Family of Ghosts

Much like his father before him, Barry was a boy of the forests.  

                He’d taken to the trees like his old man, though Carl Woodson and his wife died much too young. Mad Cow, Chicken Sick, Hog Cough: one of the many flus that flew hard and fast following the fall. Barry Carlson will say he doesn’t remember any of the day his parents passed, but he has yet to forget that cold, sleepless night spent in the tree house outside his bedroom window. Now, long from his ancestral home, Barry had strayed far from the stands in which he and his family walked.

                Until his tenth year, the three of them ventured side by side, each of them a part of the landscape as the landscape was a part of them. His mother Mary taught him of the plants and animals, and of the webs that were so intimately woven between them all. His father saw what was hidden in each tree, the life that was given, and to what more they could give back. Barry listened, and he stored all these things in his heart.

                Barry, on the other hand, told stories.  He was gifted when it came to the word, and when he wasn’t listening, he was talking. His pappy had told him the old folks’ lore and he’d heard a lotta bit up the bend at Half-Truth. He had a penchant for telling his own tales to his mother and father when they could listen, or to the trees when they couldn’t.

                Sunlit days then, as the three of them held picnic, waiting for travelers to make their way along the Sus’kenna Road. They would stop in to barter, to and fro the inn at Half-Truth, always looking forward to seeing the family. Carl Woodson kept with the pleasant trees, offering up cider, syrup and an assortment of carved wooden items from walking to eating, or eating while you walked. His wife Mary, showcased all manners of fruits and vegetables, herbs and spices, flowers and medicines. Barry liked to listen to the tales and talk of the town from Lou and Mr. Matt.

                His father tended to his carvings and his trees and his mother tended to her gardens and her bees.  Barry tended to the rock in the yard, staging elaborate battles with his much sought after collection of Yo Joes action figures. Though the set was meager, it varied greatly from change-bots to men with lasers coming out of their wrists to his prized Clark Kent in mid-change to Superman. It was the only one he had ever seen.

                Darker days, now.  He halted there at the top of the hill, struck still, and that was the beauty of it.  Barry was transfixed as the memories came and enveloped him much like the arms of his parents, feeding the tree from beneath the dirt. They were buried there, he knew. Nothing to mark the spot save the lone stone, nondescript in its permanence. There were no carvings upon the face of it to identify their internment therein.  This was where the simplicity stood out—you just had to know, the way Barry did.  Once you knew, you could never forget.

                Its proximity to a culvert that bordered the Sus’kenna Road lay just beyond the trees that lined the Woodson’s property. Pappy had planted the willow in the spring of his parents’ passing near the base of the rock, and the water fed it well. Shaded, the canopy drooping over the headstone lending cover from much of the harsher elements.None of this was lost on Barry: this rock was here in life as it was in death.  Time stood still for him. Then, as now at this moment, Barry’s heart was fixated with the certainty that this would be his final resting place as well. 

               He shivered, as if a goose walked over his grave. Unless, of course, it was he himself treading past, present and future, all in the same cautious step. 

               It was still early evening, but the homestead could wait until the morrow. It was best to do what scavenging they could in the full light of day. Barry knew the outlying buildings were on the verge of collapse, yet was thankful the main home structure wasn’t the frightening shambles that he purported it to be.  It bothered not that Ogethan continued down the hill as Barry paid his respects—until it was almost too late. 

               Even separated by the expanse of the drive, the house and then the pond opposite, Barry could still make out a little deer family at the wood’s edge. Bespeckled with white, a fawn was escorted by a majestic buck and regal doe. He felt and heard Ogethan’s deep intake of breath as the large man filled his lungs to capacity and his arm pulled back on the bowstring. 

               Barry barely had time to register that there was even a bow in the other man’s hands at all. He lifted his hand, slowly, so as not to startle his friend’s concentration.

Shoulders slumped, Ogethan slowly left his weight off the string. Grumpily, he loosed the arrow, and back into the quiver it went. Barry thought, not for the first time, that if there had been an arrow with a punching glove attached to the tip, Barry himself would be on the receiving end. The bigger of the two bared his teeth.

               “I had a clear shot, and dinner on the table.”

               “Our packs are full, buddy. Gramma Sal packed quite the spread for us.” Barry countered. 

               Ogethan muttered something unintelligible as they both turned to the house.

               They studied it from the drive, looked at it with a sense of humble trepidation. It was getting onto dusk and the bats were beginning to fly recklessly from all about the house. Even from this far, the boys ducked so as not to be assaulted. Their vantage point offered them a glimpse of the front porch, banister spindles missing like broken teeth, porch swing idly swung like a tongue. Eyes at half mast: sleepy, yet watchful. An addition to the house reached out for them.

                Ogethan shuddered.

                “You think it’s haunted, Bar'?”

                Barry just shrugged.

                “Wouldn’t doubt it.”

