The Crack

The Crack

At first sight, she thought they were moving. Squirming, to be more precise.

This usually was the time when she’d regret staring at her screen all day, late at night finding everything visually unstable and unsettling. The colored wallpaper with cartoon patterns left by the previous residents, a family with kids, now seemed to wiggle its way into the three-dimensional space, the pink dots and the blue, shedded spots on the skeletons popping out from that surface, nibbling into her bones along with the itchy material of the navy quilt cover, drowning her in this azure paradise of a bleak, empty bedroom.

In the mesmerizingly ascendant mist from the cerulean humidifier her attention was drawn by a strange movement caught by the corner of her eyes—something wormy, quiet yet eerie like this god-forsaken night. Or any of these bloody nights. She slowly turned her head with a sensible disquiet and locked her vision on these centipede-like black, curvy strings hovering above on the pale ceiling. She froze for a second.

After millions of trials as such during each and every one of these bottomless black holes called lonely nighttimes, she indeed had somewhat learned to question her own judgement. She was not crazy, she knew that, but she wouldn’t easily give in to her immediate instinct regarding any thought or perception in these moments like at the very beginning. Without any movement or further imagination, she stared at them, for a few minutes more.

She couldn’t tell. It might just be the foggy spray of that silently working device that made them look like they were shivering, you know, how illusions worked and all. But if it was an actual creeping worm of some sort, which, by the look of that, had companies, they might of course fall and land on her bedsheet. Or she was just going damn insane, whichever explanation there was.

Fuck me, she thought, as she was convinced with time crawling by that whatever were up there were definitely moving around. Please get your shit together and stay up there then, she prayed. She sat up in bed and found her legs’ way out of the quilt, making as little noise as she could manage to do.

With her own motions, she felt that the creatures had been drifting around as well in various maneuvers. She grew inevitably irritated. Now she made her way out of the bed and stood up straight, again, carefully, beneath that particular spot of the ceiling, tilting back her continuously sore neck and trying her best to overlook the fear of having them dropping directly on her face. The crispy temperature in the room of this late winter night didn’t treat her bare torso well, as she tended to prefer sleeping practically naked which gave her the mere comfort like a child craving a womb. Motherfucker, she mouthed.

The sight didn’t change much, no matter how firmly she wanted to tell herself it wasn’t moving at all, that it wasn’t actually, alive, for christ’s sake. In the decreasing patience, she lowered her knees and turned off the small machine. The result was prominent—with the rather fast dispersion of the water molecules which had caused certain mirage, the lines appeared more distinct which even seemed to bring her head to a more lucid state. The action weakened and like peeling off a translucent curtain, she found the sight more tangible and becoming relatively sure that they weren’t what she thought they might be, for what it’s worth. However, they still looked like something protruding from the concrete, some dark elements breaking through the chalky paint and flipping open the skin of this thin protection for the poor roof of this shelter.

Boosting up some remaining courage she had just retrieved, she trekked to open the bedroom door and went to grab over a cheap, plastic chair that she bought for the temporary use. She came back and placed the chair underneath that same spot, then exhaled deeply before climbing onto it. Gradually standing up straight and approaching her face to that spot, she finally took a long moment to recognize that they were, without a doubt, some traces of cracks on the ceiling, with moist stains patched around them which created shadows and made them visibly steric. They came across a bit disturbing, for sure, but in no way threatening whatsoever.

She let out a long breath and felt her entire body limp all of a sudden in mid air. Freezing without a purpose for a few seconds standing on that chair, she looked back up again at those cracks, an odd impulse of wanting to touch them emerged in her mind. It would of course be harmless, she lifted her fingertip. But then she put it down. Somehow, like facing a dirty maggot or a puddle of mud, her gut stopped her from any physical contact with that existence simply lingering above her hair. Even though they were just some innocent cracks.

She stepped down from the chair, put it away and went washing her hands, even though she didn’t actually smudge them in any way. She dried her hands on the towel and crawled back to bed. And before she closed her eyes peacefully, she turned her head up and took a last look at those dark lines.

Child’s Play

Child’s Play

Father Montgomery walked down the back stairs, gripping the candle in his left hand while holding his right elbow uncomfortably across his chest. The doctor said three weeks roughly, until it would completely heal. Minor strain, no fuss indeed, the doctor added, you acted quite impressively this morning, Father. A little sacrifice this is, when practicing the Lord’s will.

