Imagine That

A Collection of short Stories by
Leon Rice


The Encounter
A Short Story by Leon Rice

It continued to rain throughout the day; the taxi business was brisk. It was going on 5:00 o’clock and John was getting tired. His clothes had dried since changing the flat in the rain. He couldn’t wait to get home to his wife Kim and little Davie, after a short detour.
He hit speed dial on his cell phone; the phone rang three times and Sally, his dispatcher, answered.
“It’s almost five Sally, I’m off the clock. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“That’s fine John ; talk to you in the morning.”
John hung up the phone, and headed up main street and parked his cab in front of Will’s tavern. He always liked to have a couple of beers before going home.
Will’s had a few people drinking and socializing in the late afternoon; it got crowed after about 9:00 o‘clock, but at this time of day, there weren’t that many customers. John eased up to the bar and sat down next to Barb Congers, a petite little blond that John had known since high school. Actually, he had first met her on a camping trip at a near by lake when they were children. He didn’t see her again until she and her family moved to Andover. He had found it difficult to avoid her when he was in high school with her; she was a real pest.

“Hey Barb. . . .How‘s it going Will? I‘ll take a beer . . . .” Will got a fresh glass and popped the top on a long neck bottle of Slitz beer.

“How you been Barb?”

“I been alright John . . . .How‘s Kim and the baby?”

“They’re doin’ alright too.”

“Are you still working at the shirt factory, or are you just taking it easy these days?”

“Still there John. Can’t complain much; the money is good. We’ve been getting lots of overtime since we got that new contract. Why don’t you go over to the employment office and put in an application. Or are you still happy driving the cab?”

“Well, it’s OK. It keeps me in touch with what’s happening around town. I do like to drive ya know.”

John couldn’t help noticing the tight sweater Barb was wearing. He tried to keep his eye on Barb’s face, but wasn’t having much luck. She was a very cute little women and she knew it. She kept looking at John with her big brown doe eyes, blinking incessantly. Her perfume made her extremely desirable; he didn’t know what brand it was, but he thought he should get some for his wife Kim.

He grinned a childish grin and swooned like a little school boy as he stared into her eyes. Barb couldn’t think of anything to say after a while and their silence was overcome with the sounds of the bar. The video game in the back whistled and popped and rang continually. Phil Collins was on the jukebox. The conversations of the other people in the bar were a muffled and unintelligible rumble.. John and Barb sipped their drinks and finally Barb said, “So why don’t you meet me here later tonight and we can have a couple of drinks and see what develops.”

Without thinking John replied, “Well Barb, what do you think could possibly develop?” Then, after feeling like he had been hit in the head with a whiffle ball bat, it struck him: “This damn women is coming on to me!“

She smiled sweetly and twisted her finger in her hair. John’s face turned a reddish hue and he sat there like an impish child, knowing what he wanted to say but not having the nerve to say it. He became cursorily aware of his sexuality and felt awakening in his penis. He appeared to be shy, but in reality he was embarrassed by the raw sexual energy that developed when he talked to women.

“Well a, I a, well you know, I guess we could just talk for a while about old times in school and there wouldn’t be any harm in that.. Well now, I guess we sure could do that, Barb. What time would you like to meet me here?”

Barb reached over and ran a fingernail gently down his forearm, stared off into space for a moment, and with the cutest and most alluring smile she could muster, finally said, “How about 7:00.” They sat momentarily suspended, with mutual exclusivity, in sexually charged contemplation - Their eyes locked. She felt the moistness and energy of sexual arousal.

“I guess that sounds just fine, Barb.” John said, thinking to himself that he would just say yes for now and then he could just not show up - anything to get out of this embarrassing situation.

“OK well, I guess I better get going right now, so I‘ll see you at 7:00.”

John backed away from his bar stool, leaving a half full bottle of beer, still facing Barb, and backed into a table behind him; he stumbled and waved, still with his sheepish grin and turned and went out the front door. He knew that Barb had always had a crush on him during the time that they were in high school together, but now, he was a married man.

“What the heck is up with this,” he thought. He couldn’t believe that he had done that; he had made a date with another women. What if Kim found out about it; she’d kill him. It could ruin his marriage. But it really was so exciting to think that he might have a chance of having a relationship with Barb and still stay married to Kim. This went against his principles; but wow, was this unreal or what. Maybe he wouldn’t meet her; “What should he do?” He thought. He still had a couple of hours to think about it. He absolutely couldn’t believe he had said yes to her.

He sat down in his cab and lit another cigarette; he was dumbfounded. He was sure nobody heard what they were talking about. “I could do this, “ He thought, “I could really do this. Kim would never find out . . . . Or would she? God this was exciting! Life is good! Really good! What if I’m wrong, and Kim does find out? Then life would be adversely affected forever. . . . God this was great! I never thought I‘d have to make a decision like this!” he thought.

John started the car and backed out of the parking space. He headed up main street toward his house. All the way home he thought highly of himself for having said yes to Barb; he felt that this was a progressive thing to do: Just have a drink with the woman. What harm could there be in that? He knew he shouldn’t meet her, that it was probably the wrong thing to do; he simply couldn’t make up his mind. Turning right on Aster street, he proceeded the seven blocks to his house. He turned into the driveway, flipped his cigarette out the window, rolled it up, and went inside.

* * * *

There were many fine homes in Andover and Kim and John’s house was much like most of the houses in town; it was small though, with only two bedrooms; the house was on an acre of land, with a small brook at the end of the property; it was on the outskirts of town. Beyond the brook, was forest land. There was also a weathered, unpainted, storage building along the north side of the yard. John kept his tools and other miscellaneous junk in the building. There was one very large tree in John ’s back yard; it was probably 100 years old. The trunk was massive and the limbs traveled an expanse that covered almost the entire yard. The foliage on the limbs was thick and lush and had many shades of green.

They rented their house from old lady Houser - an old spinster who had the first penny she had ever earned. She was a writer for the “Valley Voice,” the local newspaper. She owned several other houses in the valley, was a nice old woman, and rented most of her houses to young families that were just starting out in life - at a cheap price.

As John entered the house, Kim looked up from her TV show, “Hey John ,” she said. “How was your day?”

“It was alright; we were very busy -- made lots of money. How are you
feeling today?” He gave Kim a kiss on the forehead and at the same time thought, “Man have I got a secret; you wouldn’t believe what happened to me today!”

“I’m OK,” she said. “I think I’ll be able to take the baby from your mom real soon. The doctor said he thought I was coming along well. Like we talked, I’ll be able to go back to work in a month or so. The doctor said I could get up and move around tonight. Your sister Mary said she’d be over in a little while to fix dinner. I think she said she was going fix pork chops.”

Kim had been confined to bed since the baby was born. They had opened up the hide a bed in the living room for her to sleep on. John had been sleeping in the front bedroom. The neighbor lady, Ella, had just left -- she had been there all day, taking care of Kim. That’s the way their neighbors were, always ready to help a friend out; also, it enabled them to be totally knowledgeable about Kim and John ’s business.

“Had a flat today,” John blurted out. “Got soaked changing it. I was pretty mad about it too. Hit a pot hole over on main street.” His short, Neanderthal, guttural, sentences were factual and to the point; despite of, or maybe because of, his encounter with Barb, he found himself in a sullen mood; this wasn’t going to be as easy as he had at first thought. How could he cheat on Kim. “What if she did that to me? I don’t think I could handle that,” he thought . . . . He always felt better after a shower. . . . “Maybe that will help,” he thought.

“I think I’m going to take a shower before Mary gets here,” he said. He always had a clear head after a shower. He’d have to think long and hard about this development with Barb . . . .

Kim was half listening while watching the TV. She waved a hand at John , without looking away. Oprah had just ended and Jeopardy had started. She was totally engrossed in the TV.

John opened the basement door, after getting his clean clothes, and skipped down the steps. The shower was in the basement. There was no shower enclosure though - just a shower head sticking down out of the floor joists, and a drain in the floor. The basement was practically empty except for the coal burning furnace and a large pile of coal in the coal bin. Soot covered most of the floor and walls; actually, it was more like a cellar than a basement. Kim and John had approached old lady Houser about updating the heating system, but she had declined. The musky smell of coal and mildew permeated the air. Spider webs hung from the floor joist in silken handy-work patterns made by the tiny, creatures of the dark reclusive spaces of the cellar.

He hung his towel on a hook, laid his clean clothes on the steps, and turned on the shower. They had unbelievable water pressure; the water came out so strongly that it stung the skin when it hit you, like thousands of bee stings. The bare light bulb shown dimly as John disrobed and stepped in to the shower. He began to sing to himself; he wasn’t much of a singer but he made up for it with enthusiasm. His mother had always told him the cleanliness was next Godliness; he didn’t know about that - religion didn’t really impress him very much - all he knew was that he felt wonderful after a good hot shower.

He stood motionless under the steaming deluge of hot water for a very long time; he began to relax, but his thoughts drifted to Barb and he wrestled with his desire for her. “Why would he do such a thing?” he thought. He pictured himself in the bedroom with her; he imagined that he watched her undress; he imagined that they embraced, and caressed gently; their passion for one another grew to it‘s pinnacle, and they reached climax simultaneously. As he continued to shower, he realized that he had become sexually aroused. “What the hell am I going to do!”

