sat on a rock. Pine stretched in the mirror of frozen water, the squirrel scurried. Night falling.
Returning to Catherine’s Tea House, I made my way to the upstairs room, up the narrow twisting staircase into a wood planked floor with stoned fireplace. Sipping honeysuckle, standing at window’s edge, the dark and light shades flickered against stone. The cat moved not. Flurries fell amidst the midnight blue, the whisper of pine needles in flight.
~ Fourteen ~
Firefly
Tiptoeing, and careful not to startle the seven little kittens cautiously and collectively about, I made my way into the garden. Tucked away behind birch, and a stone’s throw from the pond, the town-kept array of vegetable and flower, herb and rose, Lily upon Lily, and red raspberry too kept me in full spirit. In the effervescence of a morning sunbeam, I entered. Bean to the right, berry to the left.
Proceeding, the winding cobbled stone took me into its world. Cucumber for lunch, thought I. Carrot to follow. The small Sundrop spheres of yellow glistened radiantly amidst the towering green, sunlight dancing off of their skin, and into my eye. I dare not disturb them, small succulent ones. Under limb, over limb, passing parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. And climbing to the heavens, Impatiens here, there, and everywhere. Red, orange, purple…and violet and white too!
Two toads tanned themselves tirelessly at pond’s edge. And, sitting serenely on the white colonial bench, The Premier Book of Major Poets, opened to page 22. The sun now overhead, in full blossom, Marigold too. The gentle cascading of a twelve-bar windchime lulled me asleep…awoken only by the Church bell tolling tediously from afar.
And into the Village was I! You see, Summer is quite special to the townsfolk. Passing the Clock Factory, I purposely peeked and pondered the latest design. Scrolled hand-cut maple face, bright brass workings, and painted in a red and green patina. His spectacles sat peacefully amid the echoing tic-toc tic-toc.
And with not a soul in sight, jubilantly and joyously leaped I into the Bookshop, only to find Cynthia awaiting. We talked and talked and talked, she emerging more beautifully with each syllable, me wishing not to depart. Graciously accepting a dewdrop, I bade farewell. Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweet sorrow.
Even the Postman cared not to continue. He, seated near the water well, close to the large evergreen, in full Postal attire. A cohort of Cardinal overhead, in decidedly Mozartian fashion. And, dashing to the pond, I followed. One, two, three, more! Filbert after filbert, the squirrel left none to spare. Crossing the stone bridge, with the wispy winds rattling their rage of pine, I once again glanced to see the apparition apparent. Sixteen seconds of serenity, broken only by a bass below.
Returning to the town proper, and tempted to down a five-cents glass of lemonade, I continued. Again, met with sternness and serenity, savoir-faireness and surreality, smilelessness and simplicity, the two stood studiously side by side. He, with his bravado. Her, with her beauty. I preferred the latter. “Seven-seeded rolls?” positively asked she. “Certainly,” positively replied me. And all the while the Baker looking quite the father figure indeed. Until we meet again...
Evening encircled the tiny Village, its warm winds carrying the firefly. Ten thousand stars above, guiding me, guarding me. Drawing closer and closer, I once again settled in my favorite chair with my favorite flavor, on top of the crickety crackety floor in an upstairs room of Catherine’s Tea House. The fireplace preparing for Winter. The cat upon my lap. And, rocking back and forth in maple, closing my eyes, I dreamed the dreams of Fall, and another tale to be told…
~ Sixteen ~
Cynthia
“All in the merry month of May, when green buds they were swellin’, young Willie Grove on his death-bed lay, for love of Barbara Allen.” There I stood, leaning against the colonial multi-paned windowsill, eyes closed, cheeks puffed, and head swaying back and forth. The gentle array of snowflake cascading upon me under the amber glow of a lantern above. And not a soul in sight.
Peeking in, the six stood serenely as one amidst a radiant fire. One seated, the bass I believe, with alto-soprano on his lap. Her eyes spoke of simplicity, bright and blue they were, with chestnut flavored hair gathered back in a bow. Tenor tethered to a chair, with companion locked in arm. And as the pianist played the beautiful ballad, the alto reached high, high above even the snowflake it seemed. She was dressed in beige and blue period gown, white ruffles, and red bonnet. “He sent his servant to her door, to the town where he was dwellin’, Haste ye come, to my master’s call, if your name be Barbara Allen.” There they sang, and there I stood.
Retiring to feather bed, I listened closely to the tic-toc tic-toc of an old grandfather. Tall and stout was he, deep maple body, aged melancholy face, iron movement. The clock struck twelve, and sipping the last of a warm vegetable soup with biscuit, I dreamed on...
Christmas in the Village it was. Morning arrived brisk and bubbly, the townsfolk hurrying here and there. In and out they went, shop after shop. “I do not live in men’s hearts one day of the year but in all days of the year,” exclaimed the man selling roasted chestnuts. The hot savory delights contented my spirit.
I strolled along and in and out went I too. There an artisan crafted and contorted a copper weathervane, complete with cock. And there too another fashioned an embroidered throw, in red and green and calypso. And yet another displayed a tiny little Village, with Bakery and Bookshop! The Blacksmith greeted me with chisel in hand and carriage bolt inflamed. His blackened walls told their tale well.
And on the cobbled road back, the sound of hoof after hoof drew nearer and nearer. Four Clydesdales and Coach in full regalia stately surrendered the scene. As they approached, the wispy winds dazzled their hairs as crisp currents sliced through their teeth. The seven little children quickly caught on as escort, and, having to make a decisive decision…I joined them.
Stopping off at the Bookshop, I circled and circled again to see the bounty of bows and wreaths and candy-canes adorning the three-by-three windows. Berry after berry, intertwined with ivy and pinecone, surrounding a pillar candle of white. Without hesitation, I entered. There in the cutest of corners was Cynthia, giving a lesson in harp. Her violet gown, pleated, stood sharply against the single golden bracelet on her wrist. It was a medieval melody she spun.
Just off center town was the annual selling of spirits! And there he was, the quaint little man, his hands in pocket and turtleneck towering. “Harvey’s?” said he. Hastefully but assuredly “Yes,” said me. He talked philosophically, his intonating words roamed and rambled finding no conclusion. “And the spirits that go not forth in life, what then,” said I, “what then?” “They seek to interfere for good...but have lost their power forever,” said he. There’s something about the spirit of the man selling spirits, thought me.
Strolling over to the pond, the sheet of glass being scratched solely by a solo skater. About ten she was, all decked out in white, and with white skates too. Amidst an amphitheater of Cardinal, Chippadee, and Red and Yellow Warbler, the figure of 8 so graciously being engraved. The Sugarplum Fairies danced in my mind.
As evening set, the brilliant stained glass windows of the Church carried its inner light out into my eye. As I approached, a glimpse of head upon head, then shoulder upon shoulder, appeared. “Standing room only, sir!” was the greeting. On ten toes was I, anxious to see and see. “Good King Wenceslas looked out, On the feast of Stephen, When the snow lay round about, Deep and crisp and even.” The soloist, no older than eleven, traded the tune with his counterpart, older than eleven! “Bring me flesh, and bring me wine, Bring me pine logs hither, Thou and I shall see him dine, When we bear him thither.” I stayed until two.
Finding myself in the Yuletide tradition, I dashed to the Tea House for the warmth of a fire. Merry song was made there too! The six hundred wooden soldiers at one foot high stood side by side in the frosty covered multi-paned window. A twelve-horse carousel spun round and round in song.
And happening upon a little lad in sheer delight at the sight of them, he glistened with cheer that only he could know, and contentedly confirmed: “God bless us, every one.”
~ Nineteen ~
The Red and the Rouge
Jagged edged, deepest red, paper thin, vein-like, finger lengthed, and with a tail, a solo leaf cascaded in and out amidst the swirling but serene currents of air. Broken loose by the rattle of a northern wind, as if to set sail from terra firma into oblivion. “Bon voyage,” it would say to its brethren, not knowing where the course of life would take it next. What manner of serpent lies in waiting beneath the sea of air? The long, long voyage embarked to a distant land, a distant place. Fortuitously, it makes its way notwithstanding...
As my eye focused on its flight, I could hear the whisper of wind it sailed upon. The flicker of red then rouge then red then rouge played its game, as it tumbled over itself during the journey. Careless was it, unbound and free. And me, limited by sight, sound, and sensation.
And just as this independent delight so full of flavor and merit reached its limit, two little children all bundled up in blue raced beneath. Their whirlwind brought the leaf to an unforeseen habitat along the banks of the nearby pond. Glistening splendidly was it on a cool October’s end. The residing squirrel dashed here and there, up this way and that way, down and across. And cautious not to disrupt him, I skipped a stone and fell fast asleep.
As the white puffs of cotton-like cloud cover parted, I began to see once again. The Village in the midst appeared in ethereal fashion. Sitting in the haze, rooftop upon rooftop popped up. And against the backdrop of orange, yellow, red, and green, I meandered my way down Maiden Lane. The mistiness took me where it would, through narrow passageways, over steps of stone, and under bridge. The Night Watchman now retired.
Skirting throughout, the Baker’s daughter seemed to zig-zag along, her hair tied up in a morning bun. And to think she didn’t think I thought of her, and she of me. Quiet, meek, sturdy, and steadfast, her serenity and purity captured my heart. To pursue her in phantom fashion I did not. Abiding my time, until a multi-colored groundcover...
“Thirteen, twenty-seven, nine and one quarter!” exclaimed the Clockmaker’s apprentice. The wound movement struck slightly before three. It was housed in maple, with iron hinge and antiqued face. And for mantle, the perfect piece. “I’ll take it,” said me. Bangs and booms emerged from below! His faint yell evolved louder and louder. “Wo ist mein spezielles Ausschnittwerkzeug für Eiche?! Wo ist es?!” I dare not ruffle his edges further by peeking, as the Master maker was busy at work.
Toting my hand-carved precision prize, I tip-toed in to the Bookshop. In a bold attempt to muffle the five-chord windchime atop the front door, I searched and searched, and, within a single sunbeam shining so splendidly through the detailed stained glass window in the distance, it was she.
Surrounded by Chaucer, Dante, and Aquinas, her crestfallen look gazed spiritually into her palms. About one-third of her hair draped over shoulder, seated, serene. Softly spoken words of hello I had given, but barely reaching her.
Something in me would not break the halo overhead. Drawing nearer, she raised her head with eyes of purity, and smiled contentedly. Exiting, I remembered Cynthia.
As I sat on a park bench just across from the Church, I remembered the crookety road coming into the Village. Unseen, unknown by all...but a few. Seven galloped as one alongside, unsaddled and free. Even the blade of grass feared not. Pondering this place, and that to come, I arose from water’s edge.
Evening enveloped, and along the journey to Catherine’s Tea House, deep shades of orange, yellow, red, and green invaded my space. Tall giants, steadfast and stately, stood by my side. Yielded did I to them, and them not to me. Only the stars held higher authority. And beneath, their colorful frown painted pretty the fields of green, and a solo leaf fell once again...
~ Twenty Five ~
A Mid-Summer's Day Dream
It seemed the task for the day, taking up sanctuary beside an old elm. And as I grasped a handful of huckleberry, a surreal wind spinned waywardly above, without the slightest disturbance below. Wisping this way and that way, in and out was its chosen path for today. And I, together with the ground ferret, a northern mockingbird, and two toads, found no recourse but to join this invisible creature of the atmosphere in its song sung serenely o’er the Village.
With eyes closed, we could see notwithstanding the white sunlight reflecting off of the emerald green blades of Rye grass inhabiting the meadow. Attention! was their call to arms in defense of themselves. The pond too painted itself pretty in its mirrored face of foliage.
Departing reality, it appeared we had opted for ideality. Discovering, as some seaworthy explorer of old, vast lands of plenty filled with a bounty of delight. As pumpkins and gourds and edibles of all shapes and sizes lay atop a rectangular table of Thanksgiving, did we see. Or the favor of an Easter morning’s awakening to cocoa and jelly bean.
With a hearty heart and full of gusto, I continued across the park, so delicately not to disturb the dwelling places it harbored. The Church bells tolled, first praising the arrival of the cloudless morning with bold bravado, then later weeping a soft lament as sun hinted to set.
No later than noon however did I make haste for the Bakery. I don’t know the reason for her disposition, but the woman ahead of me twisted and turned yapping this and that, quietly to herself at first, then, turning to me as a second hand turns from two to three, I became the focus of her vocality.
“Pardon me mam, but...” did I say. And pointing ahead, her acoustics had ceased on the instant of the arrival of her apple-turned-over pie. And as if exiting a rain forest, audible sense was replaced by that of smell. Semolina batard caught my nose, then the combination of tarragon-topped pumpernickel biscuit.
Little occupied my mind as I walked to the Bookstore, all the while being tempted by the brown ruffled bag I held as I opened and closed and again opened and closed merely to catch a glimpse of my freshly baked delights. Cynthia awaited me, and I, her. Searching for a tale told by a contemporary of Chaucer, up and down the aisle did I go, unalphabetically arranged, but in order of expression. As if expression had its order, I thought. As if a red-tailed swallow’s code could be deciphered. Or as if a chord struck in E-flat major could be categorized. No no, thought I. Still, her graceful assortment of assorted works proved most enticing to see. And with two nods of two heads, one being she and one being me, we parted graciously.