Father Montgomery had always found the doctor talking too much, but being this age the Father couldn’t, say, stay away from such displeasure in life anymore. He squeezed out an unwilling grin, waved his right hand in the air to suggest no more of these compliments, yet as a result accidentally pulled his muscle once again. He gritted his teeth to not make a noise, in case the doctor commented on it more.

He never fancied those who spoke out on anything and everything. Especially those who remarked on the Lord’s will arbitrarily.

For three entire days he had avoided people. Seeking solitude thus revelation in a time of disturbance, the helps would say. They had been quite used to the Father’s self-isolation routines — he knew how to silently require his private space when he needed from time to time, that’s how he kept learning His will, they said. So naturally Father Montgomery loathed such hearsay as well.

He unlocked the heavy wooden door of the cellar. After the old keeper passed away due to that unfortunate fall, the grieving Father never handed the keys to anyone else.

The old keeper was respected and trusted by Father Montgomery with this task because of a strict self-discipline on alcohol, namely not touching it at all, after the keeper’s young wife had died in a related incident. For decades after, the keeper had amended his loss by diligently securing the safety of this sanctuary, day in and day out, leaving its peace to God as every nighttime arrived. It was a pity he had left his tool in the cellar that night, which led to a trip over the staircase, said the town folks — but he now had gone somewhere he belonged.

Today before lunch, Father Montgomery visited the boy’s household, without previously notifying anybody. The parents were still mourning, naturally, but seemed relieved to see him. However when asked about any abnormality last night, they couldn’t name a thing. Father Montgomery was rather disappointed — surely, he thought, if he himself was disturbed, the parents should be too. But they said no, then asked the Father if he wanted some milk or eggs, that they had had for breakfast. He politely rejected, then left the house. The stains from that white liquid on their old table made him smell odd memories.

We’re about to put the stone up, the boy’s father said to him before he walked away. Upon hearing this, the boy’s mother visibly trembled for a second.

Father Montgomery carefully left the cellar door ajar behind him, making sure he wouldn’t stretch his injured elbow too much when doing so, then poking his head into the darkness underground. The air was brisk, his sight flipped back and forth from the descending steps under his feet to the space ahead of him lit by the candlelight. It was quiet; it shouldn’t be. He had heard the same thing from the night before.

Saying that he wouldn’t doubt the fact of having heard those noise was inaccurate — he more than just knew it, in a way he expected it. Coming down here however, he still didn’t see anything — neither had he last night. But this time, he smelt the delightful scent of their classic collection. Was something opened?

The specific type of wine hadn’t been publicly presented again since the town’s New Year’s celebration, where Father Montgomery noticed the boy for the first time. Any 12-year-old with big, curious eyes and active hands hanging around the alcohol section would undoubtedly be supervised, but the wise Father hadn’t expected that he would hear the noise and enter the cellar to see the very boy again right there at the same night.

Stealing is a sin, my son.

The rebellious looking boy didn’t deny this.

How did you even get in?

The boy paused, then as if accepting his fate, he looked up at the Father.

I sneaked in when your people were carrying the things back.

Father sighed in his heart and looked around, assessing the situation. The boy’s figure appeared rather tiny surrounded by the big barrels and shelves.

Please don’t tell my parents, the boy said. They’re ignorant prudes!

Lowering his candlelight closer to the floor, the Father bent down and put his finger onto the surface of one of the steps near the bottom. The blood stain of the old keeper was still visible.

I do wish you didn’t forget your tools that night, old friend. The things you shouldn’t have seen — you caused all these.

The weekly tutoring session on beverage knowledge had pleased the boy’s parents quite a lot. That way, he would actually turn his interest into a potential skill, instead of sniffing around all the time without any shame in his soul, the parents said, and surely our respected Father would be the best man for the job they could ever ask for. The kind man himself hadn’t tasted alcohol for years, but his knowledge was always there, and what gracious heart did he have to take the boy in.

The boy does need some manner put in him, Father Montgomery consoled the couple.

And simply with this routine, the theft wasn’t mentioned again.

The candlelight was blown off by a light wind coming through the gap of the door. Father Montgomery kept his calm. In the dim moonlight shining in, he reached his hands out to check the barrels. Everything was sealed perfectly. He could feel some scratches on the top of the wood here and there. He pulled his hands back, feeling strange in his throat.

The first time the boy got caught in bed with another kid slightly older, was the result of his parents following their son around for days. Afterwards the boy was locked in his small room for an entire month, meanwhile that other teen was later found beaten to death behind an empty lot, in-between the tall wild grass with his trousers missing.