“He knew that he knew what he wanted to do with Barb, but what was this feeling of guilt he felt - just the thought of having sex with her made him feel guilty - little own actually consummating his desire. “What kind of crap was this?” he thought. He supposed he had spent too much time around his mother; these feelings were definitely of his mothers ilk and her puritanical existence. “ Damn it, just damn it, that’s all!” he fumed at himself. “What the hell am I going to do?” he thought again. Finally, he supposed that he really loved Kim more than he thought. Betraying a trust - that was it - betraying a trust - that was what was at the heart of what was bothering him.

Meanwhile, upstairs, the news had come on the TV and Mary, John ’s sister, had arrived. She placed little Davie on the bed next to Kim. He googled and awed at Kim. He was a wonderful bundle of joy and his existence brought much happiness to everyone.

“There’s my little man . . . . How are you doing, you cute little punkin. Momma missed you today.” She picked him up and gave him a kiss on the cheek and nuzzled his face with her own.

“What have you been doing today? Did you miss momma?”.

Mary was in the kitchen peeling potatoes.

“I brought you a couple of magazines to read, Kim. ‘Us magazine and Psychology Today.’”

“John had a flat today . . . . Big news huh?” Kim said sarcastically. “Said he got really mad about it.” Luckily for John she didn’t know about John’s other news.

“Well that don’t surprise me at all . . . . He can be a real hot head. When is he going to go up to the mine and put in his application? Daddy said they’d hire him for sure. (It seemed that everyone wanted John to get a better job than driving a taxi.) He’d make a lot more money. I don‘t know what he‘s waiting for.”

“Well Mary, he’s wantin to work on that part time insurance agent job,“ replied Kim. “He thinks he can make pretty good money sellin insurance.”

“If you ask me, he needs to go to work in the mine with daddy,” Mary snapped back, “He‘d have a real good job up there.”

Mary was four years older than John and felt that her vast experience in life qualified her to tell him what to do. John usually took whatever she had to say with a grain-of-salt. In other words, he flat out ignored her.

* * * *

There was a garage door in the back wall of the basement. When John finished his shower, he put his pants on and opened the garage door. The yard opened up beyond the back of the house; it was green and lush. John sat down in a lawn chair, with remnants of unresolved sexual arousal, and lit a cigarette. “What a day,” he thought. He always felt good after taking a shower -- refreshed. “Life is good.” he thought, “really good, but what about Barb?” He was in quite a quandary.

John’s dog Lucky was in a pin at the back of the yard. He was a red haired cocker spaniel -- 2 yrs old. Lucky barked and ran back and forth in his pin, trying to get John ’s attention. “Shut up Lucky,“ he yelled at the dog, heading down through the yard to let him out. The rain had stopped, but the grass was wet and cool on his bare feet.

Once free, Lucky ran full out, as fast as he could, around the perimeter of the back yard. He ran past John over and over again like a bull charging a matador. John went into the storage shed and got some dog food for Lucky; he filled his water bowl from the faucet next to the shed and headed back toward the house.

Mary had been watching out the back window; she commented to Kim, “You should see Lucky run Kim; he’s running like a bullet shot out of a
gun.” She yelled out the window, “Dinners almost ready John ; come on in.”

John and Lucky went into the basement and John closed the garage door. Lucky beat him up the stairs and waited for him to open the door at the top. Once in the kitchen, Lucky barked and ran back and forth from Kim on the hid abed to Mary in the kitchen; finally, he stopped next to Kim on the hid abed, bowing down on his front legs, he began to bark at Davie.

“Now you leave Davie alone,“ John snapped at Lucky. He swung at Lucky and he cowered and ran to the kitchen. His exuberance left Lucky spent on the floor, with his tongue hanging out, and he panted heavily; his spittle dripped onto the floor. Lucky had been John’s pride and joy, until little Davie came along; now, he was second fiddle. Lucky didn’t know it though.

Dinner was ready and the three of them sat down to eat. Mary had fixed corn and green beans to go along with the potatoes and pork chops. The aroma of the food made their mouths water. John was tense; he was always tense when Mary was around. She constantly meddled in their lives and John resented it.

“So did you put in your application at the mine yet?” Mary inquired.

“Here we go,” John thought. “She never gives me a break.”

Rather than get into an argument with her, he simply said, “Goin up there tomorrow.” which wasn’t true, but he thought that should put an end to an unwanted conversation. They ate in silence. After finishing their meal, Mary cleared the dinner dishes and changed Davies’ diaper.

Little Davie started to make a fuss; he had been napping on the hid abed; it was dinner time for him too. Mary got a bottle out of refrigerator and put it on the stove to warm. After feeding the baby, they settled down to watch a little TV. John was half way planning to go out this evening to meet Barb, but decided to wait a while before leaving. Mary would be here for a while, watching TV with Kim and he thought it would be better if she were unaware that he was going out. John loved being married and having a baby, but he also liked his freedom. He was a regular a Will Pastorino’s tavern; he also loved his beer. He couldn’t keep his mind off of Barb. Should he meet her or not - what a dilemma. They watched TV for a little while and Mary made sure little Davie didn’t need anything.

“Will you be able to take care of Davie after I leave Kim?” Mary asked.

“I thought you were taking Davie back to your mom’s tonight.“

“Oh, Okay, I can do that; I just thought you were going to keep him tonight.”

“I would love to keep him, but I guess it really would be better if your mom watched him again tonight.“
* * * *

John had taken Lucky back outside and put him in his pen. He sat down in a lawn chair to relax after dinner. Kim didn’t like it when he went to Will’s tavern; she also didn’t like the fact that he drank beer, but she realized that there was nothing that she could do about it. She hated the fact that he smoked cigarettes: “Those things are nasty!” was her usual comment regarding John ’s smoking -- These ideas came from her strict Southern Baptist upbringing.

John smoked a cigarette and tried to think of a reason for him to leave the house tonight - Kim and Mary would be busy with little Davie so all he needed was a reason that Kim would accept without causing an argument. He didn’t mind lying if it really suited his purpose. A lodge meeting, that was it, he would tell her he had a lodge meeting; she never minded his lodge meetings. He thought about it; he was loosing his nerve - if he ever had any nerve in the first place.

It was going on 6:30 and if he was going to go he needed to just do it. There really wasn’t anything wrong with just meeting Barb for a drink. It wasn’t really a date. They could just have a drink and talk for a while. No harm in that. “It’s settled then,” he thought, “I‘ll just go meet her.”

John went back inside and without hesitation, said to Kim, “I’ve got a lodge meeting at 7:00 tonight, I hope you don’t mind. I’ll only be gone for a little over an hour. You’ll be alright with Mary here for a while won’t you?”

“I’ll be alright John . . . . Just don’t be too late.” Little did she know that her confidence was about to be compromised. After all, “what she didn’t know wouldn’t cause her any problems,” thought John .

“Spring showers bring May flowers,“ he thought, or some nonsense crap that his mother use to say; he dodged the rain drops, as he left his house and got in his cab to go to the tavern. John was nervous; his palms were sweating; he was about to do something that he kind of thought was wrong, but had decided to do it anyway. He wasn’t always stalwart - most of the time, but not always.

Barb was sitting at a table in the back of the bar. She had on a low cut blouse, tight jeans and her hair was in a ponytail. Her makeup was perfect and she couldn’t wait for John to get there. She was sexually on edge in apprehension of her encounter with John . She was over sexed and “had a thing” for almost every man she knew. - but this thing with John : “oh my god, this was really going to be sweet.”

John circled the block that the bar was on -- “couldn’t do it . . . . Shouldn’t do it.” . . . . He circled the block six times, then made his final decision. Despite the fact that he was sexually aroused, he finally said to himself, “I just can’t do it.” Maybe he was a better person than he thought he was.

He felt good about his decision. He was proud of himself. He would not compromise his marriage for a little conversation with another women.
He fantasized about what might have happened. It was vivid in his mind; he had even thought about the motel he would take her to. All that stemming from a brief encounter at Will’s bar. Now it wouldn’t happen; he was glad. He drove to the park at the lake where the city water works was located. He pulled into a parking space near the picnic tables, turned off the engine, turned on the radio, and prepared to wait for an hour to pass, and then he would go home; no harm done.

Barb waited; a half hour passed, then an hour. “He wasn’t coming . . . . I knew he wouldn’t show.” She finished her drink and left for home. “He had no idea what he was going to miss out on. . . .It was his loss.” she thought. Sometimes, he didn’t like himself when he did the right thing; “some people seem to have all the fun! They just have all the damn fun! Damn it, just damn it, that‘s all!”


Zealand
A Short Story by Leon Rice

This is a story about a young man named Zealand. It is intended for a young reader of the age of adolescence, perhaps considering religion and it’s implications in his or her own life. This story has protestant overtones, but in no way is intended to denigrate the magnificence of the Catholic Church. It is quite simply religious fiction. Negativity with regard to either Protestant or Catholic religion is not intended. The reformation did happen and this is a simple little story about one young boys journey into the realization of his future.