The Blacksmith nearby hammered his time away amidst the blackened concaves of an aged workshop as a flame kindled red hot iron in the shadows of his person. And through a multi-paned window just out of the corner of my eye did I then see the gallop of a stallion in the distance, as a whitened picket fence highlighted its foreground. What was its plan? Need it be part of me? Need I be part of it? Nonetheless bold, daring, courageous, steadfast, quick-tempered, and free. A lesson learned from the most gallant of companions.
Lastly, about half past five, and together with a trustworthy miniature wall-hanging grandfather shouldered in Herculean fashion along the cobbled stones of Willow Way, did I submit very reluctantly to the Clockmaker. You see, two turns too many of the chime movement lay stricken my friend. A deep mahogany body was it. And now trusted into the hands of the Master craftsman. In anticipation did I wait.
And as the entity of this firmament once again drew near, returning from its course spun round chimney top and through the streets below, like some grey-bearded man being longed for by a child merely of three, I, united with ferret, mockingbird, and toad-tandem had awoken and thus forced to await yet another song to be sung...
~ Twenty Eight ~
May Day
In Springtime, the only pretty ring time birds sing hey ding, A-ding a-ding sweet lovers love the Spring. Round and round and round the wheels of the iron horse spun as I made my way through the Village streets of cobbled stone. The wind whipped its course through my hair, and in spite of the cool, crisp morn, evidenced by an early season teardrop departing my right eye, a look of anxious wanting overtook me. The world of pure imagination besought me on this 25th day of May.
Ascending into the bliss of it all, I halted my expeditiousness at the foot of the Bookshop, where daffodil and daisy greeted me with symbiotic charm. Greeted I to them, and then bearing the beautifulest bountiful smile stood Cynthia. Her radiance on this break of day filled the air with the scent of lilac, or perhaps wisteria to the finer-tuned nostril. Even the purple-colored gown she wore fit the occasion, as the day’s first light reflected playfully through its ruffles and flourishes.
Her hair too spoke with a great deal of duress, though of the accepting type; its interlocking braids, long and lengthy, cascading down the nape of her neck. “Do come in,” she whispered, almost as not to startle the daisy beneath. With no hesitation, I entered to once again glimpse the world of Chaucer, Dante, and Aquinas. But to my astonishment, also caught sight of a few notable works by Tolkien, Du Maurier, and Poe.
Personally opting for the light of Eärendil, I followed the gleam in her eyes to a secluded nook in the shop where she unveiled a collection of five carefully wrapped gems, single pages of original works by Haydn. “Where oh where did you happen upon them?” I offered. Replying with her glistening visage, she got up and walked aimlessly yet meticulously back to the front desk, humming what appeared to echo an excerpt from The Creation. One need not communicate in order to communicate, so it is said. And with that, a parting non-verbal adieu to retrace my steps past daffodil and daisy...
Reflecting for a moment at pond’s edge, brother squirrel and sister sun reiterated to me the ignoramusly colossal and futile, vain, and fruitless dependence we have. Was not the wind speaking its tongue? The cobbles, could they not be heard staggering my body? Or consider the daisy, how much more beautiful could it be than what it is? Therefore, I fathomed then and there, one will need to lose oneself before finding oneself.
Losing myself further, I found myself curiously peeking into the cracked half of a window on the south side of the Clock Factory. A decidedly Alsatian gentleman, sporting ivory-colored overalls, though a bit on the dingy side, kept his focus quite intensely on the workbench before him. ‘Twas another townsfolk’s coo-coo clock being resurrected it appeared.
He then caught sight of me out of the top corner of his left eye and, opening the cracked window where I stood in anticipation, he let out heartily: “Morrrgan, morrrgan! Yaa come in, come in!” Not knowing what to think, not knowing what to say, goose bumps ran up and down my back in sheer delight! You see, it’s a rare day in May when the Clockmaker sports a smile.
He proceeded to show me his countless collection of clattering clocks, each having its own appeal. A brief history in the finer dynamics of pendulum movement, followed by the most pungent of toasted strudel, capped my morning. I pray to see his smile once again, but am doubtful at that...
With the sun overhead, I then galloped in Clydesdale fashion to the Church, where a man swept tirelessly and tirelessly the center walkway. Little did I then realize, it was the Minister.
From riches to rags, prince to pauper, his metamorphosis harkened my interest. “What say you my son?” he shouted from across Willow Way. Yet not until I saw the weathered and worn wrinkles etched from his eyes did I grasp his identity. “Why Reverend, it is you!” I replied completely astonished. I had been under the impression that this sort of field work was done by caretakers. He reassured me that my postulation was simply nothing other than pure imagination.
He proceeded in an exhausted unenergetic tone: “Yes, this sort of thing gives me vigor, it gives me life. Was it not the Saviour who said the first must be last?” “Yes but...,” I humbly began though he then seemed to drift into a surreal, slightly philosophical manner, unaware of my words, rather gazing with a sort of heavenly transparency about his person. I knew not whether to attribute this epiphany to his character or perhaps to his chemistry, for he was clearly tired and worn from his field labor.
Notwithstanding, I listened to his words of wisdom, as he continued: “I wonder, if we will see the last of days yet. My father, and my father’s father, all united again. Lookin’ forward to tendin’ their gardens am I. Yup, I thought about it for a long time, still do mind you, what it must be like, what will happen to all those people not acceptin’.”
By his words I inferred his reference to the Parousia, the Apocalypse, and let him continue uninterrupted. “Shame, terrible shame. All they got to do is accept. But they choose to take the other route, why? Been askin’ myself why all along. Can’t seem to understand it. If you had a choice, would ya choose sun like today or rain?...hahaha,” pointing up to the sky. Again his eerie words made inference to what I took as one’s spiritual outlook in life, and after death. Fading into the mid-afternoon sun, he proceeded to blend back into the field...
Discovering myself no sooner seated in a hardwood chair in a cranny at Catherine’s Tea House, I reclined to taste the latest concoction offered. Looking out the multi-paned colonial style window beside me, I began to see the pattern of gait with which each Villager tread.
As my eyes began to close, their stride zig-zagged in a colorful pattern which echoed throughout my mind like some Van Gogh, or more precisely, perhaps Seurat. Realizing once again that, there’s no earthly way of knowing which direction they are going, there’s no knowing where they’re rowing, or which way the river’s flowing. I had then fallen to sleep...
~ Twenty Nine ~
Willoughby
And as a gentle cascade of snowflake fell upon me, I took once again to the curved crooked path before me. Dancing amidst shadows of bending birch and towering pine, effervescent beams of sunlight played its game of hide and seek. Capturing the heart of squirrel, Chippadee, and ferret, the forest primeval joined in unison, as did I. And no sooner had the sun reached its crescendo were my eyes opened once again bearing witness to bliss. As a cohort of Cardinal guided me through the air of white, I sensed something long forgotten, lost, and far, far away. My reality now giving way to its surreality…
Into the Village was I. Finding few words of introduction, the Blacksmith along the way offered a simple barter…a nod for a nod, and I accepted. His blackened face told well his tale to be told; quiet, steadfast, and free. Indifferent to the soot smeared on his cheek, his smile graciously paved my way.
Seven Clydesdales galloped as one just to my left. In perfect form were they, paralleling the wooden fence which tethered them, yet desireless at leaping it. Fourteen sparkles of light emanated, bouncing off of their eyes to kiss the afternoon sky.
More beautifully adorned than ever, the Bookshop’s red and green festive wear climbed its walls and highlighted its windows. Proving too irresistible, I beckoned once again to hold her beauty in my heart. And in a fleeting moment, through a frost-covered colonial multi-paned window off to the side, did I hear the soft echoing of an interlude in A-flat minor. As the delicate fingers of her right hand spun across a golden harp, her pale complexion radiated with each passing note. Dare not I step into her shadow, nor do I tempt another glance, and, closing my eyes, I bade farewell to Cynthia. Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweet sorrow…
As I exited, I caught the chop-chop of a lumberjack just in the distance. There he was: Brown hat, checkered jak, canvas coverall, steel-shanked shoe…gloves, flannel shirt, mustache, thermos, axe, and wearing a grin, his picture painted well against the backdrop of the Village proper. The wrinkles surrounding his eyes seemed to speak of many a felled tree, each telling their tall tale. Lifting high the tool of his trade, its falling pendulum arc clashed violently against its mark. Yet nearby, sister sapling prepared to breath anew.
One by one they came, one by one. As their emergence appeared quite militaristic, pumpernickel preceded caraway, sesame second only to sourdough, and cinnamon seemingly caught in the middle, I stood and stared…and stood and stared. The Bakery’s Operatic operation closely resembling The Marriage of Figaro so to speak. But which to choose?
Finding no recourse but to divide my time amongst these delightfully delicious delicacies baked to perfection, I chose…her. Emerging from the corner door just to my left, the Baker’s daughter once again captured my soul. And as if the sun had held its revolution for an instant, purposely peeking its beams in to juxtapose against the falling twirls of her lightly golden hair, she whispered words not worthy of wording, as heaven could only have created them. And as her eyes of aqua searched the bountiful baked selection beneath, I awaited patiently amidst the sea of snowflakes…
Evening enveloped the tiny little hamlet. The Night Watchman making his rounds; Eight, Ten, Twelve, Two…Eight, Ten, Twelve, Two. Alternating oil-filled lantern lightings along the way, I followed closely in his footsteps, placing my step in his, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.
Somewhere lost along the journey, as the evening crimson sky fell to sleep, and the rustle of leaves in the wind speaking plainly amongst themselves, I caught the angelic spirit of four voices in accord riding the gentle current of air before me.
“In Scarlet Towne where I was borne, there lived a faire maid dwellin.” Not there, there, there, or there! Frantically I searched for its origin, and, as ten thousand stars overhead seemed to say, I yielded to their beckoning. “Made every youth crye wel-awaye, her name was Barbara Allen.” And there I stood, contented of heart, purified of soul, as the melody continued…
And sipping the final drops of an apple blossom tea, I departed Catherine’s Tea House enroute to an upstairs room’s feather bed. Ascending the narrow maple steps to the summit, as the crackling of hardwood upon fireplace grew louder, and with each squeak of the floor board, I was reminded of a story once read, about a surreal place in the heart, complete with bending birch and towering pine. Willoughby was its name.
Of Pfeffernusse and Gingerbread
Happening upon the Village once again, the mist seemed to lift just as the gentle meander down the cobbled curved road began. An array of poinsettia greeted me, and in the distance the source of the delightfully delicious aroma of gingerbread. The Village fully decked with balls of holly. Wreaths of red and green throughout. Grey puffs exiting from above, while warm pfeffernüsse emerged from within. This was Christmas indeed.
And, as I slowly but surely encircled the frost-covered window of the Bakery, seven little children ran randomly towards the large evergreen, covered completely in snow. Making for their toboggan was I told, and then a dash to the pond of ice.
Once inside, row upon row upon row of freshly baked goods, all in time for the holidays. Minced meat pie stood next to apple. Pumpkin neighbored cream. Coconut custard attentively guarded the eggnog. Stockings full of cut-out cookies. Even the Baker’s daughter, with her longly flowing locks of blond, seemed to fit the occasion. She smiled so sweetfully, hands filled with gingerbread.
Upon departing, the Master Baker himself emerged. A plump little man he was, with a broad smile from cheek to cheek. He was covered in flour, from head to toe, and when he spoke, puffs of white became his breath. Laughing brought down an avalanche indeed. People joyously giggling upon farewell, and little did the plump and jolly round man know, this was the reason.
Peeping into the window of the Clock Factory revealed the hastefully stunning display of carved clock after clock. The Master craftsman and his apprentice disappointed none. In tradition, the coocoo clocks carefully adorned the walls with strings of ivy in candlelight. And it was the job of the apprentice to keep the candles alight at night, so radiantly displaying what was within.
As the Robin recited, evening enveloped. A stop for tea was in order. The kindling of hardwood together with merry song was enjoyed by all at Catherine’s Tea House. Quiet invaded the upstairs room, so to set an atmosphere of contemplation.
Looking out the small colonial multi-paned window, the midnight blue stained with silver sparkles told its tale well. The squirrel fallen gently asleep...
~ Twelve ~
Infusion de Noel
Arriving in ankles covered with snow, the wispy winds waned me side to side. Evergreens bent and swayed, pine plummeting, birch bending. This was Winter. And to the Villager, the heartiest of heart.
Against white, Cardinal red guided me zig-zag through bicolored tree, down hill and over dale, and, into center town was I. The stained glass windows of the Church surreally painted their framework in multi-colored fashion. Hearing hearts singing from within made me feel not without.
And in and out they came, one by one, two by two, three by three. You see, Catherine’s Tea House is a favorite stop among all. Soothing scents of huckleberry, peppermint, and red rose amidst the warm atmosphere and warmer fire, together with cat curled up on a braided rug, in an upstairs chair, in dim light.
The casual stroll down Mulberry Street steering left of pine found me at the stoned steps of the Bakery. Peeking in, the military rollout of delight after delight was closely guarded by the man in white. Topped in a high mushroom hat and very round apron, his eye caught mine, but only for a second.
Exiting, the bundle of buns swung over shoulder, I hesitantly yet deliberately approached the Clock Factory, anxious to hear the tic-toc tic-toc. Black wood, beige face, green bird. The world within a world absorbed me. Time not tethered. And greeted by five silver tuners surrounding a cherrywood knocker, each hitting their high note alone, together a symphony, I was warmly welcomed with a blissful Infusion de Nöel offered with a smile at the Bookshop. Hearts were one.