Then sending the kid to the church more often, the parents wished the Father to not only teach the boy precious knowledge but also the way of God. Almost every day after school, the boy was asked to stay there until midnight.

Father Montgomery turned away slowly, trying to recognize the surroundings in the dark. He bumped his knees lightly into the tool cabinet. His eyebrows twitched a bit. The careless boy used to bump into it all the time, then would cuss uncontrollably which only ended up in more punishment. What else could the Father do anyways, for a rebellious boy like that?

Father Montgomery opened the cabinet and found the matchbox. He lit the candle back up.

Is he the only one? Father Montgomery asked when the boy had finally come back to church.

The boy kept quiet.

So he is not. Father Montgomery read the kid’s eyes.

The boy looked away.

No more of this. The Father sighs. You know the rules. Not anyone else, son. I’ve told you.

As the candle burnt again, he slowly rose up and noticed more violent scratches on top of the tool cabinet as well. A sudden dizziness hit him. Even bending down and rising up quickly gave him tiny faints now, getting older surely wasn’t a fun game. He grabbed the corner of the cabinet with his sore right arm to support himself up, but the wiggling cabinet didn’t do much help.

When did it start to wobble? He should’ve noticed, he really was getting old. Of course he should’ve, all those creaking sounds and violent shakes from every move, night after night.

The second time was worse — some other kid spotted the boy at an older married man’s house. This time the parents directly went to Father Montgomery in the church. After contemplating for a long moment underneath the giant statue of Jesus — the parents were ashamed to talk about it in the open area but the Father insisted that whatever it was it should be heard — Father Montgomery gave them an expression mixed with calmness, insight, and grief.

It was not unexpected, he said, holding both of their hands. Under the divine guidance, I have attempted with all efforts, but sometimes — sometimes they just cannot be saved.

The father looked away, the mother started to sob again. What should we do, Father? There are demons, or the devil himself…

There indeed are. Father Montgomery straightened his back. He showed infinite comprehension and satisfaction towards this conclusion. The kid, what did he know, calling his parents ignorant?

Father Montgomery balanced himself and his candle which had gotten shorter and shorter. He held the candle up, blocking it from the wind with his right hand. The dull pain near his elbow had suddenly increased, maybe from leaning on the cabinet.

The wind didn’t blow out the candle this time, but he heard the heavy wooden door suddenly shut. A light shiver crawled through his body. Yet Father Montgomery was not a man of anxious traits, he slowly turned around and pushed his candlelight closer to the wall.

He ran his fingers across a notch on the wall. When the cellar was inspected for the old keeper’s death, nobody noticed the notch, assuming it being a normal scuff. Father Montgomery considered that the best. The tool he thrown out which had hit the old keeper’s head then bounced to the wall wasn’t what killed the keeper anyways, the head banging on the staircase was.

No reason to complicated the situation — the only thing that bothered the Father was afterwards how often the boy paid attention to the spot underneath that notch, where the tool had fallen and dented the floor. The boy didn’t stop coming over after the old keeper’s death, while with nobody else being able to enter the cellar, the two could spend even more time working on the matters. That is, before the boy got caught again, of course.

The elderlies were summoned rather quickly that day, therefore the boy was taken hold of and brought out at their gate very early the next morning. The stubborn and rebellious son was consequently shown due to obeying the voice of his parents, before he was stoned to death. The people had purged the evil from their midst and all had learned to hear and fear, that morning.

Father Montgomery did the honor of contributing the first toss. He held a distressed tension on his face throughout the entire ceremony, somewhat having to do with the muscle strain from that brave, resolute toss.

That noble man bears the burden of sending his once trusted child to hell, people would say, what great sufferings!

I’m sorry to have to deliver the news, my son — after you had fled out of the cellar last night, the old keeper, our dear friend, tried to chase you out but tripped on the staircase… his head then hit the…

Father Montgomery slowly moved the candle farther to the side, to where he detected the scent had been coming from. The next second, he bathed the small sculpture of the Holy Son on the wall in this dim light. Father Montgomery frowned.

The church people had never set up anything Jesus-related in the cellar.

He raised his eyes and stared at the Father.

Sister Marian was woken up by a strange rustle. The middle-aged nun who looked older than her age crawled out of bed, stepped over to the window and flipped the curtain open. She let out a light shriek when seeing a dark, human-like figure dangling in the tall, thick oak tree behind her chamber.