Grumpus was a crusty old man in his late 70’s. He lived in the village of Voltaire in the French alps. The year was 1517. Grumpus was a man of extremes: either he was totally elated, totally depressed, or mad as hell. You never could tell which man you were dealing with until it was too late. Everyone approached him with caution. Most of the time he was elated and a very happy man. Grumpus’s main purpose in the village was that of a prophetic nature. He was aware of what would come to pass in the future and he helped the residents of Voltaire prepare for what awaited them.

He was quite proud of his grandson Zealand. Zealand was 15 years old and worshiped his grandfather; the sun set and rose in his grandfather, as far as Zealand was concerned. Their love for one other was obvious to everyone.

Zealand’s grandmother, Marisela, was a wonderful women; she was warm, tender, kind, and was quite robust. Grumpus loved her madly. Often times he thought that he did not know what he would do if something happened to her. He was sure that he would not be able to live without her . .

What of Zealand’s parents, you may wonder: They were both away on a quest in Germany helping a man who would change the world, Martin Luther.

* * * *

Five days of the week, Zealand spent time with Cornelious, from noon till about 4 in the afternoon. Cornelious was a dwarf. He was 38 inches tall and was a kind and gentle soul. He greeted everyone with a hug. He had knowledge of everything that had ever happened in the world. He knew about science, medicine, engineering, religion, mathematics - simply everything! It was his job to provide Zealand an education in most areas of endeavor. Zealand was a quick study, was very bright, and had no trouble with his studies. In the mornings, Zealand spent time learning about the art of war and how to fight. Kristoff was his teacher in this area.

On Saturday, Zealand learned about art. He learned from a man in the village named Valcrouie, who had studied with Albrect Durer in Germany. Art was not Zealand’s strongest subject, even though he enjoyed it very much. Zealand was working on a portrait of his grandfather Grumpus. It was coming along quite nicely.

On Sunday, Zealand and Grumpus and Marisela usually eat the main meal of the day with Cornelious and his wife Amalthea. Amalthea was as kind and caring as her husband Cornelious and was of the same physical stature. When it came time for Zealand to marry, she would provide help, wisdom, and guidance, in this area. It was said that she had the power of cupid and could instill love in the hearts and minds of men and women. She never did this though, without consulting her husband Cornelious, and then only on special occasions, with special people like Zealand. This was something she had done for Grumpus when he and Marisela were very young.

* * * *

Zealand made his way down the main thoroughfare of Voltaire, past the shops and building that made up the small village. He entered Cornelious’s house from the back and Amalthea was there in the larder, preparing food for the morning meal.

“Pray thee Lord Zealand, what weather hast thou brought forth for us this day? Is it sunshine we shall have or the nectar of the Gods to make the flowers grow?” said Amalthea.

“’Tis truly sunshine that will grace us all the day long,.” replied Zealand.

“Are thee in need of something to eat at this early morning hour?” inquired Amalthea.

“What have thee woman, that I might devour ravenously.” chided Zealand.

“Do not speak to me with reproach young lord. I have only your well being in my mind.”

“I feel not the pangs of hunger at this early morning hour. Perhaps something to drink would suite my fancy, if you please,.” Zealand replied with retort.

“Dost thou jest with Amalthea at this early hour of the day, young Zealand,” said Cornelious, with mock scolding in his voice as he came into the room.

“Indeed, it is truly jest that I offer Amalthea; no harm is intended.”

“Perhaps we shall both have a container of ale, or would tea be more appropriate for thee, young lord.”

“I think tea will tickle my fancy, illustrious teacher!”

“Then tea it will be, my lords,” replied Amalthea, with a broad smile.

“What hast thou wrought, Young Zealand? I believe she hath seen the humor in thy chiding.”

They all chuckled and enjoyed the tea. Zealand truly loved Cornelious and Amalthea and would do anything for them. He knew that between the two of them, they held his future in their hands: With Cornelious, it was the knowledge of the world; Amalthea, would provide him with the love of the centuries in the women of his greatest desire. He was happier now than he thought possible. He had every reason to believe that things would improve with age.

“’Tis wonderment to my mind that the two of you bring. It is a true blessing that I have, with thee both,” said Zealand with warmth and affection in his voice.

“Better friends than the two of you, I could not have!”

They finished their tea, Zealand gave them both a hug and left Cornelious’s house and walked up the road toward Kristoff’s. It was time for lessons in war and killing. This was the one part of his life that he didn’t like, but Grumpus had told him that it was important - not just important, but crucial for his future.

* * * *

Kristoff’s house was a modest little dwelling and the exterior of the house did not comport the seriousness of the person that lived inside nor did it reveal the travesties of the topics of war that were discussed inside. Grumpus had told Zealand that, although hideous tales of terror were going to be imparted to him, he needed to learn about them and understand that he might be required to carry them out to protect his family and his people. Simply seeing the house brought terror to his mind. With great reluctance, Zealand knocked on Kristoff’s door and Kristoff opened it.

“You’re late my young lord. I see that my time would be better spent with another, than you!”

“Pray, forgive me Kristoff, the time had simply gotten away from me. I assure you sir, there will not be a recurrence of tardiness.” replied Zealand.

“Let that be the end of it then! Come, we’ll start straight away.”

Kristoff was a cold and callous man, hardened by years of battle, killing, and war in foreign lands, in his earlier life. Physically, he didn’t appear to be a special specimen of a man , but his demeanor and commanding presence made him a person to be taken with serious consideration. As much as Zealand hated it, he realized that Kristoff was teaching him needed information and skills.

“Killing, my young lord, is again the topic of the day. Today, I will instruct thee in the fine art of killing with your hands and the sword. Here, take this!”

He handed Zealand a razor sharp broadsword. Zealand followed Kristoff out the back door into an inside courtyard, totally obscured from the outside world but open to the sky above. Kristoff had set up a number of melons on posts in the center of the courtyard. There were also four dummies, stuffed with straw, standing at attention in the far end of the yard.

“Watch closely my young lord!”, said Kristoff, with a glint in his eye.
Imagine if you will, that these are the heads of enemy combatants.”

Kristoff moved quickly past each post, swinging the sword with great furry at each one, slicing the melons into pieces, with the remnants falling to the ground.

“As easily as I have sliced these melons, so too will you be able to severe the heads of the enemy. Think not of them as men, but simply the murders of your family, as killers who would sooner kill thee than gaze on thy naked face. This is war, my son, this is what war is all about.”

The savagery of the implicit acts was surpassed only by Kristoff’s seemed rage and anger. Zealand was frightened of Kristoff, but Kristoff knew this and had told him that he had no reason to fear him - just listen to what he taught him and learn, learn to kill.


Zealand’s lessons in war and killing went quickly today. Kristoff taught him hand to hand combat, and fighting with a sword. He practiced on the straw dummies, thrusting the sword again and again in them. Finally, he was able to think of the dummies as something terrible in the world; He thought of them as the killers of Grumpus, and Cornelious, and Amalthea. Finally, he came to the realization that he really would be able to protect them, them, and everyone else in the village. This must be what Grumpus was talking about, this feeling of being self sufficient, able to take care of the ones you loved and cherished in the world. Maybe Kristoff was right, there really was a place for this.

Kristoff thought Zealand had done well today. He was certain Zealand could learn what he needed to know to fight in battle. There was only one thing he thought he couldn’t teach him: How do you teach someone to deal with fear in battle if they have never been in battle? He supposed that he‘d have to talk to Cornelious about this; he was sure Cornelious would have the answer to this question. He tried to remember the first time he went to battle, but he couldn’t remember if he was frightened or not. He was sure he was.

“How was it for thee then, young lord? The fighting I mean. Think thee can protect us if need be?”

“Well, Kristoff, I think perhaps I could. . . I really think I could.”

Zealand turned to leave and Kristoff put his hand on his shoulder, looked him straight in the eyes and said: “Do not be frightened of me young lord, I will not harm thee.”

* * * *

Filled with Kristoff’s rhetoric of killing, Zealand made his way back through the town to Cornelious’s house. Despite his apparent success with Kristoff, he placed the memory of the fighting in a private place in his mind. He would not think of it again until tomorrow, when it was time to fight and practice killing again.

Cornelious gave Zealand a hug when he enter his house. Zealand notices immediately this man, this house, was far removed from his endeavors with Kristoff. He was a happy young man in the presence of Cornelious and Amalthea. They brought joy to his life.

“So, tell me Zealand, how goes the craft of war today?” inquired Cornelious.

“I learned killing with my hands and a broad sword today. On the morrow, and for a fortnight, we shall learn planning an assault on a village. After that, and for a fortnight again, I’ll be instructed in defending our village.”

“Serious tasks, these. Learn the lessons well,.” commented Cornelious. “In a short time, you’ll be our defender, as well as the defender of the reformation - Grumpus will speak to thee about the reformation.”

“But I am still a lad, not yet a man. Am I to become a man at this short notice?”

“Physical strength and age are nothing to do with manhood. Manhood is in your mind. You’ll be there soon enough,” stated Cornelious.

“Pray Cornelious, the prospect frightens me. But how will I know? “

“It will spring forth from your mind in great revelation. Grumpus and I have been watching your progress and we believe your almost there.”