Strolling to see Chippadee, the pond covered in ice, I sat on a rock. Pine stretched in the mirror of frozen water, the squirrel scurried. Night falling.
Returning to Catherine’s Tea House, I made my way to the upstairs room, up the narrow twisting staircase into a wood planked floor with stoned fireplace. Sipping honeysuckle, standing at window’s edge, the dark and light shades flickered against stone. The cat moved not. Flurries fell amidst the midnight blue, the whisper of pine needles in flight.
~ Fourteen ~
Firefly
Tiptoeing, and careful not to startle the seven little kittens cautiously and collectively about, I made my way into the garden. Tucked away behind birch, and a stone’s throw from the pond, the town-kept array of vegetable and flower, herb and rose, Lily upon Lily, and red raspberry too kept me in full spirit. In the effervescence of a morning sunbeam, I entered. Bean to the right, berry to the left.
Proceeding, the winding cobbled stone took me into its world. Cucumber for lunch, thought I. Carrot to follow. The small Sundrop spheres of yellow glistened radiantly amidst the towering green, sunlight dancing off of their skin, and into my eye. I dare not disturb them, small succulent ones. Under limb, over limb, passing parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. And climbing to the heavens, Impatiens here, there, and everywhere. Red, orange, purple…and violet and white too!
Two toads tanned themselves tirelessly at pond’s edge. And, sitting serenely on the white colonial bench, The Premier Book of Major Poets, opened to page 22. The sun now overhead, in full blossom, Marigold too. The gentle cascading of a twelve-bar windchime lulled me asleep…awoken only by the Church bell tolling tediously from afar.
And into the Village was I! You see, Summer is quite special to the townsfolk. Passing the Clock Factory, I purposely peeked and pondered the latest design. Scrolled hand-cut maple face, bright brass workings, and painted in a red and green patina. His spectacles sat peacefully amid the echoing tic-toc tic-toc.
And with not a soul in sight, jubilantly and joyously leaped I into the Bookshop, only to find Cynthia awaiting. We talked and talked and talked, she emerging more beautifully with each syllable, me wishing not to depart. Graciously accepting a dewdrop, I bade farewell. Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweet sorrow.
Even the Postman cared not to continue. He, seated near the water well, close to the large evergreen, in full Postal attire. A cohort of Cardinal overhead, in decidedly Mozartian fashion. And, dashing to the pond, I followed. One, two, three, more! Filbert after filbert, the squirrel left none to spare. Crossing the stone bridge, with the wispy winds rattling their rage of pine, I once again glanced to see the apparition apparent. Sixteen seconds of serenity, broken only by a bass below.
Returning to the town proper, and tempted to down a five-cents glass of lemonade, I continued. Again, met with sternness and serenity, savoir-faireness and surreality, smilelessness and simplicity, the two stood studiously side by side. He, with his bravado. Her, with her beauty. I preferred the latter. “Seven-seeded rolls?” positively asked she. “Certainly,” positively replied me. And all the while the Baker looking quite the father figure indeed. Until we meet again...
Evening encircled the tiny Village, its warm winds carrying the firefly. Ten thousand stars above, guiding me, guarding me. Drawing closer and closer, I once again settled in my favorite chair with my favorite flavor, on top of the crickety crackety floor in an upstairs room of Catherine’s Tea House. The fireplace preparing for Winter. The cat upon my lap. And, rocking back and forth in maple, closing my eyes, I dreamed the dreams of Fall, and another tale to be told…
~ Sixteen ~
Cynthia
“All in the merry month of May, when green buds they were swellin’, young Willie Grove on his death-bed lay, for love of Barbara Allen.” There I stood, leaning against the colonial multi-paned windowsill, eyes closed, cheeks puffed, and head swaying back and forth. The gentle array of snowflake cascading upon me under the amber glow of a lantern above. And not a soul in sight.
Peeking in, the six stood serenely as one amidst a radiant fire. One seated, the bass I believe, with alto-soprano on his lap. Her eyes spoke of simplicity, bright and blue they were, with chestnut flavored hair gathered back in a bow. Tenor tethered to a chair, with companion locked in arm. And as the pianist played the beautiful ballad, the alto reached high, high above even the snowflake it seemed. She was dressed in beige and blue period gown, white ruffles, and red bonnet. “He sent his servant to her door, to the town where he was dwellin’, Haste ye come, to my master’s call, if your name be Barbara Allen.” There they sang, and there I stood.
Retiring to feather bed, I listened closely to the tic-toc tic-toc of an old grandfather. Tall and stout was he, deep maple body, aged melancholy face, iron movement. The clock struck twelve, and sipping the last of a warm vegetable soup with biscuit, I dreamed on...
Christmas in the Village it was. Morning arrived brisk and bubbly, the townsfolk hurrying here and there. In and out they went, shop after shop. “I do not live in men’s hearts one day of the year but in all days of the year,” exclaimed the man selling roasted chestnuts. The hot savory delights contented my spirit.
I strolled along and in and out went I too. There an artisan crafted and contorted a copper weathervane, complete with cock. And there too another fashioned an embroidered throw, in red and green and calypso. And yet another displayed a tiny little Village, with Bakery and Bookshop! The Blacksmith greeted me with chisel in hand and carriage bolt inflamed. His blackened walls told their tale well.
And on the cobbled road back, the sound of hoof after hoof drew nearer and nearer. Four Clydesdales and Coach in full regalia stately surrendered the scene. As they approached, the wispy winds dazzled their hairs as crisp currents sliced through their teeth. The seven little children quickly caught on as escort, and, having to make a decisive decision…I joined them.
Stopping off at the Bookshop, I circled and circled again to see the bounty of bows and wreaths and candy-canes adorning the three-by-three windows. Berry after berry, intertwined with ivy and pinecone, surrounding a pillar candle of white. Without hesitation, I entered. There in the cutest of corners was Cynthia, giving a lesson in harp. Her violet gown, pleated, stood sharply against the single golden bracelet on her wrist. It was a medieval melody she spun.
Just off center town was the annual selling of spirits! And there he was, the quaint little man, his hands in pocket and turtleneck towering. “Harvey’s?” said he. Hastefully but assuredly “Yes,” said me. He talked philosophically, his intonating words roamed and rambled finding no conclusion. “And the spirits that go not forth in life, what then,” said I, “what then?” “They seek to interfere for good...but have lost their power forever,” said he. There’s something about the spirit of the man selling spirits, thought me.
Strolling over to the pond, the sheet of glass being scratched solely by a solo skater. About ten she was, all decked out in white, and with white skates too. Amidst an amphitheater of Cardinal, Chippadee, and Red and Yellow Warbler, the figure of 8 so graciously being engraved. The Sugarplum Fairies danced in my mind.
As evening set, the brilliant stained glass windows of the Church carried its inner light out into my eye. As I approached, a glimpse of head upon head, then shoulder upon shoulder, appeared. “Standing room only, sir!” was the greeting. On ten toes was I, anxious to see and see. “Good King Wenceslas looked out, On the feast of Stephen, When the snow lay round about, Deep and crisp and even.” The soloist, no older than eleven, traded the tune with his counterpart, older than eleven! “Bring me flesh, and bring me wine, Bring me pine logs hither, Thou and I shall see him dine, When we bear him thither.” I stayed until two.
Finding myself in the Yuletide tradition, I dashed to the Tea House for the warmth of a fire. Merry song was made there too! The six hundred wooden soldiers at one foot high stood side by side in the frosty covered multi-paned window. A twelve-horse carousel spun round and round in song.
And happening upon a little lad in sheer delight at the sight of them, he glistened with cheer that only he could know, and contentedly confirmed: “God bless us, every one.”
~ Nineteen ~
The Red and the Rouge
Jagged edged, deepest red, paper thin, vein-like, finger lengthed, and with a tail, a solo leaf cascaded in and out amidst the swirling but serene currents of air. Broken loose by the rattle of a northern wind, as if to set sail from terra firma into oblivion. “Bon voyage,” it would say to its brethren, not knowing where the course of life would take it next. What manner of serpent lies in waiting beneath the sea of air? The long, long voyage embarked to a distant land, a distant place. Fortuitously, it makes its way notwithstanding...
As my eye focused on its flight, I could hear the whisper of wind it sailed upon. The flicker of red then rouge then red then rouge played its game, as it tumbled over itself during the journey. Careless was it, unbound and free. And me, limited by sight, sound, and sensation.
And just as this independent delight so full of flavor and merit reached its limit, two little children all bundled up in blue raced beneath. Their whirlwind brought the leaf to an unforeseen habitat along the banks of the nearby pond. Glistening splendidly was it on a cool October’s end. The residing squirrel dashed here and there, up this way and that way, down and across. And cautious not to disrupt him, I skipped a stone and fell fast asleep.
As the white puffs of cotton-like cloud cover parted, I began to see once again. The Village in the midst appeared in ethereal fashion. Sitting in the haze, rooftop upon rooftop popped up. And against the backdrop of orange, yellow, red, and green, I meandered my way down Maiden Lane. The mistiness took me where it would, through narrow passageways, over steps of stone, and under bridge. The Night Watchman now retired.
Skirting throughout, the Baker’s daughter seemed to zig-zag along, her hair tied up in a morning bun. And to think she didn’t think I thought of her, and she of me. Quiet, meek, sturdy, and steadfast, her serenity and purity captured my heart. To pursue her in phantom fashion I did not. Abiding my time, until a multi-colored groundcover...
“Thirteen, twenty-seven, nine and one quarter!” exclaimed the Clockmaker’s apprentice. The wound movement struck slightly before three. It was housed in maple, with iron hinge and antiqued face. And for mantle, the perfect piece. “I’ll take it,” said me. Bangs and booms emerged from below! His faint yell evolved louder and louder. “Wo ist mein spezielles Ausschnittwerkzeug für Eiche?! Wo ist es?!” I dare not ruffle his edges further by peeking, as the Master maker was busy at work.
Toting my hand-carved precision prize, I tip-toed in to the Bookshop. In a bold attempt to muffle the five-chord windchime atop the front door, I searched and searched, and, within a single sunbeam shining so splendidly through the detailed stained glass window in the distance, it was she.
Surrounded by Chaucer, Dante, and Aquinas, her crestfallen look gazed spiritually into her palms. About one-third of her hair draped over shoulder, seated, serene. Softly spoken words of hello I had given, but barely reaching her.
Something in me would not break the halo overhead. Drawing nearer, she raised her head with eyes of purity, and smiled contentedly. Exiting, I remembered Cynthia.
As I sat on a park bench just across from the Church, I remembered the crookety road coming into the Village. Unseen, unknown by all...but a few. Seven galloped as one alongside, unsaddled and free. Even the blade of grass feared not. Pondering this place, and that to come, I arose from water’s edge.
Evening enveloped, and along the journey to Catherine’s Tea House, deep shades of orange, yellow, red, and green invaded my space. Tall giants, steadfast and stately, stood by my side. Yielded did I to them, and them not to me. Only the stars held higher authority. And beneath, their colorful frown painted pretty the fields of green, and a solo leaf fell once again...
~ Twenty Five ~
A Mid-Summer's Day Dream
It seemed the task for the day, taking up sanctuary beside an old elm. And as I grasped a handful of huckleberry, a surreal wind spinned waywardly above, without the slightest disturbance below. Wisping this way and that way, in and out was its chosen path for today. And I, together with the ground ferret, a northern mockingbird, and two toads, found no recourse but to join this invisible creature of the atmosphere in its song sung serenely o’er the Village.
With eyes closed, we could see notwithstanding the white sunlight reflecting off of the emerald green blades of Rye grass inhabiting the meadow. Attention! was their call to arms in defense of themselves. The pond too painted itself pretty in its mirrored face of foliage.
Departing reality, it appeared we had opted for ideality. Discovering, as some seaworthy explorer of old, vast lands of plenty filled with a bounty of delight. As pumpkins and gourds and edibles of all shapes and sizes lay atop a rectangular table of Thanksgiving, did we see. Or the favor of an Easter morning’s awakening to cocoa and jelly bean.
With a hearty heart and full of gusto, I continued across the park, so delicately not to disturb the dwelling places it harbored. The Church bells tolled, first praising the arrival of the cloudless morning with bold bravado, then later weeping a soft lament as sun hinted to set.
No later than noon however did I make haste for the Bakery. I don’t know the reason for her disposition, but the woman ahead of me twisted and turned yapping this and that, quietly to herself at first, then, turning to me as a second hand turns from two to three, I became the focus of her vocality.
“Pardon me mam, but...” did I say. And pointing ahead, her acoustics had ceased on the instant of the arrival of her apple-turned-over pie. And as if exiting a rain forest, audible sense was replaced by that of smell. Semolina batard caught my nose, then the combination of tarragon-topped pumpernickel biscuit.
Little occupied my mind as I walked to the Bookstore, all the while being tempted by the brown ruffled bag I held as I opened and closed and again opened and closed merely to catch a glimpse of my freshly baked delights. Cynthia awaited me, and I, her. Searching for a tale told by a contemporary of Chaucer, up and down the aisle did I go, unalphabetically arranged, but in order of expression. As if expression had its order, I thought. As if a red-tailed swallow’s code could be deciphered. Or as if a chord struck in E-flat major could be categorized. No no, thought I. Still, her graceful assortment of assorted works proved most enticing to see. And with two nods of two heads, one being she and one being me, we parted graciously.