She quickly searched for her outfit with trembling hands, put them on and trotted out into the first daylight. She arrived at the tree, only to take in the sight of the priest’s dark, long robe swinging in mid-air, hollow inside. Sister Marian, filled with overwhelming confusion, forgot to even go get help right away. She stood there with mouth open for a few long, long minutes.

In the left corner of the church cemetery, the graveyard keeper, who usually got up earlier than anyone else, gazed at a pile of newly dug dirt, wondering what kind of person would make such a disrespectful mess at night — those rebellious kids for sure. He threw his shovel onto the pile while spitting out some silent curses. The shovel rolled over to the other side and clanked when bumped into an elbow.

The Heroine Dealer

The Heroine Dealer

Sam Weller sat reclining in his leather buttoned swivel chair with his feet kicked up on his desk, reading the newspaper. Wearing Oxford brogues, brown woolen trousers, a cotton dress shirt, brown waistcoat and a tie, he cut a sharp if somewhat anachronistic figure.

The hard, cheerful chime of his front door bell interrupted his perusal of the day’s obituaries. He casually folded the paper and set it down neatly beside his glass of whisky, its ice-cube long-ago melted beneath the hot blades of light shooting through his office’s honey-stained louvered window shades. He considered his over-warm high-ball glass longingly for a moment before flicking his attention to his long duster — his piece sitting pretty in its tooled leather holster he’d had custom sewn into the lining just below the right breast — that lay carefully draped over the arm of his green Chesterfield sofa, before finally bringing his attention to whoever it was that had just strode into his 2nd-floor office. Looking up he saw the shambles of a man standing before him with an agued look about his features and the snivel-y nervous twitches of a crack addict. Wearing a fagged out pair of pants of indefinite color, the rags of a cotton jacket and a plain white tee, the stains upon which could only be described as unsettling, Sam took in the visuals of the man while unenthusiastically entertaining the prospect of having to parlay with such a client as this so early in the morning.  A rash of such riff-raff had been finding their way to his door over the last few days to his endless consternation and confusion. It had all started after he had posted an ad in the local newspaper announcing the change of his company’s name and had called for a man to come over in order to do the same for the titling on his office door. 

Scuttling about uncertainly on his stoop, these creatures, with the willowy appearance of wraiths, could often be seen peeking through his door nervously like underfed rats before making their way down the stairs and back to their shadowy alleyway hovels. This guy, however, had had the bravado to see himself in.

The young — or old, it was impossible to tell — gentleman had a wild look about his eyes. His hair had the texture and color of straw, askew in some places while in others sweatily plastered to the side of his head. The stink of his person was like that of a meat that had grown overripe beneath a hot sun. It billowed off of him in waves, bringing a fetid knot of nausea to Sam’s throat.

Sam casually got up from his chair and began walking around his office while pulling up the shades and throwing wide each one of its windows. He stuck his head clear out of the last one and sucked in as much clean air as his breast would allow before dipping his head back into his office.

“Now Sir, what is it that I could do you for?” Sam asked as he settled back into his leather swivel and gently pointed for the man to sit down at his leisure.

“I come for what you be advertising on your door,” the man, slumping down into the chair, said as he drew a stained sleeve across his runny nose. Sam took notice of the heavy bob in the man’s left breast pocket.

“Oh, so you are here to enlist the aid of one of my heroines, then is it? What, pray tell, is the particularity of your predicament?” Sam drew open one of his desk drawers while continuing to talk, startling the man whose eyes grew wild for a moment before noticing the paid of paper in Sam’s hand.

“Look man, I don’t know what you’re going on about, I’m just here to get my fix.”

“Fix for what, exactly? Are you in some type of jam, because rest assured, my heroines are up to whatever ‘fix’ that needs doing? But I’m going to need some information first before we can figure out how to proceed. For starters, I’m going to need your name,” Sam said as he picked up his fountain pen and bent his eyes to his pad while awaiting an answer from the man.

“Man, there ain’t no need to go into all that. I just need a little something to get me by. I got the money for it right here in my pocket,” he said, while patting his left breast pocket.

“We will definitely be going into the specifics of payment in due time,” Sam said, belaboring his point by speaking slowly and steadily, “but I’m still going to need some information from you first so that my office can reach you, should you have need of our services again in the future.” As the man slowly nodded and pawed the back of his head, a low dim light of understanding seemed to bloom in his eyes. 