* * * *

Zealand and Cornelious sat quietly for a short time and Amalthea prepared their noon meal.

“I have mutton for the two of you today for your midday sustenance. Pray thee, eat heartily gentlemen!”

Amalthea returned to the rear courtyard and sat in the noon day sun, contemplating matters of love and the heart and her dear sweet Cornelious. Cornelious and Zealand ate their meal and when they were finished Zealand inquired:

“What will our lesson be for this day, Cornelious?”

“We shall speak of your ancestry and how your people came to live in Voltaire.”

“It is my understanding, kind sir, that you are not form Voltaire and that your home country will always remain a secret, for yours and Amalthea’s safety. Is there truth is this, or have I been lead astray?” inquired Zealand.

“A truer statement could not be made, young gentlemen. Genteel Amalthea and I barely made it out of our country with our lives. We left everything, including our titles; I will tell only this: There are many more of us in the small stature in which I exist, and we all do great work in the world and deeds of kindness. Now, as for yourself, your ancestors are from England, a majestic country. It has it‘s dark side, but England is a major influence in the world.”

“Your grandfather Grumpus lived in England. As I’m sure you’re aware, master Zealand, your grandfather is a prophet and knows the wherefore and the events of the future. He is indeed a wise man.”

I know what is, and has always been, your grandfather knows what is, and will be. So shall you be a prophet and know the wherefore and events of the future; in this way we will be prepared to meet our enemies head on, with no reluctance.

When your grandfather first became aware of his gift, he simply predicted the weather, and simple events that would take place in the days and weeks that lay ahead of the residents of his fair town. Because of the accuracy of his predictions the citizens of his fair village become frightened of him: He was branded a heretic and a warlock. He and your parents fled the country and took up residence here in Voltaire.”

“Your grandfather predicted that our village would be attacked, but residents of Voltaire had not yet established trust in Grumpus in their minds. If they would have listened to him, the siege against our village could have been avoided and many would not have been killed.”

“Pray thee Cornelious, if Grumpus could predict that we would be attacked, why wasn’t he able to predict that many would be killed, or did he,” reasoned Zealand.
“Your grandfather explained to us all that he knew many important events that would come to pass, but not every single outcome. So shall it be with you. The reason I know this, is because your grandfather has imparted this knowledge to me. God himself has told me what has been. If God tells me, I know it is truth. This is gods gift to me.”

Zealand and Cornelious talked for the rest of the afternoon, with Cornelious filling Zealand in on the details of his grandfather’s and his parent’s life in England.

Amalthea entered the room once again and enquired as to weather the men were hungry and if they would be in need of food in the near future. They indicated that they were not hungry and Zealand prepared to leave for home. Almost as an after thought, Amalthea commented: “You are of the age now young Zealand, when you mind will turn to matters of the heart and of love and of having a family. Consider if you thee will, which of the young women in the village thee might consider for a wife.”

“Not yet a man, and still I am to make consideration for a wife. I am truly blessed. I shall do as you have indicated, kind Amalthea.”

Realizing the hour was late, Zealand gave them both a hug. With the crimson sun low in the sky, surrounded by clouds, and the mountains standing majestically in the background, Zealand gave his final goodbyes of the day and left for home.

* * * *

The pinkish red cobblestone street felt solid beneath Zealand’s feet. He made his way past Kristoff’s house, turned on a side street and proceeded to his home on the outskirts of the village. Grumpus sat on a chair near the front door of the dwelling, nodding off in silent dreams. Zealand approached quietly so as to not startle Grumpus. He touched him gently on the arm and Grumpus opened his eyes.

“There ye be, young master! I have awaited thee with great anticipation,” said Grumpus, wiping his sleep filled eyes.

“I am not late, grandfather. It is the same time that it is everyday, after leaving Cornelious’s house, that I have arrived. I came straight away to our home.

“I do not admonish thee Zealand; it is a simple comment not to be taken harshly. Did you have a good day with your instruction?”

“I learned a great deal today. I learned of your life in England and that I too am a prophet and also I learned much about fighting and the art of war.”

Marisela had prepared the evening meal; they ate at their leisure and relaxed after dinner. Marisela busied herself with chores around the house and they settled in for a pleasant evening at home.

“On the morrow, Zealand,” said Grumpus, “you will encounter a women in the village on your way to Kristoff’s house. This women’s name is Stellar. She has come here from a country in the middle east. She has a talent that will be invaluable to us, and more specifically, thee, in the future. She is a stunning and striking figure of a women, with coal black hair and sultry green eyes. Pay her heed and listen to what the woman has to say to thee. She will assist when we find ourselves in conflict or battle and are overwhelmed.”

“Stellar can kill with her eyes and wound with a smile; she is a master of deceit if need be. She can set an object ablaze simply by setting her gaze on it. She is, to say the least, a formidable asset to our fair village. She will be at your side from the morrow onward,” said Grumpus.

“I will speak to thee of a man of great importance in the world. There is a man in Germany named Martin Luther. He has set out a proposition that is in conflict with the Catholic Church and it’s leaders. In years to come, there will be many wars fought over their differences. You and Stellar, after a time, will participate in these wars.

It is Luther’s supposition that God, Jesus, and the holy spirit are of more importance than the church and their teachings. His followers are called Lutherans and protest the Catholic Church and so are also called Protestants and believe in justification by faith and reject Papal authority. This is where your parents are now. You and Stellar will join them and fight with the protestants.”

* * * *

“I find it foreign to my intellect that a war would be fought over religious matters. Will this be a righteous endeavor to be granted God’s favor,”
asked Zealand.

“Indeed it will,” said Grumpus, “There are many things about the Catholic Church that are good and decent, but it seems that certain men in the church have become over zealous in the persecution of their faith and have acted in an exclusionary manor to many men and women of the church. They have convinced many that they will spend eternity in hell, if the church does not endorse them as worthy. God has set Martin Luther and the Lutherans the task of spreading the knowledge that they are saved through justification with Jesus Christ and not the church. Because of the Lutherans, many men and women will live their lives in contentment, knowing they will spend their eternity in heaven with God, simply by turning from their sin, and accepting Jesus as their savior. Trillions and trillions of souls will be saved because of this knowledge and revelation. . . But now, the hour is late; let us retire for this evening and we will resume our conversation in the morrow.”

“You have given me much to contemplate dear grandfather. . .I shall take it to heart and let the hours of slumber help me digest the knowledge,” said Zealand.

With that, the lamps were extinguished . . . The light of the fireplace, with embers glowing softly in the night, illuminated the interior, as Grumpus, Marisela , and Zealand, settled in for a night of respite.

* * * *

The morning came with the cock’s trumpet while a gentle mist filled the air. The mountains outside the village were obscured from view and the morning fog engulfed their surroundings with an air of intimacy that was soothing to Zealand and his grandparents. They went about their morning ritual with the usual zest and zeal and were unaffected by the murkiness.
Zealand bid his grandparents good morning and set off for Kristoff’s house.

Not more than two streets away from his home, Zealand was stopped by a woman in a long cape and a concealing head piece that obscured her face.

“Good morrow kind sir,” exclaimed the woman, as she slipped the hood from her head . “What think thee of this early morning haze?”

“Nay, it makes one contemplative of the essence of the day,” replied Zealand, “What think thee?”

“It is my hand before my foot that I cannot see. If it were not for foreknowledge of the village, I would be lost,” replied the woman.

“Your name must be Stellar,” offered Zealand in conversation.

“And I know that your name is Zealand. You could be no other, simply by the look of you.”

“My grandfather, Grumpus, has indicated that our lives are to be intertwined for an indeterminate amount of time and that you and I are to fight in wars over religion and to strive to eradicate an injustice that exists in the Catholic Church. Our efforts will result in the salvation of many souls. I beg thee pardon, but based on what I know of war, I feel that war is a mans regimen, to be fought with physical strength and marked determination, not available to the fairer sex.”

“I beg difference with thee. God has granted me the acumen, strength, and agility so that I will not be put under by any man on this earth. God has also given me the use of a miracle of which I can work at my own desire. Gaze if you will at that pile of limbs on the side of the lane. I will set my gaze on them and set them ablaze, simply by my will.”


Stellar focused on the limbs and small flame developed in the center of them. The smoke rose and the small pile of limbs were consumed with fire. . . What think thee of my ability, with that revelation, young lord?”

“Fair woman, thee are the epitome of deceit! One would never know of your ability, simply by your appearance! A fairer maid I have never seen.”
If your fighting skills are of equal tantamount to this miracle, we will surely be undefeated in our endeavors. We can set the enemy on fire and watch in contentment as it is consumed.”

“Hold out your hand, and I will further demonstrate,” said Stellar. “The fire will not harm you; only at my command, will you feel the heat of it.”

Zealand held out his hand in front of him and a small flame appeared in the palm of it and fluttered before him, but he felt no pain.

“With my will alone, I will make the fire hot and you will begin to feel the pain associated with it.”

In an instant the fire became hot and the pain searing.

“Bless thee, woman! You have wounded me with your mind,” yelled Zealand, as he shook the flames from his hand. Zealand was dumfounded by the demonstration. As they walked, Stellar continued:


“From this day forward, our intent will be unified and we will fight in God’s name for religious equity in the minds of common man. It is God’s will that we will prevail in our battles and that the protestant movement will take hold and the injustice will be unraveled.”