The Blacksmith nearby hammered his time away amidst the blackened concaves of an aged workshop as a flame kindled red hot iron in the shadows of his person. And through a multi-paned window just out of the corner of my eye did I then see the gallop of a stallion in the distance, as a whitened picket fence highlighted its foreground. What was its plan? Need it be part of me? Need I be part of it? Nonetheless bold, daring, courageous, steadfast, quick-tempered, and free. A lesson learned from the most gallant of companions.
Lastly, about half past five, and together with a trustworthy miniature wall-hanging grandfather shouldered in Herculean fashion along the cobbled stones of Willow Way, did I submit very reluctantly to the Clockmaker. You see, two turns too many of the chime movement lay stricken my friend. A deep mahogany body was it. And now trusted into the hands of the Master craftsman. In anticipation did I wait.
And as the entity of this firmament once again drew near, returning from its course spun round chimney top and through the streets below, like some grey-bearded man being longed for by a child merely of three, I, united with ferret, mockingbird, and toad-tandem had awoken and thus forced to await yet another song to be sung...
~ Twenty Eight ~
May Day
In Springtime, the only pretty ring time birds sing hey ding, A-ding a-ding sweet lovers love the Spring. Round and round and round the wheels of the iron horse spun as I made my way through the Village streets of cobbled stone. The wind whipped its course through my hair, and in spite of the cool, crisp morn, evidenced by an early season teardrop departing my right eye, a look of anxious wanting overtook me. The world of pure imagination besought me on this 25th day of May.
Ascending into the bliss of it all, I halted my expeditiousness at the foot of the Bookshop, where daffodil and daisy greeted me with symbiotic charm. Greeted I to them, and then bearing the beautifulest bountiful smile stood Cynthia. Her radiance on this break of day filled the air with the scent of lilac, or perhaps wisteria to the finer-tuned nostril. Even the purple-colored gown she wore fit the occasion, as the day’s first light reflected playfully through its ruffles and flourishes.
Her hair too spoke with a great deal of duress, though of the accepting type; its interlocking braids, long and lengthy, cascading down the nape of her neck. “Do come in,” she whispered, almost as not to startle the daisy beneath. With no hesitation, I entered to once again glimpse the world of Chaucer, Dante, and Aquinas. But to my astonishment, also caught sight of a few notable works by Tolkien, Du Maurier, and Poe.
Personally opting for the light of Eärendil, I followed the gleam in her eyes to a secluded nook in the shop where she unveiled a collection of five carefully wrapped gems, single pages of original works by Haydn. “Where oh where did you happen upon them?” I offered. Replying with her glistening visage, she got up and walked aimlessly yet meticulously back to the front desk, humming what appeared to echo an excerpt from The Creation. One need not communicate in order to communicate, so it is said. And with that, a parting non-verbal adieu to retrace my steps past daffodil and daisy...
Reflecting for a moment at pond’s edge, brother squirrel and sister sun reiterated to me the ignoramusly colossal and futile, vain, and fruitless dependence we have. Was not the wind speaking its tongue? The cobbles, could they not be heard staggering my body? Or consider the daisy, how much more beautiful could it be than what it is? Therefore, I fathomed then and there, one will need to lose oneself before finding oneself.
Losing myself further, I found myself curiously peeking into the cracked half of a window on the south side of the Clock Factory. A decidedly Alsatian gentleman, sporting ivory-colored overalls, though a bit on the dingy side, kept his focus quite intensely on the workbench before him. ‘Twas another townsfolk’s coo-coo clock being resurrected it appeared.
He then caught sight of me out of the top corner of his left eye and, opening the cracked window where I stood in anticipation, he let out heartily: “Morrrgan, morrrgan! Yaa come in, come in!” Not knowing what to think, not knowing what to say, goose bumps ran up and down my back in sheer delight! You see, it’s a rare day in May when the Clockmaker sports a smile.
He proceeded to show me his countless collection of clattering clocks, each having its own appeal. A brief history in the finer dynamics of pendulum movement, followed by the most pungent of toasted strudel, capped my morning. I pray to see his smile once again, but am doubtful at that...
With the sun overhead, I then galloped in Clydesdale fashion to the Church, where a man swept tirelessly and tirelessly the center walkway. Little did I then realize, it was the Minister.
From riches to rags, prince to pauper, his metamorphosis harkened my interest. “What say you my son?” he shouted from across Willow Way. Yet not until I saw the weathered and worn wrinkles etched from his eyes did I grasp his identity. “Why Reverend, it is you!” I replied completely astonished. I had been under the impression that this sort of field work was done by caretakers. He reassured me that my postulation was simply nothing other than pure imagination.
He proceeded in an exhausted unenergetic tone: “Yes, this sort of thing gives me vigor, it gives me life. Was it not the Saviour who said the first must be last?” “Yes but...,” I humbly began though he then seemed to drift into a surreal, slightly philosophical manner, unaware of my words, rather gazing with a sort of heavenly transparency about his person. I knew not whether to attribute this epiphany to his character or perhaps to his chemistry, for he was clearly tired and worn from his field labor.
Notwithstanding, I listened to his words of wisdom, as he continued: “I wonder, if we will see the last of days yet. My father, and my father’s father, all united again. Lookin’ forward to tendin’ their gardens am I. Yup, I thought about it for a long time, still do mind you, what it must be like, what will happen to all those people not acceptin’.”
By his words I inferred his reference to the Parousia, the Apocalypse, and let him continue uninterrupted. “Shame, terrible shame. All they got to do is accept. But they choose to take the other route, why? Been askin’ myself why all along. Can’t seem to understand it. If you had a choice, would ya choose sun like today or rain?...hahaha,” pointing up to the sky. Again his eerie words made inference to what I took as one’s spiritual outlook in life, and after death. Fading into the mid-afternoon sun, he proceeded to blend back into the field...
Discovering myself no sooner seated in a hardwood chair in a cranny at Catherine’s Tea House, I reclined to taste the latest concoction offered. Looking out the multi-paned colonial style window beside me, I began to see the pattern of gait with which each Villager tread.
As my eyes began to close, their stride zig-zagged in a colorful pattern which echoed throughout my mind like some Van Gogh, or more precisely, perhaps Seurat. Realizing once again that, there’s no earthly way of knowing which direction they are going, there’s no knowing where they’re rowing, or which way the river’s flowing. I had then fallen to sleep...
~ Twenty Nine ~
Willoughby
And as a gentle cascade of snowflake fell upon me, I took once again to the curved crooked path before me. Dancing amidst shadows of bending birch and towering pine, effervescent beams of sunlight played its game of hide and seek. Capturing the heart of squirrel, Chippadee, and ferret, the forest primeval joined in unison, as did I. And no sooner had the sun reached its crescendo were my eyes opened once again bearing witness to bliss. As a cohort of Cardinal guided me through the air of white, I sensed something long forgotten, lost, and far, far away. My reality now giving way to its surreality…
Into the Village was I. Finding few words of introduction, the Blacksmith along the way offered a simple barter…a nod for a nod, and I accepted. His blackened face told well his tale to be told; quiet, steadfast, and free. Indifferent to the soot smeared on his cheek, his smile graciously paved my way.
Seven Clydesdales galloped as one just to my left. In perfect form were they, paralleling the wooden fence which tethered them, yet desireless at leaping it. Fourteen sparkles of light emanated, bouncing off of their eyes to kiss the afternoon sky.
More beautifully adorned than ever, the Bookshop’s red and green festive wear climbed its walls and highlighted its windows. Proving too irresistible, I beckoned once again to hold her beauty in my heart. And in a fleeting moment, through a frost-covered colonial multi-paned window off to the side, did I hear the soft echoing of an interlude in A-flat minor. As the delicate fingers of her right hand spun across a golden harp, her pale complexion radiated with each passing note. Dare not I step into her shadow, nor do I tempt another glance, and, closing my eyes, I bade farewell to Cynthia. Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweet sorrow…
As I exited, I caught the chop-chop of a lumberjack just in the distance. There he was: Brown hat, checkered jak, canvas coverall, steel-shanked shoe…gloves, flannel shirt, mustache, thermos, axe, and wearing a grin, his picture painted well against the backdrop of the Village proper. The wrinkles surrounding his eyes seemed to speak of many a felled tree, each telling their tall tale. Lifting high the tool of his trade, its falling pendulum arc clashed violently against its mark. Yet nearby, sister sapling prepared to breath anew.
One by one they came, one by one. As their emergence appeared quite militaristic, pumpernickel preceded caraway, sesame second only to sourdough, and cinnamon seemingly caught in the middle, I stood and stared…and stood and stared. The Bakery’s Operatic operation closely resembling The Marriage of Figaro so to speak. But which to choose?
Finding no recourse but to divide my time amongst these delightfully delicious delicacies baked to perfection, I chose…her. Emerging from the corner door just to my left, the Baker’s daughter once again captured my soul. And as if the sun had held its revolution for an instant, purposely peeking its beams in to juxtapose against the falling twirls of her lightly golden hair, she whispered words not worthy of wording, as heaven could only have created them. And as her eyes of aqua searched the bountiful baked selection beneath, I awaited patiently amidst the sea of snowflakes…
Evening enveloped the tiny little hamlet. The Night Watchman making his rounds; Eight, Ten, Twelve, Two…Eight, Ten, Twelve, Two. Alternating oil-filled lantern lightings along the way, I followed closely in his footsteps, placing my step in his, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.
Somewhere lost along the journey, as the evening crimson sky fell to sleep, and the rustle of leaves in the wind speaking plainly amongst themselves, I caught the angelic spirit of four voices in accord riding the gentle current of air before me.
“In Scarlet Towne where I was borne, there lived a faire maid dwellin.” Not there, there, there, or there! Frantically I searched for its origin, and, as ten thousand stars overhead seemed to say, I yielded to their beckoning. “Made every youth crye wel-awaye, her name was Barbara Allen.” And there I stood, contented of heart, purified of soul, as the melody continued…
And sipping the final drops of an apple blossom tea, I departed Catherine’s Tea House enroute to an upstairs room’s feather bed. Ascending the narrow maple steps to the summit, as the crackling of hardwood upon fireplace grew louder, and with each squeak of the floor board, I was reminded of a story once read, about a surreal place in the heart, complete with bending birch and towering pine. Willoughby was its name.
strictly nonsensical sayings
Can I please have some ice cream? If not, then a bowl of cherries. Yes a bowl of cherries would do fine if it has also some chocolate syrup on top. Be sure to add the syrup lest the cherries go rancid from the heat. And you know the heat is very very very hot indeed. Have it ready for me first thing in the morning. Make sure you pick fresh cherries and you melt the finest Swiss chocolate. Nothing else will do. I do hope you abide these commands, oh I do. Thankyou, Marylou.
I wish I was a blade of grass, frolicking in the sunlight, dancing in the wind. They come and go and come and go, never noticing. Careful where to place your foot. I would like to live tomorrow. I wish I was a blade of grass.
What do you get if you multiply a number of numbers by a number of numbers? And then take the square root of this number. Can you divide it also by 3? Please subtract 7. Then add 5. Multiply again by 23.
I'm not a car. Walking through that certain corridor between 6th and 7th, I refuse to bear right. Why can't I walk on the left, or in the center? And if I was from Seaford, what then? I say again, I'm not a car.
I wish I was 10 years old, eating pretzels on the patio, swimming in the pool, playing Rusty by the tree. I remember those days, on the boulders in Maine, with splinter in hand, and the scratch in the wood. Can I have a grilled cheese sandwich? I’ll sit by the heat with Sable.
Let me go back to the Cooper club. The red and blue and white stripes of the shelving are still there. Upper shelf, where it's warm and cozy and peaceful and tranquil. Nobody could find me. Especially covered with blanket. And when the heat comes...
Allayy-up! Say Cavendish?...never mind. Morning after morning it's always the same. Allayy-up. Allayy-up. Allayy-up. Rising at 7 touching two feet to the floor. Robe on, slippers on, out the door. Bathroom, cereal, bathroom. Then open the door, dress, and close the door. Umbrella? I won't forget the feline friends.
I remember the knobby tires of the blue bike. Blue bike, blue grips, blue pads, blue this and blue that. Blue chain. Locking the blue bike up below the black fire escape. Never did I get a black and blue there though.
I wish I was a blade of grass, frolicking in the sunlight, dancing in the wind. They come and go and come and go, never noticing. Careful where to place your foot. I would like to live tomorrow. I wish I was a blade of grass.
What do you get if you multiply a number of numbers by a number of numbers? And then take the square root of this number. Can you divide it also by 3? Please subtract 7. Then add 5. Multiply again by 23.
I'm not a car. Walking through that certain corridor between 6th and 7th, I refuse to bear right. Why can't I walk on the left, or in the center? And if I was from Seaford, what then? I say again, I'm not a car.
I wish I was 10 years old, eating pretzels on the patio, swimming in the pool, playing Rusty by the tree. I remember those days, on the boulders in Maine, with splinter in hand, and the scratch in the wood. Can I have a grilled cheese sandwich? I’ll sit by the heat with Sable.
Let me go back to the Cooper club. The red and blue and white stripes of the shelving are still there. Upper shelf, where it's warm and cozy and peaceful and tranquil. Nobody could find me. Especially covered with blanket. And when the heat comes...
Allayy-up! Say Cavendish?...never mind. Morning after morning it's always the same. Allayy-up. Allayy-up. Allayy-up. Rising at 7 touching two feet to the floor. Robe on, slippers on, out the door. Bathroom, cereal, bathroom. Then open the door, dress, and close the door. Umbrella? I won't forget the feline friends.