“As a man of your acumen, I am sure you can understand how important it is for a business such as mine to maintain a steady clientele. To do so, I first require a bit of information from each of my clients, if for nothing else than to act as an ice-breaker, to see how I can best serve you as a client,” Sam said, pausing between his words for emphasis.

“Now, I definitely respect a man who wishes to retain his privacy, and I can definitely see how cagey you are about divulging the particulars of your situation. There is no doubt in my mind that something or someone has you in their grip. So for the nought,” Sam said, picking up the pad for emphasis and placing it back in the drawer, “I will only ask to have the pleasure of the name of the man I am currently speaking with.” Leaning over and setting his elbows on his desk while knitting together the fingers of his hands, Sam patiently awaited the man’s answer.

“T-To-Tom,” the man said haltingly.

“Yes, and can I have the pleasure of knowing your surname Tom?” Sam asked pleasantly.

“My sur-what?” the man responded in alarm and confusion.

“Forgive my pretension. Your family name or your last name.”

“Man, I already told you there ain’t no need to go into all that. I just came in to pick up a bit of product and to go about my day. I saw your ad. It said you was a heroine dealer. There ain’t no need for none of this other bullshit.”

Nervous tremors could be seen running up and down the course of the man’s loose frame as his right hand began to fidget about wildly with a mind of its own. Sam needed to find a way to reign the man back in.

“Then I am truly sorry Sir, because I simply cannot allow any heroine of mine to be used by a person that can’t even show the modicum of decency necessary to tell me their name.” Sam briefly paused his lecture for effect. 

“Now, if you are at all entertaining the notion that any of my heroines are of inferior quality, then let me disabuse you of that notion right this minute. I only deal in the finest of heroines, suitable, how did you say before, ah, yes, to fulfill any ‘fix’ you have need of, and let me assure you, I maintain the utmost discretion in my dealings with my clients. This means that you will receive no harassment from, nor will you have to deal with any other kind of authority aside from the one person who is now speaking to you. Now, I will ask you once and only once more, what is your name good Sir — your full name that is?” Sam asked in a steely calm tone of voice.

“Tom…Perreta.” Sam received these words with a noticeable sigh of relief.

“Thank you my good Sir, thank you,” Sam boisterously responded as he leaned back in his chair with his palms laced together behind his head, “now I do believe we can get down to brass tacks. What is it that I can do you for?”

“Man, we already fucking went over this. I’m about tired of this shit, I just want to get my shit and go. In fact,” Tom said, pulling a gun from his left breast coat pocket, “I’m gonna take what I wanna get right this second or else I’m gonna start filling you with holes.”

Sam slowly sat up and raised his hands high above his head. “Now Tom, let’s not act rash here. I think I know which heroine it is that will fit exactly what it is you want and need. No need to belabor your patience any further with my tiresome prattle. Let’s see about fixing you up, shall we?”

“Before we doing anything, however, I’m going to need to phone my secretary in the office below,” Sam cooly stated, “so I’m going to stand up slow-like and hit the intercom. I’ll put her on speaker to let you know that I’m not getting up to any shenaningans. You dig it?” Sam calmly and carefully stood up from his chair with his hands still upraised and walked around to the front-left side of his desk where his office phone was, which was as close as he could comfortably get to Tom without alerting his suspicion. The barrel of Tom’s gun followed him tremulously the whole while as he feverishly chewed at the fingernails of his left hand — his left leg hopping like mad the whole while.

Standing before his office phone, Sam slowly brought his hands down and pensively stared at the phone.

“Well get fucking to it, then,” Tom menacingly said, while flicking his eyes and the barrel of the gun at the phone.

Sam hit the button for his secretary.

“Yes, boss.”

“Nicky, I was wondering if you could be so polite as to bring me up a cup of coffee?” Sam requested.

“Sure thing boss. How would you like it?”

“As tarry black and strong as you can make it.”

“No problem, just give me a moment and I will bring it up to you. You want anything else?”

“No, that will be all.”

Sam put down the receiver and shifted the phone towards the far right-side of his desk.

“Now we gonna see what we gonna see. You better come through with the stuff or I’m gonna have to put the both of you down, I can promise you that.” Sam could see the sickness of his withdrawal symptoms in the evil fire that was dancing in the feverish madness of his eyes and knew in that moment that he meant what he said.

Sam, still standing calmly in place, shifted his weight slightly to his left foot and listened to the muffled and almost entirely silent ascent of Nicky up the stairs. Knowing instinctively that she was now standing directly outside of the office door, unbeknownst to Tom.