“I will take my leave of you now my lord. In two days, before the sun has breached the mountain tops to give the light of day, I request that you meet me in the clearing by the water fall in the forest and I will further enlighten thee . . . I bid thee good morrow kind sir.”

In the blink of an eye and a wisp of the wind, Stellar disappeared from Zealand’s presence.

Throughout the entire day, Zealand spent every available moment trying to imagine what it would be like fighting in battle, to fight for such a noble cause. He was quite distracted when he meet with Kristoff and likewise with Cornelious, but they both knew of his distraction and made allowances.

He had dismissed himself from his time with Cornelious and spent the afternoon in the town square talking to as many people as he could. He could scarcely concentrate and the days passed without incident. On the second day, he went to meet Stellar.

* * * *

Stellar sat on a tree stump in the early morning hours of the day, waiting for Zealand to arrive, as requested. With his usual punctuality Zealand arrived in the small clearing with sleep in his eyes and greeted Stellar with a hug.

“Good morrow young Zealand,” said Stellar. “Hast thee made peace with this early morning engagement?”

“Pray thee Stellar, the early morning rendezvous has not negative affect on me. You said you wished to speak to me about something of utmost importance. I am before thee; shall we begin?”

“Of course young lord. I wish to speak to thee of heaven and hell, of myself, of God, and why I am here. Gaze if you will into the night time sky and tell me what you see.”

Zealand looked into the sky, studied it for a moment and replied, “I see the darkness of night, illuminated by the light of the stars and the moon. Pray, what importance is this to me?”

“It is the beginning of an explanation of God, where heaven is and where hell is. To start with, God made all that is good and decent and pure in the universe; this included the sun and the moon and the stars. One of the many things God is, is love, an intangible, and also light. God is the light. In essence, God is the tide that binds us all together as his children. Without God, we are nothing. The only reason we exist is because God wants us to exist.

“I have asked thee here at this early hour so that we might witness the sunrise, so as to explain heaven and other wonders of the age.

The darkness that exists, the area in which the stars are suspended, is called space. Space is never ending. Space is also not always darkness. This is a key as to where heaven is. Consider if you will a dove, a bird that will represent the holly spirit. If you were to release the dove and it began to fly in a straight line into the darkness, never tiring, never failing, based on what science will tell us, it would continue forever; but in reality, the dove would eventually reach heaven. It would fly from darkness, into the God’s light. This is where heaven is: Heaven is beyond the darkness. Heaven is so far away that it is safe from evil doing.

When we watch the sunrise, the darkness will slowly turn to light and we have a new day. This is what heaven is, a new day. This is what happens when a person passes from existence on this earth. Their spirit and soul (and their mind) travels through the darkness, escorted by the holly spirit. This is why the stars exist, to illuminate the path of the spirit and our soul on its journey to heaven. The stars themselves, of which there are billions and trillions, are spirits; not merely spirits, but angels that God has assigned the task of providing light. For their protection, God has made them searing hot to the touch; if one would stand in close proximity for a heart beat, they would be incinerated instantly, yet as they hang suspended in space, they feel the coolness of a spring time morning and are content with their task.

Each star shines for an indeterminate amount of time, known only to God. He has allowed the stars to feel great joy in there existence and their job of providing light. The brighter a star shines, the happier it is. What we call the sun actually is a star, perhaps the happiest of all stars, because it illuminates his creation, the earth. If you have ever seen a shooting star, you have witnessed the spirit of a star passing into the kingdom of heaven, into eternity, into eternal bliss. I can tell you that it is a magnificent event.

There are two words that I want to tell you about, infinity and eternity. Infinity becomes eternity. Heaven exists in eternity; it continues forever into the future, thus in that sense, considering the dove that I spoke of earlier, infinity isn’t infinity at all as many believe but ends in heaven; the doves journey would end in heaven and from there eternity begins and truly never ends. The holy spirit makes the journey from darkness, into the light of heaven, God’s magnificent light, over and over again, guiding the spirits and souls of men women and children into eternity and into the glorious presence of God.”

“And so, I query thee this: Doest thee grow weary of my soliloquy, young Zealand,” said Stellar, “Or shall I continue?”

“Pray thee, fair Stellar, tell me more.”

“Let us walk, lest we become weary of our surroundings, and I will enlighten thee further,.” said Stellar, with great pleasantry. She picked up a small stone the size of a coin and held it in her hand as they walked. She placed the stone in Zealand’s hand and continued:

“The person you see before you is not a women in the truest sense. What I am, is a spirit. I am the spirit of a star that shown brightly in the night sky when Jesus was born. You know me as Stellar, but I am known in heaven as the Star of Bethlehem. This is all I will tell thee about myself. What I want to tell thee about now is hell.

Stellar reached over and pinched Zealand on the arm quite severely.

“Good lord in heaven fair women, why hast thou inflicted such debauchery. That was painful!”

“I have done this so that the memory of pain would be fresh in your mind. This is what hell is. Hell is pain. Not only is it pain, but sorrow; it is also regret, regret of deeds done in your life for which you have not been forgiven.

There is only darkness in hell. Close your eyes and tell me what you see.

“I see nothing, only darkness.”

“This is what hell looks like, only blackness. The magnificent light of God does not exist in hell, thus, he has no presence there. When you are in hell, you are forever separated from God. Someone in hell has no sense of another being. Each soul is forever alone. There is no one to comfort you. You are forever forbidden the touch of another being. As time passes into eternity, the pain, with each second, increases beyond which you have not comprehension. The pain doubles with each passing minute for all eternity. There is sound in hell. People in hell hear the screams of other tortured souls, the gnashing of teeth and the breaking of bones. People cry out to God, but he hears them not. Hell is the antithesis of heaven. Hell is insanity.
What think thee of hell young Zealand?”

“I am taken aback, for thee hast described something for which no man could endure.”

“There is great truth in what you say. No man could, but some men will, despite themselves; that is the point of it. Only a fool would risk going to hell.

“Do you know what sins are dear Zealand?“

“Indeed I do know what sins are fair woman. I have spoken to God myself about them.”

“And what did God say?”

“He said nothing. God did not speak to me.”

“God is speaking to you now, through me.”

“God said that if you wish to enter into his light, into the light of heaven, simply confess to him your sins, accept Jesus as your savior and when the time comes, thee will be taken from the darkness of space and be accepted into his holy light.”

They sat on a decaying log and Stellar continued:

“Close your eyes and speak to him silently now as I have indicated.”

There was a wisp of a wind, the leaves rustled gently, and as Zealand spoke to God, a dove fluttered into the air and flew away into the morning sun. Zealand opened his eyes.

“Did you do as I requested?”

“Yes, emphatically yes, I did.”

A tear formed in the corner of his eye and rolled down his cheek.

“What did God say?”

“I did not hear a voice, but a thought came to me as though it were spoken; the thought was simply, ‘You are forgiven my son.‘”

“And so it shall be from this day forward. God has always been with you, but now you will know for certain that God is with you. You are destined for heaven and when the time comes, will spend eternity in the presence of God, experience joy the likes of which you have never known, and live in the magnificence of His holiness . . . Now, say Amen and we shall walk further.”

Zealand did as Stellar requested and as they walked, Stellar said, “Doest thou feel distracted or can thee continue to focus on what I say?”

“Continue fair woman; pray, tell me more.”

“I shall speak to thee briefly of sleep. God allows that we put our heads on the pillow each night so that we might rest and to not grow weary of our endeavors during the day. When we sleep, God allows us to dream. Doest thou have pleasant dreams dear Zealand?”

“Indeed, I do have pleasant dreams; on occasion though, my dreams are of a terrible nature and I awaken in the dead of night with terror in my mind. My body is in a cold sweat and chills run up and down my spine; I am terrified and fear fills me up,” said Zealand.

“Yes, that is horrid; we shall speak of it later but the pleasant dreams are a preview of what heaven is like. Will thee tell me of them, the pleasant dreams I mean to say.“

“Oh, my fair woman, they are magnificent indeed! There are vast mountain ranges, with snow capped peaks that continue to the horizon, with beautiful valleys filled with flowers of every color imaginable. The temperature in the valleys is warm, never hot, and high in the mountains, there is snow, but it is never cold, only cool. In many of my dreams, I can fly like a bird and I soar above the vistas below and before me. It is a majesty of which I almost cannot grasp.

Then it occurs to Zealand what is being imparted to him and he says:
“I have realization of what thee speak! I am awestruck! I beseech thee, is this what heaven is really like, fair woman,” said Zealand, with glee in his voice.”

“Tis so, fair one; also, peace, love, kindness, gentleness, and civility are eternal,” said Stellar, with a tender touch of her hand to his arm.

“People, in their heavenly bodies, play music and laugh and sing. They are never hungry, but may eat if they wish; eating brings them additional joy. We shall speak more of heaven later, but now I will speak of hell. The nightmares that we have are a preview of hell. Doest thou have the small stone that I gave thee?”

“Indeed,” said Zealand.