I remember the knobby tires of the blue bike. Blue bike, blue grips, blue pads, blue this and blue that. Blue chain. Locking the blue bike up below the black fire escape. Never did I get a black and blue there though.
Poems
And Iftomorrow's skies are grey,
what shall we do? four-o'clock's bloom early, who will we blame? an E string falls out of tune, how can we harmonize? the canvas seems understretched, why stain the palette? thirty-seven appears in the window, where might film be found? you and I remain a p a r t, when, whisper when shall we die? |
Day after DayDay after day
On that certain branch He sits And watches The leaves as they linger, The trees as they expand. What does he wonder As sun turns to moon, As blue becomes black ? Hastefully he flies To another tree, To another branch And sun turns to moon and blue becomes black. |
SilenceSilence.
Few understand it. Even fewer stand it. Why question the serenity of a clear blue mountain sky or the glittering of stars as they frown upon us or even the spider as it so delicately maneuvers - without the slightest disturbance of air? If this be questionable then question me not. For silence lives in me forever. |
|
Short Stories
Teardrop of an Eagle
Little Andrzej seemed somehow to sense the air was not right today. He played in his usual setting, the backyard grassy lot of his parent’s country farm not far from Świebodzice. The building blocks that he had fashioned a week earlier had began to crumble, and as they fell to the ground with the slightest disturbance of air, soft pellets of water emerged from within, the result of scattered passing gray storm clouds overhead. Singing softly but erratically his favorite childhood tune, the humble boy of 10 paced the terra firma repeatedly as if some anxious awakening was about to begin. This was evidenced by his mother’s worn and heavy laden face as she looked out the cracked multi-paned glass window just a short distance away. Littered in her presence were newspapers. Newspapers smothered in talk of War, War, War!
There was no hiding it, everyone knew. From the goats buckling their tethered chain against a semi-fallen picket fence, to the herd of cows opting to stay together as one unit rather than roam freely. Even the song of the chickadee was not of the right pitch. Neighbor upon neighbor, farm after farm, town after town, this was the plight of Poland and its inevitable doom. To marvel at an early morning’s sunrise, or to serenade a loved one at sunset, had no more place in humanity’s purpose it seemed. Long gone and forgotten remnants of an age far, far away…
“verlassen Sie einen kleinen Jungen der Weise!” shouted a man in uniform. As little Andrzej scurried across the cobbled road with frightful anxiety, an anxiety only a small child would know, daring, and inquisitive, he ran to the small hilltop outcropping near the stream where his grandfather taught him to fish. “Stop, stop!” shouted his mother as her echoed words resonated against each pouncing of the boy’s feet. And climbing the hill in haste to see the culmination of his determination, he quickly stumbled, tearing the canvas patch over the left knee of his worn pants. His breath panting… His eyes fully engaged. And reaching hill’s top, overlooking the vast beautiful greenery known only to a poetic phrase, with its early September foliage hinting at the idea of turning a vibrant bronze patina, the little Polish boy saw with his innocent eyes the source of his drive. They had come…
Panzer division AA6 enroute to Wrocław. Luftwaffe squadron 32B flying overhead. Infantry ground Unit 7787 scattered everywhere. This was their first prize: to take this boy’s homeland away from him and claim it for their own. To convert it into a ‘purified’ nation. To conquer humanity. And as a screeching armor-clad tank raced past the boy, yet another followed in its path, and still another. The sounds of metal scraping against metal became commonplace, quickly replacing the chant of melodious birdsong. This was to be the boy’s new tune, that of the Nazi war machine.
13 Months Pass
“Ale potrzebuję (chcieć) zèby walczyć!” exclaimed vehemently did Andrzej’s older brother Stanislaus in the war-torn ramshackles of their once quaint farmhouse. His parents could stop him no longer. Bidding farewell to his family, Stanislaus’ fate was set. And soon began another chapter of the Polish underground resistance movement. Taking refuge in a secret shelter underneath Krakow’s St. Mary’s Church, he and his compatriots were assigned the task of printing resistance leaflets. Day after day they toiled, night after night they kept vigil. In the passing shadows of the moonlit evening sky did the young man contemplate his past, his present, and that of his future…
And always at the forefront on his priority list was his devotion to the Catholic Church. Here was his sanctuary, of which no Panzer division, nor Luftwaffe air fleet, nor ground infantry troop could invade. Though his body may die, his soul was untouchable, and he cherished the time he spent now in this Church. And little did Stanislaus know but at a future moment in time another Pole would think the same while standing in line at a concentration camp… His name was Maximilian Kolbe.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned” expressed young Stanislaus while in the Confessional, sincere in his words and seeking strength from the Father as he had done on a monthly basis. And as his lips spoke his soul’s bidding, looking up for an instant, and just out of the corner of his eye, he realized that…something was not right! An overwhelming sense of evil filled the boy’s presence. It had not been Father Marek whom he was confessing to, instead, someone had been disguised and had overtaken the priest’s role. Then, suddenly he saw! ...2 gold symbols on the man’s lapel: Schutzstaffel!!
“Keep moving, keep moving, march, you swine!” ridiculed the Nazi officer in charge. And as the now crestfallen and broken soul of Stanislaus struggled to place one foot in front of the next enroute to his new home surrounded by barbed wire, he looked up whilst underneath its black iron gate to read the welcoming scrolled words written in his captor’s tongue, yet interpreted with no difficulty: Arbeit Macht Frei (Work Makes Free). Life and death stood side by side, each taking turns with the rising and the setting of the sun. One prisoner was hung by the neck daily at the entrance to the camp to set the example; an example for obedience, an example for submissiveness. At the far end, echoes of rifle fire and a pock-marked brick wall reinforced the ‘Master plan’. Dare not you look upon your keeper with the slightest tweak in your eye. Keep your head low, your eyes fixed on your work. Speak to no one, hope not, merely consider yourself already dead…
Yet there remained one thing that could not be captured. Nor could it be controlled. Continually resonating in the mind of this young man, like some spiritual mantra playing itself over and over again, were the thoughts of his past. The long, cool days spent walking in the fields; the smell of wood burning; the firm handshake of a friend; and the Eucharist upon his tongue. His life meant nothing without them. In essence, he was to surrender himself to the burning cauldrons of the crematorium, or find himself in the bottomless pit of cadavers.
But no! “This is not me! This will not be my fate!” silently screamed the young man inaudibly to himself as bullets of sweat streamed down his face! Quickly flashing thoughts of radical upheaval and mutiny invaded the young man’s mind. His eyes dilating, his heart racing… And in the silence of his own mind, Stanislaus meticulously fashioned his escape plan…
“Hmm, hmm…Ej, Przelecial Ptaszek...Hmm, hmm, la de da da…” serenely whispered an old aged, white bearded gentleman in his humble hilltop dwelling overlooking a rolling meadow below, not far from Łowicz. And as an eagle flew overhead amidst tiny pellets of raindrop, the elderly man’s quiet, contemplative chant seemed to beckon the silent wind, as it meandered its way through the windowless abode. The sounds of silence were never so beautiful. And cut against its backdrop, sitting contentedly by the old man’s side with violin and bow in hand, and interjecting single notes of melody against each poorly sung phrase, was the face of a little boy. To paint a portrait of serenity, no artist could ever do. Despite the world around them, heaven was in their midst. In some way, the two became inseparable. To extract one from the other would be unthinkable. In some way, to the two of them, and perhaps to us all, Poland would never die. …And as their journeysong came to its conclusion, the old man warmly smiled and softly spoke: “Andrzej, Przybwają tutaj!” as the boy eagerly embraced him.
What destiny would have it, to learn of one man’s fate and another man’s doom? For every child fortunate enough, there were tenfold not so fortunate. And in the midst of war, what becomes of the family, of the values we hold so dear? Why must the building blocks crumble? Where is the glory? Where is the honor? To think that a species would wage war on itself, to annihilate one another. Brother against brother. A displaced little boy, a prisoner of war, or a lifeless body of bones thrown into a pile and covered in dirt. What have we done? Where are we going? Have we not learned?
And as little Andrzej ran his feet between the littered rubble of a war-torn town nearby, kicking aside remnants of fallen concrete mixed with personal belongings as was his daily doing, his vision became fixed on the gait he was striding. As his head drooped down, his eyes swayed back and forth upon the earthen remains in a meaningless, haphazard fashion. Careless of this day’s destiny, discouraged, and disheartened…
And returning once again on the cobbled road to the old man’s dwelling, the boy glanced back for an instant to see the specter of a solo figure in the distance. It moved in and out of the shade sporadically, as if in wanton search for its destiny. The little boy periodically turned to see as the specter gradually drew nearer and nearer; it waving a single arm back and forth. And, just before the gray overcast skies opened, little Andrzej realized what he was seeing. As he ran towards the figure in haste, his eyes began to water in sheer love for whom he was about to embrace. His prayers were answered. As if the embodiment of all of Poland were within. Though war be waged upon them, even then will they trust… “Stanislaus, my dear Stanislaus!”…
There was no hiding it, everyone knew. From the goats buckling their tethered chain against a semi-fallen picket fence, to the herd of cows opting to stay together as one unit rather than roam freely. Even the song of the chickadee was not of the right pitch. Neighbor upon neighbor, farm after farm, town after town, this was the plight of Poland and its inevitable doom. To marvel at an early morning’s sunrise, or to serenade a loved one at sunset, had no more place in humanity’s purpose it seemed. Long gone and forgotten remnants of an age far, far away…
“verlassen Sie einen kleinen Jungen der Weise!” shouted a man in uniform. As little Andrzej scurried across the cobbled road with frightful anxiety, an anxiety only a small child would know, daring, and inquisitive, he ran to the small hilltop outcropping near the stream where his grandfather taught him to fish. “Stop, stop!” shouted his mother as her echoed words resonated against each pouncing of the boy’s feet. And climbing the hill in haste to see the culmination of his determination, he quickly stumbled, tearing the canvas patch over the left knee of his worn pants. His breath panting… His eyes fully engaged. And reaching hill’s top, overlooking the vast beautiful greenery known only to a poetic phrase, with its early September foliage hinting at the idea of turning a vibrant bronze patina, the little Polish boy saw with his innocent eyes the source of his drive. They had come…
Panzer division AA6 enroute to Wrocław. Luftwaffe squadron 32B flying overhead. Infantry ground Unit 7787 scattered everywhere. This was their first prize: to take this boy’s homeland away from him and claim it for their own. To convert it into a ‘purified’ nation. To conquer humanity. And as a screeching armor-clad tank raced past the boy, yet another followed in its path, and still another. The sounds of metal scraping against metal became commonplace, quickly replacing the chant of melodious birdsong. This was to be the boy’s new tune, that of the Nazi war machine.
13 Months Pass
“Ale potrzebuję (chcieć) zèby walczyć!” exclaimed vehemently did Andrzej’s older brother Stanislaus in the war-torn ramshackles of their once quaint farmhouse. His parents could stop him no longer. Bidding farewell to his family, Stanislaus’ fate was set. And soon began another chapter of the Polish underground resistance movement. Taking refuge in a secret shelter underneath Krakow’s St. Mary’s Church, he and his compatriots were assigned the task of printing resistance leaflets. Day after day they toiled, night after night they kept vigil. In the passing shadows of the moonlit evening sky did the young man contemplate his past, his present, and that of his future…
And always at the forefront on his priority list was his devotion to the Catholic Church. Here was his sanctuary, of which no Panzer division, nor Luftwaffe air fleet, nor ground infantry troop could invade. Though his body may die, his soul was untouchable, and he cherished the time he spent now in this Church. And little did Stanislaus know but at a future moment in time another Pole would think the same while standing in line at a concentration camp… His name was Maximilian Kolbe.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned” expressed young Stanislaus while in the Confessional, sincere in his words and seeking strength from the Father as he had done on a monthly basis. And as his lips spoke his soul’s bidding, looking up for an instant, and just out of the corner of his eye, he realized that…something was not right! An overwhelming sense of evil filled the boy’s presence. It had not been Father Marek whom he was confessing to, instead, someone had been disguised and had overtaken the priest’s role. Then, suddenly he saw! ...2 gold symbols on the man’s lapel: Schutzstaffel!!
“Keep moving, keep moving, march, you swine!” ridiculed the Nazi officer in charge. And as the now crestfallen and broken soul of Stanislaus struggled to place one foot in front of the next enroute to his new home surrounded by barbed wire, he looked up whilst underneath its black iron gate to read the welcoming scrolled words written in his captor’s tongue, yet interpreted with no difficulty: Arbeit Macht Frei (Work Makes Free). Life and death stood side by side, each taking turns with the rising and the setting of the sun. One prisoner was hung by the neck daily at the entrance to the camp to set the example; an example for obedience, an example for submissiveness. At the far end, echoes of rifle fire and a pock-marked brick wall reinforced the ‘Master plan’. Dare not you look upon your keeper with the slightest tweak in your eye. Keep your head low, your eyes fixed on your work. Speak to no one, hope not, merely consider yourself already dead…
Yet there remained one thing that could not be captured. Nor could it be controlled. Continually resonating in the mind of this young man, like some spiritual mantra playing itself over and over again, were the thoughts of his past. The long, cool days spent walking in the fields; the smell of wood burning; the firm handshake of a friend; and the Eucharist upon his tongue. His life meant nothing without them. In essence, he was to surrender himself to the burning cauldrons of the crematorium, or find himself in the bottomless pit of cadavers.