“Yo, where the fuck be this bit…?” Before he could even complete his sentence, without warning the raucous ring of the phone suddenly broke the silence of the room, which immediately drew the frenzied attention of Tom away from Sam, allowing him to close a measure of the distance in the interim. Immediately thereafter, there was a harsh knock on the office door. As soon as Tom turned the barrel of the gun towards the door, Sam was upon him, using his left hand to grasp Tom’s right wrist, while using his right hand to grab the outside bent crook of his elbow, Sam quickly used both hands to wrench Tom’s right arm a full one-eighty. Sam could feel the shoulder dislocate and his tendons begin to shred with a barrage of pops and tears amidst blood-curdling screams of pain. For good measure, Sam snapped Tom’s right wrist, the thumbs of both his hands twisting the wrist viciously, thereby forcing the gun to clatter to the floor with a thud before laying him out cold with a vicious left cross. The whole scene was over in the blink of an eye.

A second knock, this time lighter could be heard on the office door.

“You can come in Nicky.”

As Nicky shuffled into the office wearing only socks on her feet, she could see Sam dragging an unconscious man over to the radiator and handcuffing his left wrist to the pipes. She could hear the man moan in his unconscious delirium through the bubbles of blood that were forming on his lips. His right arm appeared to hang useless, folded as it was at an unnatural angle beneath him.

Sam stood up flexing his left hand tenderly.

“Ah, just the heroine I needed,” Sam said grinning at Nicky as he took the steaming cup of joe she held out to him.

He took a long draft of the hot liquid. “Ah, good, strong and black, just how I like it.”

“You abusing the clients again boss?” Nicky coyly asked before elbowing him gently in the ribs. 

“Will you be needing anything else boss?” She asked, turning to leave.

“No, thank you Nicky. I think I have everything well in hand,” Sam said as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up Tom’s pistol before wrapping it up and gently placing it on his desk.

Sam called out to Nicky just as she was about to walk out of the office door. “Actually Nicky, can you do me a favor and call up that Detective, what-his-name?”

“Farns.” Nicky replied.

“That’s just the one. Tell him I have some trash that needs taking care of.”

“You think he’s going to be interested in cleaning up one of your messes?” Nicky said lightheartedly.

“I figure they’ll be able to do something with him.”

Sam moved around his desk and sat in his swivel chair, kicking up his feet on his desk before taking his newspaper in hand once more.

“Oh, and one more thing Nicky,” Sam said as he peeked his eyes above the paper.

“Yes, boss?”

“Have them take down that ad in the paper and tell that man who did the lettering on my door to come back around and do it up the way it was before.”

“Why the sudden change of heart boss? Is the heroine dealer business not working out the way you’d hoped?”

“Not as I would have liked, that’s for certain. It seems like it is apt to confuse some folks. God only knows what kids are learning in school these days. Seems like it will still be some time yet before women get their day in the sun. Until then, you’re all the heroine I’ll ever need.”

Right before Nicky could finish shutting the door, she couldn’t help but notice the headline emblazoned on the front of the paper: “Homicidal Heroin Addict Tom Perreta Adds Another Victim to His Tally.” Walking back up to his desk, she read the first few lines of the story — “Local Communities continue to be in fear for their lives as local police continue their search for the elusive suspect. A large reward is being offered…”

“You clever, clever bastard,” Nicky whispered under her breath as she walked out the door, pulling it softly to behind her.

The Last Mutterings of a Meager Moth in Passing

The Last Mutterings of a Meager Moth in Passing

Stepping out past the backdoor of his home, and out onto the wooden planks of his porch, the man caught sight of the meagerest mite of a moth turned up upon its back atop one of the long, thick slats of its flooring — fluttering its tarnished and torn wings and pedaling its many legs upwards in the warming breezes of the early spring air.

Leaning close to its tiny frame, he gently asked of the meager moth how it had come to lay in such a place in such an obvious state of complaint.

“Oh, hello kind sir, I didn’t notice you there at first,” it muttered meekly, “my senses being not worth a nit these last few hours. Oh, well,” the meager moth lightly chuckled, musing ruefully to itself.

“Well,” it finally said after a time in answer to the man’s question, “I suppose it must have been when I began to feel so terribly tired that I thought it best to rest my weary wings for a spell, only to feel a great lassitude steal upon me once I had landed — the will of which has rendered my form in the current condition under which you find me,” the meager moth explained at length, sighing heavier yet with each successive syllable it said.