“Place the stone in the palm of your hand, rub it with your finger and contemplate the composition of it, the size of it, and the color of it. God has a stone like this that he keeps in the pocket of his robe. It is so hard that it cannot be broken. This is where hell is.

Keep this stone, the stone in your hand, in your possession from this day forward to remind thee where hell is. The people of heaven also know where hell is, that it is in Gods’ pocket, and they are certain that they are safe from it. The spirits and souls inside cannot escape, nor will anyone in heaven ever be placed there. The nightmares of which you have spoken, are like hell, sheer terror.”

“Firstly, fair lad, I will tell thee that you shall never again awaken in the night with terror and fear in your mind. Secondly, You will remember the fear and terror you have already experienced during your slumber and in your hours of awakening, without fear, will tell others of the horrors of hell.

This is the first thing I have spoken prophetically regarding your life; Take heed of it and remember it. I sense that thou doest grown weary and have as much knowledge as can be digested at this time. You, are a profit and the information I have imparted to thee is the beginning of all thee will know regarding God, Heaven, and Hell. I will leave thee straight away and allow you to contemplate the newly acquired knowledge. Do not linger long so that you worry your grandfather and grandmother.” With a look of kindness and caring on her face and a gentle smile, Stellar said, “I bid thee good morrow sir.”

With that, Stellar disappeared behind a thicket and Zealand sat alone.

I am truly awestruck, thought Zealand. “To think that these many years of my life, I have had the essence of heaven and hell in my mind at night and didn’t know it. But this is marvelous,” he exclaimed to the empty clearing in which he sat. A gentle breeze crossed his face, as though God had exhaled the breath of life on him. He was filled with glee and excitement and stood and turned in a waltz step in circles around the clearing. “Not only that, but God has forgiven me my indiscretions! This must be the revelation of which Cornelious spoke.” Zealand’s heart was filled with joy and he couldn’t wait to discuss this with his grandfather Grumpus and dear Cornelious.

“And so, today I am a man,” thought Zealand. Young Zealand’s life had been laid out before him. It was destiny, plain and simple thought Zealand - but where would he go? When would he go? Besides Stellar, Who would he be with, and just exactly who would he be fighting? And if I’m a prophet, why don’t I know these things? All unanswered questions but he knew his life was going to be grand - he was sure Stellar would inform him, after all, even a prophet gets his knowledge form somewhere. What better place than one of God’s own disciples

“I am to be a champion of the reformation - A truly righteous endeavor!“

Zealand placed the stone Stellar had given him in his pocket and danced all the way home.

* * * *


A Brand New Life on the Farm
A Short Story by Leon Rice

It was a cold, crisp, December morning, Christmas eve. Billy Brenner sat quietly in the stall with Mandy, Uncle Tommy ’s prize mare. Mandy was with foal. There was a feeling of great expectation as Billy and his Uncle Tommy comforted Mandy in the hours before giving birth. It looked like it was going to be a glorious Christmas - there was a new life coming to the farm.

Billy ’s parents had been killed in a bus accident about a year ago and he lived with Uncle Tommy and Susie since the tragic event. He missed his parents, but his love of Uncle Tommy and Aunt Susie was enough for him. His life was complete and he figured he couldn’t have done better if he had chosen his life himself. He kept a picture of his parents on the dresser and as he figured it, it was in a place of honor in his room.

Uncle Tommy had promised Billy that the new colt would be his, that he could raise him and care for him. Billy was overjoyed at the thought of having his very own horse.

Billy had listened closely to Uncle Tommy over the months leading up to this day and knew exactly what to expect from Mandy. He had done research on the internet, learning everything he could about horses. He watched videos of a colt being born on Youtube and he figured he was ready for the wonderful event. As Mandy labored to give birth, Billy gently stroked the mares neck and provided, although unnecessary, words of encouragement - the mare had given birth twice before and things were progressing normally.

“Do ya think she’s alright Uncle Tommy,” said Billy , with a look of concern on his face. Even though he had watched this on video, the experience of the “real thing” found Billy with butterflies in his stomach and thoughts of uncertainty in his mind.

“What if somethin’ goes wrong, Uncle Tommy?”

“Nothin’ is gonna go wrong, Billy . She’s doin’ just fine. Just keep stroking her neck, it’s almost time. Very soon, we’ll have a brand new life here on the farm, and the colt will be all yours.”

“This is beyond belief. How awesome is this,” thought Billy , “My very own horse!”

Billy had told all of his friends at school about the colt and they were all envious of him. Billy ‘s attention was momentarily interrupted by thoughts of a conversation he had with his best fiend. “None of us has got a horse,” commented his best friend, “Do ya think I can ride it when it grows up?”

“Sure ya can. We can all ride it when it grows up! Maybe you can help me take care of it”

Billy ’s attention was returned to the mare, when she shuddered slightly and made slight sounds of discomfort. Then the colt started to appear.

“This is it, Billy ,“ said Uncle Tommy . “Your horse is on its way! Just keep rubbing her neck, and talk to her. Talk to her and tell her everything is going to be just fine.”

“You’re doin’ great Mandy,” said Billy , “Tuck is going to be a happy dad, when he sees his new colt. All the animals is waitin’ for your baby to be born and I‘m gonna help you take care of it, and so is Uncle Tommy , and everybody can‘t wait.”

Time slowed to a standstill, as they watched the new colt appear from its mother. “Watching a video is nothing like the real live birth,” thought Billy . “This is the most fantastical thing I’ve ever seen!”

Mandy shuddered slightly, and with one last push and Uncle Tommy ‘s help, the colt was free and lay on the ground near its mother.

Uncle Tommy started to wipe the new colt clean and motioned for Billy to help him. Billy cradled the colt’s head in his arms as Uncle Tommy finished wiping the colt off. The colt opened his eyes and struggled to lift his head. Billy talked to the little foal.

“I’m gonna take care of you little horse,” said Billy . “I’m gonna make sure you got plenty to eat and I’m gonna brush you and take you for walks and it’s going to be great fun. You’ll like it here; this is a wonderful place and I know you’re going to be very happy. Your mom and dad will show you how to be a horse. Later on, after you grow up a little, we can go for rides in the forest behind the house and you can run and play. Yes, that’s right little horse, we’re going to have great fun together. And you‘re mine, all mine!” Billy hugged the little horse around the neck and thought “Life is really wonderful sometimes, really wonderful.”

“What cha gonna name him, Billy ,” asked Uncle Tommy as the colt struggled to his feet. He stood on spindly, wobbly legs, and eased up next to his now standing mother.

“Well I been thinkin‘ about that, Uncle Tommy , and since I didn’t know if it was a girl horse or a boy horse I decided a long time ago to call it Tinkerbelle - Tinker for short.”

“Well that’s just fine, Billy . Tinkerbelle it is. Tinker for short.”

“Isn’t he the most wonderfulest horse you ever saw, Uncle Tommy ?”

“That he is, young nephew, that he is. . .”

Young Tinker stood quietly in the stall and Mandy nuzzled the colt as they made tiny little sounds of assurance and reassurance to one another. The colt and mare were bonding, a bond that would last a lifetime.

“Come on Billy , we need to leave them alone for a while. They’ll be fine tonight. We can come back down to the barn in the morning. There‘ll be plenty of time for you and Tinker to get to know each other.”

They left one light on in the barn, and with great reservation, Billy squinted through the crack in the door for one last look at the pair and finally closed the door all the way shut. Tommy and Billy made their way up the small lane from the barn to the house. They were chilled to the bone from the time they had spent waiting for Mandy to give birth. Their breath could be seen as they exhaled with each step closer to the warmth of the farm house. It seemed that Mandy and Tinker weren’t the only ones to be bonding on this Christmas eve.

“So I guess we better get to bed right a way. Santa Clause is coming tonight as well,” said Uncle Tommy . “What do ya think Santa is going to bring you for Christmas this year, Billy ?”

“Well, I guess he kind of already did. I mean, Tinker is the best gift a person could get for Christmas. If I don’t get nothin’ else, I’ll be very happy.”

The light of the full moon lay gently on the yard and house as Billy and Uncle Tommy slipped in the back door to the farm house. Aunt Susie was asleep and the house was as quiet as could be. Lights from the Christmas tree and the remaining embers in the fireplace illuminated the living room.

Billy put on his pajamas and drifted off to sleep in peaceful slumber as Uncle Tommy placed presents under the Christmas tree.

* * * *

Billy sat bolt upright in bed the next morning, and his eyes sprung open wide. “It’s Christmas morning,” said Billy , “and there’s presents under the tree for sure!” He scurried out of bed and ran downstairs, sliding on the rug in the upstairs hall. He knew he’d get more that just a horse for Christmas, although the horse would definitely have been enough for him. Santa and Uncle Tommy and Aunt Susie didn’t let him down. His parents, as well as his relatives, always made sure he had a wonderful Christmas. Even though his parents weren’t here, he still had the love of his relatives to see him through. This year was no exception.

Billy ripped and tore his was through all the presents. He was right. There were new clothes, and books, and a new fishing rod, and video games that he had ask for, but all of it was nothing compared to Tinker. “Marvelous Tinker,” he thought, “Marvelous, wonderful Tinker!”