But no! “This is not me! This will not be my fate!” silently screamed the young man inaudibly to himself as bullets of sweat streamed down his face! Quickly flashing thoughts of radical upheaval and mutiny invaded the young man’s mind. His eyes dilating, his heart racing… And in the silence of his own mind, Stanislaus meticulously fashioned his escape plan…
“Hmm, hmm…Ej, Przelecial Ptaszek...Hmm, hmm, la de da da…” serenely whispered an old aged, white bearded gentleman in his humble hilltop dwelling overlooking a rolling meadow below, not far from Łowicz. And as an eagle flew overhead amidst tiny pellets of raindrop, the elderly man’s quiet, contemplative chant seemed to beckon the silent wind, as it meandered its way through the windowless abode. The sounds of silence were never so beautiful. And cut against its backdrop, sitting contentedly by the old man’s side with violin and bow in hand, and interjecting single notes of melody against each poorly sung phrase, was the face of a little boy. To paint a portrait of serenity, no artist could ever do. Despite the world around them, heaven was in their midst. In some way, the two became inseparable. To extract one from the other would be unthinkable. In some way, to the two of them, and perhaps to us all, Poland would never die. …And as their journeysong came to its conclusion, the old man warmly smiled and softly spoke: “Andrzej, Przybwają tutaj!” as the boy eagerly embraced him.
What destiny would have it, to learn of one man’s fate and another man’s doom? For every child fortunate enough, there were tenfold not so fortunate. And in the midst of war, what becomes of the family, of the values we hold so dear? Why must the building blocks crumble? Where is the glory? Where is the honor? To think that a species would wage war on itself, to annihilate one another. Brother against brother. A displaced little boy, a prisoner of war, or a lifeless body of bones thrown into a pile and covered in dirt. What have we done? Where are we going? Have we not learned?
And as little Andrzej ran his feet between the littered rubble of a war-torn town nearby, kicking aside remnants of fallen concrete mixed with personal belongings as was his daily doing, his vision became fixed on the gait he was striding. As his head drooped down, his eyes swayed back and forth upon the earthen remains in a meaningless, haphazard fashion. Careless of this day’s destiny, discouraged, and disheartened…
And returning once again on the cobbled road to the old man’s dwelling, the boy glanced back for an instant to see the specter of a solo figure in the distance. It moved in and out of the shade sporadically, as if in wanton search for its destiny. The little boy periodically turned to see as the specter gradually drew nearer and nearer; it waving a single arm back and forth. And, just before the gray overcast skies opened, little Andrzej realized what he was seeing. As he ran towards the figure in haste, his eyes began to water in sheer love for whom he was about to embrace. His prayers were answered. As if the embodiment of all of Poland were within. Though war be waged upon them, even then will they trust… “Stanislaus, my dear Stanislaus!”…
Music
Shades of Montesquieu
|
This Side of France
Words and music by Ostrowski/Lawson I went for a walk to the highest mountain, I went for a walk in the fields below. Went for a walk through the streets of desire, Saw what townsfolk had to bestow. Met a man pained with envy, Met another not willing to let go. Sunday driver don't come near me, Preacher please tell them no, no. This was not happiness. This was no friend of mine. To be King of the Mountain. To be somewhere out of Time. This is my side of France My dream, my side of France. This is my side of France My dream, my side of France. Poor widow standing next to me, Cemetery in the distance. See a river running low and low, Let me have no resistance. Sun caught in the tear of her eye, Flower meadows blooming. Church bells toll oh and oh, The angel looks so presuming. This was not happiness. No, no, this was no friend of mine. Only to be King of the Mountain. To be somewhere out of Time. This is my side of France My dream, my side of France. This is my side of France My dream, my side of France. (repeat chorus) |
Ghouls and Goblins
Whooeeeoooooo...the winds began to blow just as little Stan stepped upon the thousand cracks in the sidewalk of the old, old creepy house. It was about 6, as he thought about one last round of trick or treat to topple his bag of goodies filled with marshmallows and colorful assortments of candy in black and orange bags. The old place looked creepy enough, perfect for Halloween, its wispy willow blew its skeletal-like limbs haphazardly into the cold air, whipping the little boy across the face as he rose one step up. Dead leaves raced in a whirlwind encircling his head, as if vampire bats had come out to play. Reaching halfway up the stoned steps leading to the house, little Stan began to see feathers everywhere, caught in between the aged broken pickit fence, trying to escape it seemed, but caught in an alley of death. A little bit further, the bustling winds revealed their origin, the decayed carcass of a raven. Two cracked rib bones, as if someone had caught it and deliberately crushed it in hand and thrown it to the earthen ground. Rising from its ashes, Stan stepped onto the lower steps of the porch leading up to the door. One by one he went, one by one. Crrrrrkkkkk. Crrrkkkkkkkkk. Phbmmmm. Rrrrrryyyyyeeee. No doorbell was in sight in the dark, dark porch opening, little Stan seeing only that which could be seen in the moonlight. "What if...No, nooo..." thought he to himself shivering with hair blowing across his forehead backways and forways. But he went through and slowly put his hand on the intricately detailed forged antiqued patina doorknob. It was large and oval-shaped, one could not make out what depiction appeared on its scrollwork. Stan's face right up against the knob as one would hold on to something for dear life. It turned easily with only slight resistance and then...IT WAS OPEN!! Nothing could be seen in the blackness of night. The howling from above merely the wind racing its way through the rafters, it appeared. Entering, the little boy noticed giant Victorian-like rooms and chandeliers to his right and to his left. A dark blood red carpet almost seemed inviting. Tip-toeing quietly down the corridor, he stopped and turned back, almost instinctively, as if some magnet were drawing him nearer. Raising his head with large opened fully dilated pupils, Stan stood almost entranced while gazing aimlessly into the upstairs, and into the black. His right hand began to water as he gripped the huge round maple banister post of the staircase and turned to ascend into the gauntlet of nothingness. Climbing the thick wool-covered steps, colossal portraits in black jesso dwarfed him and peered eerily down at him, as if to tell this little boy their tale of doom. Helpless images wishing to come to life. In his mind suddenly their voices could be heard again, as he looked frantically from one to the other. His heart began to beat more forcefully, as he stood motionless on the staircase. It was too late to go back, he thought. "I must see what I must see!" Four steps he took boldly, and then hesitantly for the next two. Four again with fervor, and reaching the top, the little boy was met by the long, long corridor of the upstairs to his left. Some sort of ethereal effervescence lit it however, its light almost coming out of the walls it appeared. Like the dim, yellow flickering of a single candle casting bold shadows from its reflections. Suddenly he became more tranquil, just standing there...seeing its emptiness, listening to its nothingness. The roof rafters knocked back and forth, which he likened to a camping trip he had gone on, where bending birch eek and moan through the bitter night as a single little boy lit a candle inside his tent. In the safety of his tent. In its safety. He was safe now here in the black again he knew, and stepped anxiously down the hallway...to see what he must see. Opening a door to discover yet another Victorian furnished room, though smaller, and then to the next door to discover another. He went from one to the next, like a small child in a flower garden, observing all the beauty of it all. Tranquility and peacefulness in the dark of the night. Quickly opening another door to discover a closet encased
in cedar paneling. And another suddenly revealed a garden storage room, shovels, piks, stakes, and two large axes. Opening yet another door..."AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
...And as little Stan stood there in the midst of the doorway to this small closet, the dark spectre of an upright beast took form! The boy was entirely petrified as its figure had grown from the floor, inch by inch, evil by evil, with very broad shoulders and the deepest ruby blood red eyes. The gastly thing began to increase its breathing as its eyes rolled from left to right in haphazard fashion. The space of the closet was soon encompassed by the torso of the creature which had no fingers but grew out bodily extensions, like dead hanging limbs on a tree. It possessed no neck; its head merely protruding from the rib cage asymetrically centered between its arms. The beast took no posture, but swayed between being stooped over and being upright, as if it had not the ability to maintain form. Or did not wish to. The blackness of the night was interrupted only by the flickering of candlelight upon the creature's body, which interlocked and contoured so as to reflect the light in an eery manner. It breathed loud. Then louder, then louder! as Stan began to turn to take to flight! The little boy thought only of one thing: "I must get out, I must get out!" repeatedly the thought pulsated his mind. "Ahhh! Rrrrrahhh!!" he cried out in desperation as the fierce beast then took hold of his right arm. The little boy turned and twisted in a sheer frenzy to escape its rath but the creature only cried out the more: "Gggahhhhhhhhhhh!" as both boy and beast crashed to the floor of the hallway, contorted like some disformed entity. It dragged him about 5 feet; all the while the boy screaming at the top of his lungs in dire peril. He was doomed!!...His hair shedding out strand by strand on the red carpet lining the hallway as the beast dragged its prey. Its eyes dripping with an oily serum down its face and onto its torso and as the boy gasped for breath with his alternating screams, drops of the substance entered the child's mouth as a leaky faucet's drips echo through the night. Suddenly...the door of the garden closet swung open, as apparently the creature in its haste upturned the latch. And without hesitation and entirely with instinct did little Stan reach for the single bladed shears hurriedly in desperation!, cutting his left thigh in the process as his blood sprayed onto the beast just as a faulty gasket causes spray in a watering hose. "Gggahhhhhh!" it cried continuously. "Gggahhhhhh!!!" The horrifying thing appeared to be seizuring violently as its whole body jerked sporadically. Its lower section convoluted in and out as a wretchedly disgusting stew of green feces exited its rear. Stan drew down the blade and yelled out fiercely: "Uhhhhhh!!" plunging its sharp carbon edge into the torso of the beast. "Uhhhhh!! Uhhhhh!!" he continued. The little boy placed one leg over the neck of the creature and plunged the heavy blade in and out of the belly of the beast with every ounce of might he could muster... 'bfffff, bffff, bffff, bffff resounded the knife's blade as it entered and exited the flesh of the beast, rubbing against its tender meat with sharp screetches of bone heard...'bffff, bffff he pounded its blade, as the thing's blood dripped in a regular pattern from the knife's edge each time it reached the top of the boy's pendulum, "...is falling down, falling down, falling down, London bridge is falling down, my fair lady" hummed the boy as he sat over the beast in a quasi-romantic zombie-like state swaggering his head with each syllable of the nursery rhyme...
And as the beeswaxed candle grew small in the blackness of the night, its flickers slowly reaching death amid the darkened upstairs hallway of the old creepy house, the wind subsided its torrent upon the dwelling, the rattle of the oak plankboard could be heard no longer, and all sounds and echoes of this thirty-first's eve paying homage in worship to the continued resonance of a lone child in the night... 'bffff ...'bffff ...'bffff......
---------------------------------
"Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go..." chanted so sweetfully did tiny little humbly meek and mild Elizabeth as she made her way over hill and dale to her dear grandmother's dwelling. It was on occasion did she journey, with explicit instruction from her mother, only on the brightest of days, and never after 6pm. Grandmother's house was nestled far away from any eye that could pose the possibility of a glance. For a glance was all it took. Deep, deep away, hidden in the thickest of wood, far away...
As little Elizabeth, or Liza as she was so affectionately called by grandmamma, pranced daintifully up and down along the overgrown path leading to the house, an eerie feeling of wanting invaded the child's psyche. Having visited on occasion before, just as the vulture returns to devour his fallen prey, something was continuously being left unfinished it appeared. Time after time, something, but what? What could possibly be left neglected from the warm hand with which a grandmother caresses her granddaughter?
As she hopped along in her pink puffin-like blouse, she sported the cutest of curls knotted by two pink bows in her hair, a golden blonde, almost Rumpelstiltskin-like in appearance. Meek, little Liza continued: "la, la da da da, la da da da, la da da da de da -a"... The sun had ceased its beaming through the tall pines, making no way to the forest floor. And just as a swift wind cascaded overhead, with the wisp of a whirlwind of dead leaves forming a welcome party, did the little child arrive at the great lawn of grandmamma's. With a gray cumulonimbus-looking cloudcover overhead, she lifted her arms up to the heavens in sheer delight and exuberance at her arrival. Her eyes opened widely; her smile ran from cheek to cheek. "Grandmamma!" she exclaimed with joy.
Just then the soft and melodious sound of a harpsichord began to resound. Coupled with the harmonious toll of a windchime feeling the air on the front porch. It was Grandmother! There she stood, arms folded up and hands together, head cocked to the right, with a look of sheer bliss upon greeting the child. "Grandmamma! Grandmamma!" joyfully shouted the child as she dashed up the steps into her grandmother's bosom. "Dear Liza, my little pumpkin" greeted the woman, holding the child as if tomorrow would not exist. "Come all the way to see your grandmamma did you, oh my dear little Liza". Together arm in arm did the two of them, grandmother and granddaughter, turn to enter the dwelling of the elderly woman, slowly, and serenely did they enter, for the moment would not be spoiled.
The house was gallant and stately, upon entering, the blood ruby colored rag was thick and ran throughout the corridor on the first floor. To the right was the dining room, complete with crystal chandelier and dark cherrywood table, which was set with dinner ware; tarnished silver cutlery engraved with two hearts symbolizing her once beloved and long deceased spouse, neighbored by Lenox plateware fashioned with worn golden trim. The table had always been maintained for two, though the dust covered items it boasted conveyed the sentiments of the woman. Even on the phonograph recorder in the distance sat a black glass record of the roaring twenties. Memories of the past, long gone and extinct entities...