“But if you are taking your rest, why do you shiver and shudder your fine wings and graceful legs distressingly so?” The man asked urgently, fearful as he was of the frenzied fits he saw in the small frame of the meager moth.

The meager moth took a while to respond as its will seemed to ebb down a further decline. “I am not sure I can say,” the meager moth finally replied, haltingly. “I just found myself growing ever more restless in my growing fatigue,” the meager moth said — the final words all but murmurs to the man’s ears.

“Is there not but anything I can do to offset the diss ease of your unrest?” The man asked, hungry for something to do to relieve the sufferings of the meager moth.

“No, no, just leave me to my rest. I feel the flames of my spirit being called upwards to that great candlelight in the sky, feeling as I do as light as a single one of my scales…It won’t be long now.” The meager moth’s words now but the merest of whispers — the man knelt down low to hear them said. 

“Come now, when I look at your lovely wings, the graceful curlicue of your antennae, and the elegance of your form, I see not but the spring of youth glowing about your person,” the man said kindly, trying to shore up the meager moth’s will with a bit of well-meaning flattery.

Despite itself, the flame of the meager moth’s will surfaced for but a moment with a light chuckle and blush — the vanity of life briefly suffusing its form. “While your fulsome praise does shower my pride with a bit of warmth, even the untrained eye of the blind could see that the scales of my youth have long past fallen,” her wavering voice warmly smiled before quickly quieting once more.

It was some moments before the meager moth could summon the strength to speak again.

“You’ll have to forgive me kind sir, but I feel my long-awaited rest coming upon me,” it struggled to get out.

The man, seeing the sad and piteous state of the meager moth could do nothing but watch the scales slip slowly from its eyes.

“Forgive me for disturbing your rest this last time, but to do honor by your life, might there be some family relations through which I could pass on your final words?” the man humbly beseeched.

“Family?”, she asked, her meager frame once more suffused with the warm glow of life.

“Yes, did you have one?” the man asked kindly. 

“Oh, yes,” she replied brightly, “many an hour did I fondly spend tending to the fine and handsome brood of my family — instructing them as I did so in the proper ways and doings of life,” she said, the flames of joy exuded from her meager person in the warmth of her words.

“Did you have many little mother?” the man inquired curiously, with admiration filling his words.

“As many as my meager frame could muster,” the meager moth said proudly as she fanned out wide the fine topiary of her wings as if to enfold all of their invisible forms.

The man could do not but stare in quiet wonder at the good little life this meager mite of a moth had lived as the flame of life continued to leave her frame. But, being fearful of not being able to relay her last words before she passed, urged her on one last time to tell him the words of her soul — so he could pass them on to those who needed to know.

“Oh, my child,” she said with the most heart-rending tenderness, “they all already know by heart what those words would be. But you, for you they might be new.”

“Remember this then, my child, it is not the heights to which we rise in our lonely quest for that great candlelight in the sky, that matters, but the warmth for a time we but borrow from it, to share its blessings with the one’s for whom we care…Remember this my child…” And so saying, the shallow flutterings of the meager moth’s fine wings suddenly ceased before quickly descending into place — wrapping her up in the burial shroud of their soft folds as they neatly entombed her tiny breast.

“Yes,” the man said faithfully and solemnly, with the brimmings of tears rimming his words, “I will remember your words little mother.” Gently scooting her tiny fragile form into the palm of his hand, the man walked out to the garden, knelt down, and scooping off a tiny bit of soil from atop the earth, tenderly laid the still figure of the meager moth down in her meager grave. 

Pushing the pile of upturned dirt gently over the frozen form of the meager moth, the man said a somber prayer, stood up and gently brushed away the clay from his pants, and, bent low by his lonely musings, walked forth with the heaviest of tread while muttering to himself once more, “Yes, I will remember your words little mother.” before quietly adding, “and I will always remember you.”

The Lowly Spider

The Lowly Spider

One day a man happened to spy a tiny creature meandering its way across his lands. But not an inch in diameter, the slowly skittering creature proudly walked on the stilts of its eight legs across the plained pineboard floors, warming its many legs before the hearth of the man’s fire.

At first frightened by the sight of its form, the man soon collected himself and knelt down to look at the thing closely, to see if it be friend or foe. The small, lowly spider, suddenly sensing the presence of something much greater than itself, froze apprehensively in its tracks. 