Christmas was good for Uncle Tommy and Aunt Susie as well. They exchanged presents quietly, while Billy ran back up stairs to get dressed.

Aunt Angie busied herself preparing Christmas dinner. They usually ate around two in the afternoon on Christmas. The relatives usually arrived around noon and they exchanged gifts before dinner.

Billy ran full speed through the kitchen toward the back door, putting on his coat as he went. “Goin’ to the barn,” he yelled as the screen door slammed shut. “Put your hat on,” Aunt Susie yelled to the back of his head as he left.

“Ah, to be young again,“ Susie thought, “If only I were young again.”

The day went as usual, except for the fact that Billy ’s parents weren’t there. Billy spent the day petting and talking to his little horse. Dinner was exceptional. Aunt Susie outdid herself. They sang Christmas carols and drank fruit punch and everyone nibbled on pumpkin pie and Cherries Jubilee.

Uncle Will and Aunt Edna were the last to leave late that afternoon. Everything had calmed down. It had been a marvelous Christmas. The three of them sat quietly in the living room, in front of the fire, contemplating the awesome day they had all had.

“So, did you like your presents, Billy ,” asked Uncle Tommy , as he gave Aunt Susie a telling glance.

“Everything was great,” said Billy .

“Well, we have one more gift to give you, Billy ,” said Uncle Tommy , as he handed an envelope to Billy . He opened it and said, “What’s this?

“It’s the adoption papers,” said Aunt Susie . “This makes it final. You can stay here and live with us permanently.”

“We love you very much, Billy ,” said Uncle Tommy , “and we hope you’ll continue to be happy here. So you have a new beginning here with us.”

“Life couldn’t be better,” thought Billy , “I must be the luckiest little boy who ever lived. Thank you God for ’A Brand new life on the farm.’”


Disdainful Fruit
A Short Story by Leon Rice


“Now you be puttin’ them drawin’s in the trash Evan, and get back to your school work. I‘ve told ya before, what ya need to be workin‘ on is your school work. There aint no way you’re goin’ to be an artist. Nothin’ will ever come it. Do ya hear me? Nothin’! I won’t stand for it! Artists is low life degenerates and most of ’em can’t even support themselves.”

“But I,” Evan started to say, when his father hit him in the face with a backhand and left him sprawled on the floor of his room. His father removed his belt and Evan knew what was coming. The swish of the belt as it split the air was followed by the slap of leather to skin when it hit him. Humiliation filled his being as the physical pain coursed through his limbs with each hate filled strike.

Evan was stoic and as usual, there’d be no response from him. There’d be no tears, no pleading for his father to stop - at least not out loud that is: “No, No, No, daddy! Please stop daddy! Please stop,” echoed in his thoughts but Evan would not allow him the satisfaction of hearing him beg. His degradation was complete as he lay limp as a rag doll and took the beating. There was no love lost, that’d been lost years ago.

“I’ll not be havin’ any backtalk from ya! Do ya hear me ya little heathen? Do what I say, and clean up this room too ya little bastard. It looks like the swine is livin’ here! I’m goin’ down to Shanties to have me self a pint or two. Mind what I say now: School work! It’s your school work you’ll be doin’, or I’ll blister your damnable hide again!”

Evan looked up into his father’s steely eyes and saw the evil that lived unrestrained in his mind. He saw the pain, sorrow, and hatred as it festered inside. Silent screams echoed in Evan’s mind but were not brought to fruition.

“Mark my words and take heed,” said Patrick as he put his belt back on, went down the stairs, and slipped outside. He closed the door behind him. Silence hung suspended in the moment without a clue as to what had transpired.

Evan went to the window, looking out on his street, and watched as his father made his way through the children playing in the street down the block. As he watched, the rage that had been contained built to the point of explosion. He watched and waited till he was sure Patrick was far enough away from the house that he couldn’t hear him, and his anger burst from him in a rant of verbal slurs and cursing. He screamed at the top of his voice and called his father every name he could think of. His fists were clenched and he pounded them mercilessly in the couch cushions, picturing his father’s face with every blow.

“The devil is in ya Patrick Doyle! I hate ya, I loathe ya! May ya burn in hell Patrick Doyle!,” screamed Evan. He let out a screech, the screech of a tortured banshee, and it seemed as though it would never end as the air escaped from his lungs. He beat the cushions till the feathers from them flew in a wisp into the air; he beat them till he could no longer lift his arms and lay in an exhausted heap of spent frustration on the floor.

Tears rolled down his cheeks in unending streams of glistening, crystalline liquid, as his body shuddered with uncontrollable sobs. Insignificant, tiny, helpless, tormented, tortured, devastated, were his thoughts and feelings.

The late afternoon sun dimmed with a crimson melancholy sky at the horizon and the day softly, tenderly, turned to darkness while he cried. He lay curled in a tiny forlorn heap on the floor of the living room of the small flat. Alone, he was all alone, with no one to love him and no one who cared about him. “Could this be hell,” was his final thought as he slipped form consciousness into dreamland. Relief from the torment was at hand: Peaceful sleep.

* * * *

It could have been hours. It could have been days. Evan had no sense of how long he had been asleep. He was awake now, but his eyes were still closed; he listened. There was no sound. He opened his eyes, but the darkness was consistent with what he had seen when his eyes were closed. He couldn’t see his hand before him. Patrick wasn‘t home yet, or was he?

“Poppa,” said Evan gingerly, tentatively, with trepidation, hoping there would be no response.


Things were always awful when Patrick spent time at Shanties pub. Fear struck him as though an icy wind suddenly came over him and he shivered as it crept up his spine and nestled itself in his brain. He felt fear of a man that he had long ago learned to hate and despise. How had things gotten to this point, he wondered out loud. How could God have allowed this to happen to me?

“You’re a despicable loutish cretin, Patrick Doyle,” Evan muttered under his breath. “You’re as mean as a wounded serpent and as cruel as the widow Brennan, he lamented. Sure if you’re not the devils’ only friend. I’ll have me day, Patrick Doyle, There’s a day comin’, Patrick Doyle, when I’ll have me revenge and it‘s mercy you‘ll be beggin for; Nary a bit there‘ll be!”

Evan sat quietly in the darkness for some time and then said in a faltering little voice, “God . . . God . . . are you there God? I‘m approachin’ ya with reverence dear God. Why did you do this to me God? Did I do something to make you do this to me? What could I have possibly done to deserve such a life? Please answer me God . . .Please make my father stop hurting me. Please change my life back to the way it was before my mother died. Please change my father back to the way he used to be. . . “ The silence echoed in his ears and after a bit he simply said, “Please take care of my mother God . . . Please answer me.” God did not answer Evan. There was only silence and the beating of his hopeless heart.

* * * *

The tumblers in the lock on the front door clicked, clickity clack, and it creaked open slowly. Panic struck Evan in a white hot flash. It was Patrick home from a night of drinking a carousing. He made one last plea to God, “Dear sweet God, please help me.” Patrick started up the stairs slowly, with Evan‘s angst growing stronger with every step. He knew by the way Patrick climbed the stairs that he was drunk. Evan checked the clock; it was almost midnight. He must have been at Shanties all evening, thought Evan. He scrambled with the nimbleness of a cat to his bedroom in the cover of darkness and slipped under the bed and lay perfectly still.

A blinding burst of phosphorescent light filled the living room as Patrick hit the light switch, the remnants of which illuminated the floor of Evan’s room.

“Where are ya little man? Where is my wonderful little son? Come out you little son-of-a-bitch! It‘s what for I’m goin’ to give ya!”

Heart pounding, he held his breath until he thought his head would surely pop. He could hear glasses breaking in the kitchen. Dishes crashed to the floor. Evan reasoned that he hadn’t been this drunk in a long while. He exhaled slowly, so as to not make a sound and deliberately, quietly, sucked in more air. Thump . . . Thump . . . Thump, went his heart. Thump . . . Thump . . . Thump. All he knew was that he had to not let him find him. He’d have to get out of the house some how.

“If I can just give the alcohol time to pass trough his system, maybe it won’t be that bad after he sobers up,” was his only conjecture. Evan started to slide out from under the bed when he felt intense pain. Patrick had him by the hair and pulled him out, kicking and screaming.

Patrick yelled, “Got cha, ya little beggar! I‘m gonna teach ya a lesson. Why am I gonna teach ya a lesson? Cause I’m the meanest bastard in this town, that’s all. And you’re the mean bastard’s son. What a plight!”

The stench of whiskey permeated the air as Patrick dragged him to the cellar door. With one shove, he sent Evan tumbling down the stairs. As he sailed through the air, he pleaded with God, “Please help God, please help me!” Evan landed on his chest, knocking the air from his lungs. There would be no help from God, and he knew it.

Patrick tied Evan’s wrists and hung him from a pipe in the ceiling and beat him relentlessly.

“Beg me, you little bastard, beg me to stop!”

The beating continued. Ultimately, it was more than Evan could take.

“Please stop Poppa! Please stop,” said Evan with a whimper.

Patrick grinned a broad and happy grin.

“That‘s what I wanted to hear, little man, that‘s what I wanted to hear! Finally you said it!”