"Lemonade?" cheerfully inquired the old woman. "Yayy!" replied the tiny tot jumping up and down. "You run and play and I'll be right back" directed grandmother as she guided the child into the main living chamber. And just within a few feet from parting the woman turned to the child and whispered eerily "But remember" pointing upwards with a lone digit on her right hand. The little girl's expression of anxious joy quickly turned to one of wariness, as she understood the elderly woman's caution. Into the kitchen grandmother went, as little Liza went around the chamber in a clockwise fashion observing everything in awe. The portrait of what appeared to be a 17th Century captain wearing a golden helmet; his face tired and worn from battle, set against a black gesso background. On top of the harpsichord was a small case, and opening it as she had done in the past, she held up the two medal of honors awarded her grandfather during the Great War, their blue and gold ribbons somewhat faded. Alongside was his diary, written page after page to his beloved, capturing every detail of battle and beyond. Turning page upon page, the little girl soon became somewhat mesmerized by it all. And again the sound of the windchime echoed...
"Ah there you are my dear" put forth grandmother holding the glass of lemonade. "Been talking with granddaddy have you? ha ha ha ha!" chuckled the elderly woman. Yet the child could not decipher her grandmother's state of mind. As with some elderly women, slight variations of sanity upon insanity in tongue can exist, often confusing the listener. The girl knew what she wanted to do, however. "Can we go up into the sewing room grandmamma?!" excitedly asked the tot. "Why yes, let's go" replied the woman. The sewing room on the second floor had been a favorite spot to little Liza. It housed yarn upon yarn of many kinds and colors. Raggedy-Ann dolls were perched all throughout the room, on shelf after shelf, homemade by the woman in her youth no less. Even the wallpaper was a sight to see; vertically running ribbons of purple and orange, like some kindergarten kaleidoscope, with little prints of banana, cherry, watermelon, and peach all throughout. "Oh grandmamma!" exclaimed the child. "Oh grandmamma!" The tot hastefully made way immediately to the turn-of-the-century toy carousel which was the heirloom of the old woman's collection. Two turns it took, yielding the delightful tinker of a melody. Capturing the child's heart, she soon fell back in the upright sleeper by her side, falling serenely to sleep...
"Liiiiza" resounded the faintest of voices in the distance as the child lay motionless in sleep. "Liiiiza"again it continued. Gradually the little girl's eyes began to open hearing the echoes of the phantom vocals. She sat up on the sleeper, seemingly realizing what was occurring before her. This was the wanting that had been left unfinished. She knew. "Liza?" interrupted the more audible voice from downstairs, it was grandmamma calling. "Liza, are you up?" beckoned the woman from the banister at the foot of the steps. "Yes grandmamma, I'm coming" dashed the child down the stairs. And just as she reached her grandmother's person and walked away, the little girl's eyes drew back up the stairs in anxious curiosity. "I want to show you the family album my dear, all the pictures of your granddaddy, yes?" "Yee-ss" hesitantly replied the tot still searching visually for the phantom voice.
And there they sat, flipping page after page of photo after photo. "Ahhh" sighed grandmamma at this. "Ahhh" sighed grandmamma at that. Little Liza seemed to take little interest, though convincingly appearing to heed her grandmother's sentiments. It was about 4pm and just after they had snacked, the little girl attentively focusing on page after page, and photo after photo. Four turned its hands as the gray cloud cover continued, with a mistiness that only a deep dark forest dwelling would know. 4pm.....5pm......6pm............ There the old woman sat hunched over on the kitchen table, her head fallen to an open page of the photo album she had been viewing. Little Liza could sleep not, and as the evening chill invaded her frail body, she shivered and grew impatiently nervous at the bleakness of the moment. The grandfather clock had struck its note, 6 deep dongs, each pulsating the little child's nerves with increasing intensity. Dong...dong...dong...dong...dong... Dong! With the 6th beat the little girl frantically got up and bolted from side to side! She panted and panted like some hungry hound out for the kill in utter desperation, not knowing where to turn! Her eyes became bloodshot rouge as the evening sun began to plummet likening it to some terrifying tale. Quickly running to the captain's portrait there on the wall as if to plead for aid, she frantically began to cry out for mercy! Grandmother lay in her state of unconsciousness, morbidlike and seemingly rigor-mortis. "Huhhhh, huhhhhh, huhhhhh" the little girl exhausted in and out, in and out! And just then, "Liiiizaaa!" she heard again! "Ahhhh!" cried the tot in despair as tears streamed from her eyes! "Ahhhh!" Racing in and out of room after room as her grandmamma lie there did the little child! And then, entirely instinctively, just as a spider senses its prey caught in a web, the petrified girl raced up the stairs and stood at the foot of the steps leading to the third floor! She remembered what her grandmamma had continually told her in the past, and thought that yes, this was the wanting that she had craved, the unfinished...the unfinished!
At that little Liza began to whisper, in the meekest, mildest monotone voice known only to a child, and as one foot was placed above the other, climbing to the third floor, "Over the river and through the woods...to grandmother's hou..." she whispered over and over, over and over. "Shhhh" she whispered to herself. "Shhhh" Each step took on the character of its own, each fashioned its unique sound. Crkkkk. Urrrrr. Kkkkk. The little tot continued. "Over the river and through the woo..." At the top of the stairs she found a single door, with a ruby red glass Victorian-style doorknob. Blackened dirty fingerprint marks encircling the knob were noticeable against the off-white colored door. Little Liza hesitantly placed her fingers on the knob, then retreated as if to heed once again her grandmamma's wishes. And then yet again, a second try... And as she began to turn the squeaky glass knob, "Liza!!!" her grandmamma screamed from the first floor apparently in realization of the child's whereabouts! "Liza!!! No!!!!!" Furiously pounding her feet up the steps did the old woman pursue! "Liza!!! No!!!!!" "Liza!!! No!!!!!" The little girl stood motionless for the full five minutes it took for grandmamma to reach the banister at the foot of the steps leading to the third floor. "Liza!!! No!!!!! No!!!!!" At that the little girl turned the ruby red doorknob fully, opening the door! Running into the room fully, to its center, where she could see all, she turned and turned and turned as if to mimic the carousel's motion, her eyes beheld what only her soul could feel and let out in a shattering "AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!". "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"
And as grandmamma lie on the steps, now dead, the soft echo of the harpsichord could be heard throughout. The hours passed, and just as morning broke, the faint gleam of sunlight emerged. Its flicker played games with the crack in the roof tile of the third floor room, dancing in and out with each passing cloud. And in its midst, meek, humble, little Liza began her melodious chant once again. "Over the river and through the woods, to grandfather's house we go..." she sang contentedly and serenely as she beheld 66 Victorian crystal glass canisters, grandmother's beloved heirloom collection containing the eyes, ears, fingers, and various chopped-up intestinal and disemboweled body parts of grandfather soaked in formaldehyde. It was apparent that the gentleman's body had been dissected with the utmost care. Yes, grandmother had always been good with needle and thread. Perfectly proven. The little collection was oh so special to the old woman. Her beloved, her adored, her venerated. It seemed grandmamma had loved him so... Preserved memories. Forever. Forever... "Over the river and through the woods..."
---------------------------
Dinggg.... Dinggg, Dinggg....
"I'm so sorry sir, busy with another customer, yes what can I do for you? A room, why yes, we can arrange that, let me see..."
Dinggg, Dinggg...
"Here, boy take Mr.... I'm sorry sir I didn't get your name, won't you forgive me."
"Appleby."
"Yes, Mr. Appleby, the attendant here will show you to your room, if there's anything you need just give us a call will you, yes..."
"Fine."
"Been traveling mister? I can tell, always can tell you know. Let me see here we are num..."
"Forgot my room?"
"...no sir, just...no sir"
"287. Fine. Hold it, that's for you."
"thhankyou sir...thh..."
"ehhh...wers nite, cant beleve it, bed wheres the...ehhh" .............arret…arret, lesse moi, lesse moi. arret!
"Here! What is it, who's there!" "ehhh...dam it...ehhh..."
...................................non, non! lesse moi tranquil! ne me touche pas! arret Gilbert! arret!!
"Damn it, who's there, who are you!!"
"Good morning Mr. Appleby, how are we today sir, how did you sleep."
"Listen there was someone in my room last night, I demand an explanation!
Kept me up all night, hearing whispering and noises. Well?!"
"I'm sorry sir it shan't happen again."
"Who was in my room last night?!"
Dinggg, Dinggg...
"Well?!!"
"Here help Mr. Appleby to the breakfast hall won't you boy."
"Say Mr. Apple we got a good breakfast today do you like homemade waffles?"
"Here wait a..."
"Maple syrup on top too I had it already come on."
"Ah Mr. Appleby..."
"I'll be leaving in the morning, early!"
“yyes sir...”
"ehhh...fooo... Hello George, yeah Tom. Listen I'll be back before noon, I'm canceling the rest of the meeting. No everything's fine, it went through, I just feel terrible. I don't know, couldn't sleep, first on the train, then last night in this place. No, no, listen we'll just reschedule. Carpenter will arra... wait a minute... no, something is... wait a second hold it for a minute... ...I don't know, this place is getting the best of me. I don't know, scratching on the walls or something, craziest... Yeah, I'll take care of it with Carpenter when I get back. Yeah. Ok. Put some coffee on will ya. Right, goodbye."
"ehhh... ..... .....
...................je te dit arret!!! je te dit arret!!!!
"No, no!!! who are you!! Ahhhhhh!!!!"
"So you say there was nothing peculiar about him sonny? Are you sure, think hard son, it's important."
"No nothin..."
"Did you see anybody following him, did he meet with anyone here in the lobby?"
"No no I didn't see nothin..."
"Ok, oh eh, we may call on you sir if we have any more questions, are you always on duty here?"
"Yes, yes, it's just myself and the boy here you see."
"So you can't think of anything that would have caused him to slit his own jugular?"
"No...no..."
"Are you sure, you hesitated there for a moment?"
"I said no."
"Very well...say, somebody down at the station said that this kinda thing happened here before, is that correct?"
"...yes, yes...a long time ago I believe."
"Very well, we'll be in touch..."
"Here, boy, go, make sure it's cleaned thoroughly."
"...yes sir. ...should have told em about... it's in there, it...no stoppin it. hungry motha...287 287, I'm comin..."
Experiment 31
in cedar paneling. And another suddenly revealed a garden storage room, shovels, piks, stakes, and two large axes. Opening yet another door..."AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
...And as little Stan stood there in the midst of the doorway to this small closet, the dark spectre of an upright beast took form! The boy was entirely petrified as its figure had grown from the floor, inch by inch, evil by evil, with very broad shoulders and the deepest ruby blood red eyes. The gastly thing began to increase its breathing as its eyes rolled from left to right in haphazard fashion. The space of the closet was soon encompassed by the torso of the creature which had no fingers but grew out bodily extensions, like dead hanging limbs on a tree. It possessed no neck; its head merely protruding from the rib cage asymetrically centered between its arms. The beast took no posture, but swayed between being stooped over and being upright, as if it had not the ability to maintain form. Or did not wish to. The blackness of the night was interrupted only by the flickering of candlelight upon the creature's body, which interlocked and contoured so as to reflect the light in an eery manner. It breathed loud. Then louder, then louder! as Stan began to turn to take to flight! The little boy thought only of one thing: "I must get out, I must get out!" repeatedly the thought pulsated his mind. "Ahhh! Rrrrrahhh!!" he cried out in desperation as the fierce beast then took hold of his right arm. The little boy turned and twisted in a sheer frenzy to escape its rath but the creature only cried out the more: "Gggahhhhhhhhhhh!" as both boy and beast crashed to the floor of the hallway, contorted like some disformed entity. It dragged him about 5 feet; all the while the boy screaming at the top of his lungs in dire peril. He was doomed!!...His hair shedding out strand by strand on the red carpet lining the hallway as the beast dragged its prey. Its eyes dripping with an oily serum down its face and onto its torso and as the boy gasped for breath with his alternating screams, drops of the substance entered the child's mouth as a leaky faucet's drips echo through the night. Suddenly...the door of the garden closet swung open, as apparently the creature in its haste upturned the latch. And without hesitation and entirely with instinct did little Stan reach for the single bladed shears hurriedly in desperation!, cutting his left thigh in the process as his blood sprayed onto the beast just as a faulty gasket causes spray in a watering hose. "Gggahhhhhh!" it cried continuously. "Gggahhhhhh!!!" The horrifying thing appeared to be seizuring violently as its whole body jerked sporadically. Its lower section convoluted in and out as a wretchedly disgusting stew of green feces exited its rear. Stan drew down the blade and yelled out fiercely: "Uhhhhhh!!" plunging its sharp carbon edge into the torso of the beast. "Uhhhhh!! Uhhhhh!!" he continued. The little boy placed one leg over the neck of the creature and plunged the heavy blade in and out of the belly of the beast with every ounce of might he could muster... 'bfffff, bffff, bffff, bffff resounded the knife's blade as it entered and exited the flesh of the beast, rubbing against its tender meat with sharp screetches of bone heard...'bffff, bffff he pounded its blade, as the thing's blood dripped in a regular pattern from the knife's edge each time it reached the top of the boy's pendulum, "...is falling down, falling down, falling down, London bridge is falling down, my fair lady" hummed the boy as he sat over the beast in a quasi-romantic zombie-like state swaggering his head with each syllable of the nursery rhyme...