With its markings clear as day, the man spoke to the lowly wolf spider and asked why it had trespassed into the man’s lands.

“These be your lands?” The lowly spider innocently asked. “If I had but known, I would have announced my presence sooner.”

“Be that as it may, I will now kindly ask you to quickly quit yourself of the premises,” the man replied calmly.

“Do we not but share these lands; Could not the vast wealth of which easily provide for the both of us?” the spider implored.

“While your point holds a certain measure of merit, the sharing of my lands, I am sorry to say, is not an agreement to which I can abide,” the man firmly responded.

“Have a heart kind sir, I am but a lowly spider that wishes you no harm, one who does not but serve to keep these lands free of the pests and vermin that mottle it so,” the lowly spider proudly announced, standing as tall as its stilts could stretch.

“While I may hold a certain respect and place of honor for your contributions, it is the very heart of me that keeps my hand from doing you harm. No, no, you must leave,” the man mournfully added.

“But why do you seek to cast me outside of these lands?” The lowly spider asked, pleadingly.

“Because the aspect of your being frightens me so, and I tremble at the thought of what I should do, should I happen to meet with your intrusion upon my person once again,” the man said, looking down at his hands as he slowly balled them into fists.

“Though be the lowly form in which you discover me, am I not but a child of creation just the same as you? Does that not afford me the same decencies to life?” The lowly spider resentfully asked, defensively curling in the pads of its feet in bald, rising frustration.

“Sure it does, just not on my lands,” the man said matter-of-factly, deflating the defense and measure of the lowly spider’s sense of self-worth as he slowly relaxed his posture.

“Tell me sir, is there a one above you, and above all whom stands?” The lowly spider humbly asked.

The man took a measure of time to ponder over this question before shaking his head and replying. “Yes, there is…of a nature,” he added offhandedly.

“Does this One covet things as do you?” the lowly spider cleverly asked.

“Your case does not fare well with these name-callings and recriminations of my character,” the man, in an angry huff, spluttered out.

“I merely asked but a humble question, one that should have been easy enough for you to answer,” the spider coyly replied. 

“And I merely wish to rid you of my lands and the premises of my person,” the irritated man said, suddenly shooing the lowly spider away with the snap of his wrist.

The lowly spider, startled by the sudden movement, ran for the soft comfort and security of the thick, high-piled rug upon which the man stood, only to be sent backpedaling as a great unseen gust of wind pushed it back out onto the pineboard flooring.

The lowly spider, taking up a defensive posture against the sudden encroachment of this invisible adversary, was blown off of its feet once again — not but a leaf in the great gale. As soon as it had righted itself, it took to its heels in haste towards the gently ajar door, putting distance between itself and the man, the one from whom, the lowly spider realized, the tempests had issued forth.

But try as he might to move forward from his position, the lowly spider could do nothing to stand against the man’s great spells of wind as it continued to be pushed ever closer to the boundary portal that hedged in the man’s lands.

The lowly spider, turning now to directly face the man, stoping him short with its audacious show of defiance, asked, “if the great One under whom we both serve covets nothing unto itself, but merely allots to each their needs, how is it that you have come into possession of such a great and vast wealth?” The lowly spider asked querulously. 

“These and all of these things have been rendered unto my need and care by the force of my will,” the man’s voice rumbled forth ominously.

The lowly spider looked around at the great unused wealth that lay at the man’s disposal, piled up like lifeless bars of unspent gold in the eyes of the lowly spider.

“Is your need then not but an extension of your want?” the lowly spider asked incredulously. “I feel we do not share the same relation to the One under whom we both serve, the very thought of which fills me with despair,” the lowly spider, downcast muttered mournfully low.

“Come now, these arguments of yours are really too much.” The man, tiring of the discussion and wanting to put a final end to it, said, with finality, “It’s time for you to go,” as he pulled into his lungs a great breath of wind and expelled it out at the lowly spider, flipping it onto its back, and finally shoving it rudely a tumble into the lands beyond — the great gate to the man’s lands squealing ponderously to a close behind the upturned form of the lowly spider.

The lowly spider, finally pulling itself upright and dusting itself off, bleakly looked around itself as the hoary frost of the wintery air nipped cruelly at the pads of its legs. In the cold loneliness of winter, in great sadness and weeping all the while at the unjustness of the man — though nonetheless commending him unto the One above just the same — the lowly spider crept itself into a dark, unseen crevice, where it patiently nursed the small kernel of faith it held in the One for the bringing of better times.