Patrick cut him loose; he fell to the floor and he dragged him to a closet, shoved him in and lock the door. The air was dank, with the scent of soot. Remarkably, he felt no pain. His body was numb: Quit unquestionably, he had been beaten senseless.

“Is this my tomb God? Is this where I die,” thought Evan, totally submitted now to servitude to his father. “But I might really die. Would he have in fact won if I die,“ thought Evan. “I’m not being melodramatic God. Seriously God, Is this my tomb?”

His father had won. He had won the sick, stupid, game that he played with Evan. He knew that was true when he begged him to stop. Evan never begged, but this time he did. He simply couldn’t take it any more. His father was the master and he was the slave.

He tried to talk to God again, but there was no response and finally he said with a gasping breath, “Please let me die, God. Please . . . let me die.” Evan lost consciousness. The itsy bitsy spiders scurried over his lifeless body. If he had know it, he would have been terrified.

* * * *

Tickle, tickle, scurry, scurry, is what Evan felt on his bare legs - tiny little creatures from dark reclusive hiding places scampered all about all over Evan’s body. Not being able to see them, not see the repulsiveness of their form, instead of being terrified, he merely brushed they away.

“Where am I,” he thought. “Darkness. Again, darkness.” He became aware of his back. The pain was searing hot. “Poppa, it must have been Poppa,” he thought.

God had helped him after all: He had no recollection of the beating. The pain, although extreme, was nothing compared to what it would have been if God had not intervened. All that Evan remembered was the fact that he had been beaten and that he had begged his father to stop.

“No dear God, No! You let Poppa win God! You let Poppa win!”

Evan sat crouched on bended knees and cradled his face in his hands for a moment. He felt in the darkness to try to determine where he was.

“Oh yes, the storage closet. I’m in the storage closet again.”

He felt for the door handle until he became acclimated to the enclosure.

“Here it is,” he said. “Here it is!” The door was secured and would not open. A thought came to him out of no where: “I‘m the mean bastard‘s son. What a plight. That is the reality of it. . . What a plight . . . What a plight!”

He called out, quietly at first, “Poppa, Poppa,” then louder and with more zeal. He began pounding on the door and yelling his father name; he didn‘t call him Poppa, but rather Patrick, over and over again.

* * * *

Patrick was hunched over the table upstairs in the kitchen with a piece of dry toast and a cup of coffee in front of him. He leaned sideways and threw up in the trash can. He heaved and heaved and heaved: the dry heaves were the worst.

“How many pints did I have last night? Must a been a plenty,” he said as he wiped the spittle from his chin. Then he heard Evan downstairs and it struck his memory: “What have I done? What in God’s name have I done?” The flashes of memory of the beating reverberated in his brain. “No, no, sure ‘n if I didn‘t do that! But I did, didn’t I.” He had locked him in the storage closet before, but he had never beaten him like he beat him last night. He recounted the beating almost blow by blow. He sat dumbfounded in his recovering stupor.


He was sharing a cup with his father; the cup of inexhaustible, loathing and hatred and even if it tasted sour at first, they wallowed in the commonality of it. It was the one thing they agreed on: They truly hated one another and they “loved” to hate one another. They were symbiotic in their resolve.

Imagine That
A short story by Leon Rice

Dundee had been painting for about 10 years. He wasn’t an artist, but he had been painting for that long. What he really was, was a patient. He had been forced to retire 20 years ago for health reasons. He was a heart patient, a cancer patient, a diabetes patient, and high blood pressure patient. He had almost died twice and had been placed on disability from the government and was waiting to die. I suppose you could say he was in fact a professional patient. He watched TV for the first ten years and finally decided that he wasn’t being productive, that he had wasted ten years of his life, so he taught himself to paint. It seemed that he wasn’t going to die after all.

He painted portraits for three years, nothing but portraits. He loved peoples faces; they were so telling. He painted portraits in imaginary settings, of imaginary people, with imaginary smiles, and imaginary glints in their eyes. His portraits hung on his studio walls. There were 30 portraits, hung without frames, one next to the other in a line all along the top of one wall.

He would turn the lights on high in his studio and sit in his recliner chair, with his feet up, and analyze each painting, remembering what he was thinking when he painted this, or what he was thinking when he painted that one. He had assigned each painting a name that matched the look on the person’s face. Although many of the people were smiling, they didn’t look like happy people. There was an eeriness in the room as his portraits stared back at him. Sometimes he wished they weren’t there, that he hadn’t painted them, but didn‘t have the compulsion to take them down. He thought out loud, that he was simply not being productive.

He branched out and purchased books about famous artists: books about Vermeer, and Albrecht Durer, Van Gogh, and Michael Angelo. He read books on practically every artist and style that existed and tried to paint like all of them, in many different styles, with some success I suppose you could say. His paintings were quite good actually.

Dundee thought even though he was not an artist, if I could sell some of his paintings, he might receive some recognition as a painter. Being 60 years old, he made the realization that he would never be an artist, but quite simply a “patient.” Artists had degrees in art and years of training; he had nothing but his artwork as proof of anything.

Deciding to sell a couple of his painting, he looked for a small gallery that might take them. He went to a gallery in the city and approached the owner. She said that she would be happy to take the painting and try to sell them. Several weeks afterward he brought two small still life painting to the gallery. He stood before the owner of the gallery with a painting in each hand and explained that he’d talked to her about the paintings before and that he had brought them for her to see. She took a business card from her desk and without looking at the paintings, handed it to him and said they didn’t have space for them at this time. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

It had taken him a great amount of soul searching to muster up the courage to try to sell his paintings. He was very unsure about the quality of the paintings and wondered if they were any good or not. Embarrassed by the rejection, he was humiliated. She could have just as well stabbed him in the heart. He returned home totally dejected and depressed. She hadn’t even looked at the paintings.

He tried several galleries with the same outcome: Total rejection. Not knowing what to think about this, the only thing he could assume really was that the paintings were not good. Should he be embarrassed about these paintings? He stopped trying to sell the paintings, rationalizing that if he sold the paintings, chances were they, after a time, would wind up stuck away in someone’s basement, or in the trash, never to be seen by anyone. If he kept them, at least he had proof he had painted them.

There were over a hundred paintings by this time. They covered every wall in his studio from ceiling to floor and corner to corner. Sitting in the studio was surreal for him; it was like looking at his mind, displayed on the wall. Practically every thought he had about art was on display. He sat in the imaginary world of his studio and imagined that he was happy, but he wasn’t.

Dundee had met several people over the years who called themselves “artists.” All but one had degrees in art. He thought if they could just see his work, perhaps they could discuss it, analyze it together. He imagined what the conversation might be like. After inviting them over to his home and taking them into his studio, he waited for their comments.

They walked silently around the room, and one of them finally said that he certainly had a lot of paintings and there were a lot of paintings about Jesus. He said yes that he supposed there were. That was the extent of it; nothing else was said. Not one compliment was uttered. He had seen their work and had been extremely complimentary of it. Would it have been so difficult to say something nice about his work? Dundee promised himself that he would never compliment another artist about their work ever again. Once more he supposed the paintings were not of high quality.

Ten Years. . . For what? What had been the reason for spending ten years of his life, painting art work that nobody ever saw, or if they did see it, didn’t like it? Or even if they did like it, didn’t have the common decency at least to say “nice work.”

He continued to paint but took his time now. There was no rush to get on to the next painting and he felt the excitement and passion was gone from it, painting I mean. It had taken ten years for his enthusiasm to die - But die it had. One of his current paintings had been in progress for over a year; another, six months.

Dundee talked to god about his painting and asked him why he had allowed him to continue with something for so long and have absolutely no success. God didn’t answer him.

Last Christmas, Dundee’s wife bought him a computer. It was something he had asked his wife to do for him. He planned to put pictures of his paintings online, because he thought someone might see them.

By chance, he stumbled onto a website called “Critiquecircle.com.” It was a workshop for writers. Writing short stories was something Dundee had done as a child. He became a member.

Dundee began critiquing stories that he read online. His critiques were rudimentary. He loved many of the stories he read but was very reluctant to say anything negative about any of them. He wrote stories of his own and submitted a few to the group and had several in the works. The critiques of his stories weren’t particularly good and he figured he had a lot of work to do. He was told by one member that he needed to work on the ‘mechanics’ of writing and that he needed to read more ’serious literature,’ in order to see how really fine stories were written; he assumed this member was referring to his own stories.

Working diligently, revising story after story, he became more skilled at writing. The critiques became more positive and it was said by other member that his stories were bordering on being almost proficient. He worked on the ‘mechanics’ of his stories, concentrating on grammar, spelling, punctuation, character development and story line. He received the feedback about his writing that he had never been able to receive about his paintings. It didn’t matter to him whether his stories were published or not.

He still held out hope that one day he would receive the recognition of his paintings that he had hoped for. But now . . . Dundee sat in the surreal, imaginary world of his studio, at his computer, painting pictures with words, writing imaginary stories, with imaginary settings, about imaginary people, with imaginary smiles, and with imaginary glints in their eyes . . . He was happy . . . It seemed that god had answered him after all . . . Imagine that . . .

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 11.08.2011

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Widmung:
To my wife Nan.