Phoenix

Came upon what looks to be a phoenix built into the rock wall of a shed/firepit in Cushman, Arkansas. Enlarge it to see a face near the tail and another under its wing. Okay, they're not really there.

Antietam

We learned how bad it could get that fall in Maryland.
Sharpsburg, I know now. We knew it as hell.

The smell of blood and gunpowder stuck around another fifty years for those boys who lived. The rest of them - well, they're still there. There's north and south, there's dead and there's alive, but they're all jumbled and askew, can't much tell one from another.

Old men come. Young ones, too. They look agog, then they drive off. I guess they can say they've been to Antietam, where more died on one day than can be civil. But they can't really. We can.

They brought photographers by the wagonload just after. When they first arrived the scoundrels jockeyed for position to get the most dead in the lens, 'till they began to wander off and find plenty enough to go around.
It turned mighty quiet then.

How do you bury 23,000 in a day? Truth be known, you don't. You wait for the crows and buzzards and picture takers to get through.

True Story 6: Bomb Shelter

We lived in Baltimore during the Cuban missile crisis., barely an A-bomb away from the nation's capital. Bomb shelters were all the rage. We had one in our cellar at the bottom of the stairs. It had a wooden door about six inches thick that locked from within. Concrete floor. Concrete walls. Concrete ceiling. It even had a concrete bench built into one wall where I suppose we were meant to sit and wait for the 'all clear.' Or else we were to wait until we just couldn't stand the sight of each other any longer and figured dying from radiation poisoning was preferable to one more day together in a concrete crypt. There was a raised area off to the side that was barely three feet from floor to ceiling. We understood this was where we would, you know... defecate. Oh, joy. I could hardly wait.

There was a metal shelf stocked with dusty cans of foodstuffs. There was nothing to cook any of it on. My mother hated the very idea of that room. It gave her the willies and willies are contagious.

After we finished imagining the torturous hell that would be our lives in the dreaded bomb shelter for weeks on endless weeks on end, we would imagine finally emerging. It would be difficult opening the door, what with the piled bodies of our neighbors who we would have denied admittance, but then we'd step over them and we'd find our house destroyed along with all the others in the neighborhood. Others who had emerged from bomb shelters would be cooking spoiled food under overpasses and they would not be happy to see us, nosir. Gradually, all our hair would fall out and we'd walk around in circles until we keeled over.

As we grew up, our parents wondered why we were always so cynical.

Polyhymnia

A dolorous lull slowly engulfed the assembled throng. As a one, we all leaned akimbo into a new sound until we tired of the stance. Then each of us touched a finger to our chins, pensively contemplating geometric formulae while all the while keeping one eye on our muse, Polyhymnia. Should she shift her weight or the volume of her drone, we wanted to know it so that we could shift, too.

Steady on, the one-note drone took on two, three, many notes. The combined sound was our voice, the voice of Polyhymnia. It seemed the life breath of the galaxy. From within the auumm there arose whole symphonies, entire Sufi rituals, mudman chants. The muse and her psalter spoke to us, through us, and our prayers went forth, but not before ASCAP got a cut, DRM was installed and the copyright was locked in for an additional seventy five years.

Hansel and Gretel

Once a widower sawyer wed a hag, his boy and girl her bane. The shrew made the father lead the children deep into the wood. Hansel scattered crumbs. They tired and lay down. When they awoke, they were alone. The crumbs had been eaten. Animals howled.

Hallucinating gingerbread, they started to eat a house, but it was the witch's. She led them in with more substantial fare. Hansel, in shackles was dungeoned. Gretel was made to fatten him for the kill. The oven was stoked, Gretel coaxed to adjust the flame from within, played dumb, requested a demonstation, was obliged.

Iron clanged and black witch smoke rose.

The children found the jewels all witches possess and make a beeline to... Hold on. Where? Home? You're kidding. First of all they're lost in a crumbless forest. Almost any direction would be wrong. And why why WHY would they want to return to the loving arms of their father, the man who LEDTHEMINTOTHEFUCKINGWOODSTODIE? Ninkumpoops.