And as the beeswaxed candle grew small in the blackness of the night, its flickers slowly reaching death amid the darkened upstairs hallway of the old creepy house, the wind subsided its torrent upon the dwelling, the rattle of the oak plankboard could be heard no longer, and all sounds and echoes of this thirty-first's eve paying homage in worship to the continued resonance of a lone child in the night... 'bffff ...'bffff ...'bffff......
---------------------------------
"Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go..." chanted so sweetfully did tiny little humbly meek and mild Elizabeth as she made her way over hill and dale to her dear grandmother's dwelling. It was on occasion did she journey, with explicit instruction from her mother, only on the brightest of days, and never after 6pm. Grandmother's house was nestled far away from any eye that could pose the possibility of a glance. For a glance was all it took. Deep, deep away, hidden in the thickest of wood, far away...
As little Elizabeth, or Liza as she was so affectionately called by grandmamma, pranced daintifully up and down along the overgrown path leading to the house, an eerie feeling of wanting invaded the child's psyche. Having visited on occasion before, just as the vulture returns to devour his fallen prey, something was continuously being left unfinished it appeared. Time after time, something, but what? What could possibly be left neglected from the warm hand with which a grandmother caresses her granddaughter?
As she hopped along in her pink puffin-like blouse, she sported the cutest of curls knotted by two pink bows in her hair, a golden blonde, almost Rumpelstiltskin-like in appearance. Meek, little Liza continued: "la, la da da da, la da da da, la da da da de da -a"... The sun had ceased its beaming through the tall pines, making no way to the forest floor. And just as a swift wind cascaded overhead, with the wisp of a whirlwind of dead leaves forming a welcome party, did the little child arrive at the great lawn of grandmamma's. With a gray cumulonimbus-looking cloudcover overhead, she lifted her arms up to the heavens in sheer delight and exuberance at her arrival. Her eyes opened widely; her smile ran from cheek to cheek. "Grandmamma!" she exclaimed with joy.
Just then the soft and melodious sound of a harpsichord began to resound. Coupled with the harmonious toll of a windchime feeling the air on the front porch. It was Grandmother! There she stood, arms folded up and hands together, head cocked to the right, with a look of sheer bliss upon greeting the child. "Grandmamma! Grandmamma!" joyfully shouted the child as she dashed up the steps into her grandmother's bosom. "Dear Liza, my little pumpkin" greeted the woman, holding the child as if tomorrow would not exist. "Come all the way to see your grandmamma did you, oh my dear little Liza". Together arm in arm did the two of them, grandmother and granddaughter, turn to enter the dwelling of the elderly woman, slowly, and serenely did they enter, for the moment would not be spoiled.
The house was gallant and stately, upon entering, the blood ruby colored rag was thick and ran throughout the corridor on the first floor. To the right was the dining room, complete with crystal chandelier and dark cherrywood table, which was set with dinner ware; tarnished silver cutlery engraved with two hearts symbolizing her once beloved and long deceased spouse, neighbored by Lenox plateware fashioned with worn golden trim. The table had always been maintained for two, though the dust covered items it boasted conveyed the sentiments of the woman. Even on the phonograph recorder in the distance sat a black glass record of the roaring twenties. Memories of the past, long gone and extinct entities...
"Lemonade?" cheerfully inquired the old woman. "Yayy!" replied the tiny tot jumping up and down. "You run and play and I'll be right back" directed grandmother as she guided the child into the main living chamber. And just within a few feet from parting the woman turned to the child and whispered eerily "But remember" pointing upwards with a lone digit on her right hand. The little girl's expression of anxious joy quickly turned to one of wariness, as she understood the elderly woman's caution. Into the kitchen grandmother went, as little Liza went around the chamber in a clockwise fashion observing everything in awe. The portrait of what appeared to be a 17th Century captain wearing a golden helmet; his face tired and worn from battle, set against a black gesso background. On top of the harpsichord was a small case, and opening it as she had done in the past, she held up the two medal of honors awarded her grandfather during the Great War, their blue and gold ribbons somewhat faded. Alongside was his diary, written page after page to his beloved, capturing every detail of battle and beyond. Turning page upon page, the little girl soon became somewhat mesmerized by it all. And again the sound of the windchime echoed...
"Ah there you are my dear" put forth grandmother holding the glass of lemonade. "Been talking with granddaddy have you? ha ha ha ha!" chuckled the elderly woman. Yet the child could not decipher her grandmother's state of mind. As with some elderly women, slight variations of sanity upon insanity in tongue can exist, often confusing the listener. The girl knew what she wanted to do, however. "Can we go up into the sewing room grandmamma?!" excitedly asked the tot. "Why yes, let's go" replied the woman. The sewing room on the second floor had been a favorite spot to little Liza. It housed yarn upon yarn of many kinds and colors. Raggedy-Ann dolls were perched all throughout the room, on shelf after shelf, homemade by the woman in her youth no less. Even the wallpaper was a sight to see; vertically running ribbons of purple and orange, like some kindergarten kaleidoscope, with little prints of banana, cherry, watermelon, and peach all throughout. "Oh grandmamma!" exclaimed the child. "Oh grandmamma!" The tot hastefully made way immediately to the turn-of-the-century toy carousel which was the heirloom of the old woman's collection. Two turns it took, yielding the delightful tinker of a melody. Capturing the child's heart, she soon fell back in the upright sleeper by her side, falling serenely to sleep...
"Liiiiza" resounded the faintest of voices in the distance as the child lay motionless in sleep. "Liiiiza"again it continued. Gradually the little girl's eyes began to open hearing the echoes of the phantom vocals. She sat up on the sleeper, seemingly realizing what was occurring before her. This was the wanting that had been left unfinished. She knew. "Liza?" interrupted the more audible voice from downstairs, it was grandmamma calling. "Liza, are you up?" beckoned the woman from the banister at the foot of the steps. "Yes grandmamma, I'm coming" dashed the child down the stairs. And just as she reached her grandmother's person and walked away, the little girl's eyes drew back up the stairs in anxious curiosity. "I want to show you the family album my dear, all the pictures of your granddaddy, yes?" "Yee-ss" hesitantly replied the tot still searching visually for the phantom voice.
And there they sat, flipping page after page of photo after photo. "Ahhh" sighed grandmamma at this. "Ahhh" sighed grandmamma at that. Little Liza seemed to take little interest, though convincingly appearing to heed her grandmother's sentiments. It was about 4pm and just after they had snacked, the little girl attentively focusing on page after page, and photo after photo. Four turned its hands as the gray cloud cover continued, with a mistiness that only a deep dark forest dwelling would know. 4pm.....5pm......6pm............ There the old woman sat hunched over on the kitchen table, her head fallen to an open page of the photo album she had been viewing. Little Liza could sleep not, and as the evening chill invaded her frail body, she shivered and grew impatiently nervous at the bleakness of the moment. The grandfather clock had struck its note, 6 deep dongs, each pulsating the little child's nerves with increasing intensity. Dong...dong...dong...dong...dong... Dong! With the 6th beat the little girl frantically got up and bolted from side to side! She panted and panted like some hungry hound out for the kill in utter desperation, not knowing where to turn! Her eyes became bloodshot rouge as the evening sun began to plummet likening it to some terrifying tale. Quickly running to the captain's portrait there on the wall as if to plead for aid, she frantically began to cry out for mercy! Grandmother lay in her state of unconsciousness, morbidlike and seemingly rigor-mortis. "Huhhhh, huhhhhh, huhhhhh" the little girl exhausted in and out, in and out! And just then, "Liiiizaaa!" she heard again! "Ahhhh!" cried the tot in despair as tears streamed from her eyes! "Ahhhh!" Racing in and out of room after room as her grandmamma lie there did the little child! And then, entirely instinctively, just as a spider senses its prey caught in a web, the petrified girl raced up the stairs and stood at the foot of the steps leading to the third floor! She remembered what her grandmamma had continually told her in the past, and thought that yes, this was the wanting that she had craved, the unfinished...the unfinished!
At that little Liza began to whisper, in the meekest, mildest monotone voice known only to a child, and as one foot was placed above the other, climbing to the third floor, "Over the river and through the woods...to grandmother's hou..." she whispered over and over, over and over. "Shhhh" she whispered to herself. "Shhhh" Each step took on the character of its own, each fashioned its unique sound. Crkkkk. Urrrrr. Kkkkk. The little tot continued. "Over the river and through the woo..." At the top of the stairs she found a single door, with a ruby red glass Victorian-style doorknob. Blackened dirty fingerprint marks encircling the knob were noticeable against the off-white colored door. Little Liza hesitantly placed her fingers on the knob, then retreated as if to heed once again her grandmamma's wishes. And then yet again, a second try... And as she began to turn the squeaky glass knob, "Liza!!!" her grandmamma screamed from the first floor apparently in realization of the child's whereabouts! "Liza!!! No!!!!!" Furiously pounding her feet up the steps did the old woman pursue! "Liza!!! No!!!!!" "Liza!!! No!!!!!" The little girl stood motionless for the full five minutes it took for grandmamma to reach the banister at the foot of the steps leading to the third floor. "Liza!!! No!!!!! No!!!!!" At that the little girl turned the ruby red doorknob fully, opening the door! Running into the room fully, to its center, where she could see all, she turned and turned and turned as if to mimic the carousel's motion, her eyes beheld what only her soul could feel and let out in a shattering "AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!". "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"
And as grandmamma lie on the steps, now dead, the soft echo of the harpsichord could be heard throughout. The hours passed, and just as morning broke, the faint gleam of sunlight emerged. Its flicker played games with the crack in the roof tile of the third floor room, dancing in and out with each passing cloud. And in its midst, meek, humble, little Liza began her melodious chant once again. "Over the river and through the woods, to grandfather's house we go..." she sang contentedly and serenely as she beheld 66 Victorian crystal glass canisters, grandmother's beloved heirloom collection containing the eyes, ears, fingers, and various chopped-up intestinal and disemboweled body parts of grandfather soaked in formaldehyde. It was apparent that the gentleman's body had been dissected with the utmost care. Yes, grandmother had always been good with needle and thread. Perfectly proven. The little collection was oh so special to the old woman. Her beloved, her adored, her venerated. It seemed grandmamma had loved him so... Preserved memories. Forever. Forever... "Over the river and through the woods..."
---------------------------
Dinggg.... Dinggg, Dinggg....
"I'm so sorry sir, busy with another customer, yes what can I do for you? A room, why yes, we can arrange that, let me see..."
Dinggg, Dinggg...
"Here, boy take Mr.... I'm sorry sir I didn't get your name, won't you forgive me."
"Appleby."
"Yes, Mr. Appleby, the attendant here will show you to your room, if there's anything you need just give us a call will you, yes..."
"Fine."
"Been traveling mister? I can tell, always can tell you know. Let me see here we are num..."
"Forgot my room?"
"...no sir, just...no sir"
"287. Fine. Hold it, that's for you."
"thhankyou sir...thh..."
"ehhh...wers nite, cant beleve it, bed wheres the...ehhh" .............arret…arret, lesse moi, lesse moi. arret!
"Here! What is it, who's there!" "ehhh...dam it...ehhh..."
...................................non, non! lesse moi tranquil! ne me touche pas! arret Gilbert! arret!!
"Damn it, who's there, who are you!!"
"Good morning Mr. Appleby, how are we today sir, how did you sleep."
"Listen there was someone in my room last night, I demand an explanation!
Kept me up all night, hearing whispering and noises. Well?!"
"I'm sorry sir it shan't happen again."
"Who was in my room last night?!"
Dinggg, Dinggg...
"Well?!!"
"Here help Mr. Appleby to the breakfast hall won't you boy."
"Say Mr. Apple we got a good breakfast today do you like homemade waffles?"
"Here wait a..."
"Maple syrup on top too I had it already come on."
"Ah Mr. Appleby..."
"I'll be leaving in the morning, early!"
“yyes sir...”
"ehhh...fooo... Hello George, yeah Tom. Listen I'll be back before noon, I'm canceling the rest of the meeting. No everything's fine, it went through, I just feel terrible. I don't know, couldn't sleep, first on the train, then last night in this place. No, no, listen we'll just reschedule. Carpenter will arra... wait a minute... no, something is... wait a second hold it for a minute... ...I don't know, this place is getting the best of me. I don't know, scratching on the walls or something, craziest... Yeah, I'll take care of it with Carpenter when I get back. Yeah. Ok. Put some coffee on will ya. Right, goodbye."
"ehhh... ..... .....
...................je te dit arret!!! je te dit arret!!!!
"No, no!!! who are you!! Ahhhhhh!!!!"
"So you say there was nothing peculiar about him sonny? Are you sure, think hard son, it's important."
"No nothin..."
"Did you see anybody following him, did he meet with anyone here in the lobby?"
"No no I didn't see nothin..."
"Ok, oh eh, we may call on you sir if we have any more questions, are you always on duty here?"
"Yes, yes, it's just myself and the boy here you see."
"So you can't think of anything that would have caused him to slit his own jugular?"
"No...no..."
"Are you sure, you hesitated there for a moment?"
"I said no."
"Very well...say, somebody down at the station said that this kinda thing happened here before, is that correct?"
"...yes, yes...a long time ago I believe."
"Very well, we'll be in touch..."
"Here, boy, go, make sure it's cleaned thoroughly."
"...yes sir. ...should have told em about... it's in there, it...no stoppin it. hungry motha...287 287, I'm comin..."
Experiment 31