Dear Citizen,

Did you know there is an established order in place for this general locality? Perhaps you did not. Maybe you recently moved here from some other locality and things where you come from are done differently. This notice is to inform you of a specific breach of the social etiquette in which you recently engaged, possibly without noticing. While our local board of management understands that it takes time for citizens to learn new rules, we feel you have had sufficient time to acquaint yourself with them, and as such, find you in violation.

Rule number 401D of the Garbage and Recycled Products Collection Act 0f 2003 outlines the types of products accepted for deposit in residential recycling receptacles. No deviation from this list is allowed. It should be quite clear that nowhere on this list are items marked "small green army men, crouching with rifle." Yet, just such an item was found in a receptacle on the date of June 12, 2006 located in your driveway. Please be aware that we take such violations seriously. Alien objects can gum up the works here in our sorting plant, causing unnecessary delays in production. They also pose a threat to the safety of our workers.

This is a friendly warning that you cease and desist the activity described above and/or any other similarly unallowed activities. Any future violations will result in denial of services and possible prosecution. Thank you

Sleep Story 1

Doctor Bowles, Doctor Bowles! He's here someplace, maybe in another wing. I must locate a directory. I'll just limp behind these three nurses. Hmmmm, they sway nicely past the potted flowers of flame.

Dr. Bowles himself deposited me here yesterday, warning me to take it easy with that foot and I tried to. But why did he have to take such a hard bank in his flying machine when my leg was hanging outside? Whupped it but good against the stanchion. Not that it hurt. Not that I didn't trust him... I only wanted to verify it was the same man and, if possible, save the dollar ferry fare to one of the resort islands. Who knew which one?

Dr. Bowles, will you be there when I need you next time?

Mole People

Dig deep enough in the temperate zone and you're bound to uncover evidence of one of many moleman societies. They're more ancient the deeper you go, so it's cheaper and ultimately more satisfying to stay close to the surface. Especially satisfying if you are searching for specimens of a more recent vintage, say, living mole people.

You scoff. Your anthropology texts make no mention of three foot tall, leathery, mud colored quadrupeds tunneling and burrowing beneath the surface. Your architectural tomes make no mention of the spectacular structures they build down there. Your geology books still attribute Carlsbad Caverns to natural causes.

I have seen the molemen, as this photo will attest. In fact, I am currently hot on the trail of a couple of the critters that have been digging in these parts. I plan to trap them and turn them over to the Department of Defense. They'll put 'em to good use.

True Story 5 - Phenomena

Across the alley lived the Firebug. A nice enough man, I'm sure, but how were we to know? We weren't on speaking terms with him or anything. Criminey, we were just kids. All we knew was he was always out back of his house burning leaves and god knows what else. Naturally we assumed he was an arsonist. If any agent of the law were to ask any of us about his particulars, I'm sure we could have gladly filled them in.

Poltergeists were popular then and our neighborhood had a case study. Paranormal specialists were called in, priests, a film crew. All this I learned after the fact. We all did. It seems none of us actually saw the cars and trucks arrive, the cameras get unloaded. But we all seemed keenly aware of the unfolding chain of events, albeit after the fact. It climaxed with the two word explanation the occult scientists used to explain moving furniture, strange sounds and general mayhem: "Teenage Brainwaves." That was the conclusion. Teenage brainwaves at play. None of us being teens yet, it gave us something to look forward to.

But only one house was The Haunted House. Stuck up on the hill, it couldn't do anything but loom down on us. Someone produced binoculars and we shared the duty of keeping watch. Often a third floor light was the only light left on at night. We organized an expedition - in daylight, of course. We stealthily made our approach, hunkering low. Johnny P. and I, eyes to the ground, both spied at once a piece of treasure in the form of an old sardine can. We each went for it. We grabbed, we pulled; only Johnny grabbed the can and I grabbed the key. A ribbon of razor sharp metal sprung, and blood began gushing from my hand. I still have the scar, see? Anyway, that was proof positive, as far as any of us were concerned, that the place was haunted. Apparently cursed as well. At the sight of blood, we retreated that day, but a subsequent expedition ended with a group of us, noses pressed to door glass, witnessing a rather plain looking woman descending the stairs, moving toward us. We hightailed it on out of there and never came back. As disappointing as it was to find a living person residing in our haunted house, we at least were able to clothe her in white gauzy shroud and see her motion with hooked finger for us to enter.