Epic Beards of Review: Superman No.172

In all her infinite grace, my fiancée was willing to allow us to have a superhero wedding.

Though she’s not nearly the level of nerdery I embrace, together we went all out and had the wedding I’d never dreamed possible. The ladies wore capes with our own super-insignia and the groomsmen all grew facial hair as “secret identities.” We had a Supa Hero IPA from Clown Shoes Beer. My wife painstakingly hand-made table toppers, whirly hearts and votive candle holders from comic book pages. Our cake had a Daily Planet topper and the Legion of Doom was our card box.

A year or so later, we’re also making a kid. Doctored some pretty nifty baby shower invites and plans to have “first photos” taken in a wrecked spaceship a la Superman. Though the wife has put the kibosh on an heroic name (Clark, Bruce or Lando) that won’t stop me from teaching my kid, boy or girl, about their heritage.

A pile of coverless comics were passed onto me when I was ten from my father. Among them was Superman No. 172, October 1964 with writing duties by Edmond Hamilton and art by Curt Swan (and a Giant Superboy that was my brother’s) were among my favorites.  They were from his childhood, specifically age ten, which was lost upon me until I re-read this issue.

I shall not wait as long with my progeny.

“The New Superman” starts off with a full page of people gawking over just that: some blond Superman streaking across the sky. Clark Kent looks skyward, dejected muttering that he’s just a reporter for the rest of his life. I’d have been more upset that the usurper was prettier.

The tale begins in earnest when The Daily Planet tasks Clark to investigate that an astronomer from the Metropolis Observatory has discovered a green comet! With his total-recall memory as young Kal-El hearing of this from his father not long before Krypton exploded. Though not heading straight for Earth, Superman must save countless other worlds from this menace.

In his super-preparedness, our hero summons two would-be champions from the Bottle City of Kandor, enlarges them with a ring borrowed from Green Lantern and sets out some tests to find which will succeed him if Superman’s task proves too daunting for the Man of Steel. It’s one thing to use your powers, but another completely to use them correctly. Of course, once you get a taste of power…

A veritable who’s who of co-workers, sidekicks, heroes and villains really make this piece a highlight of my childhood. Supes even employs new powers and a snazzy new costume! All these silly plot-lines and the callous way our new hero flaunts his power show our Superman as the hero he really is.

Even without powers, I’ve got a wife who loves me and a half-dozen longboxes of proof to show my kid how super we really are.

This originally appeared at Strip Tease in November 2013.

Prodigal: The Wooded Council

Painting done by Elizabeth of Pocket Vinyl at Avenue 209 Coffee House November 13, 2013.

Okay, so there's a twelve-seat council (going with Biblical allegory here) of woodland creatures.

I've been working on this for some time, revolving chiefly around this old bear (Karhun) and Barry, the main character in Traveling Tales.  Long story short, the prodigal son is coming home.

Here's my list so far:

1. Karhun
2. Old Turtle
3. Cardinal
4. Blue Jay
5. The Frog Prince
6. Buck
7. Fawn
8.
9.
10.
11.
12. The Prodigal Son

The Prodigal Son is the twelfth seat on the council, but has been absent for years and his homecoming has got Karhun all riled up.  (Maybe some Judas references here?)  There're reasons he's been away, all legitimate-like, but he's back nonetheless. 

Is "The Wooded Council" a decent name?  If not, what would you suggest?  What are the four other animals on the council?  I'd been using a rabbit as a courier of sorts to wake up the rest of the woodland creatures, but was hesitant to use him as a seat.

Also, think of the seating arrangement as thirteen tree stumps: one in the middle for speaking, and twelve others around it as intervals on a clock.

Does anyone read this blog?  If so, why aren't you commenting here or over at The Oracular Beard on Facebook?

Prodigal

The last of Winter's chill gave way as the grass bled green through melted snow.

Forest Kingdom had lived in relative peace in the years since the caretakers had taken leave.  They have been wonderful stewards of the land, their steps simple, leaving little trace. They took little and always returned more than was required.

The property, if one could call the earth such, was more a home than their house.  Living at one with such wilderness attuned them to the lay of the land and the inhabitants therein.  Plant and animal alike, they understood the delicate balance as they played among the strands of nature's web.

And so, as one of the forest creatures' reveries or much like old folks' tales, the faunic forest friends were amazed that these two cold no longer commune they way they used to--the way they ought.

Paper Pusher

Gramma Sal passed pages across the bar, delicate-like so as not to disturb Barry.  She knew well enough that quick movements were apt to spook him.  She knew this was his sole reason for making his way to the Fallon House this morning, farewells and final assignments masking his mission.  Fancy, crisp pages with fancy wrting trumped by even fancier words.  In triplicate no less.  

Barry felt no need to wade through the legal mumbo-jumbo: he knew exactly what he was getting into, and out of.  Less a deal with the Devil than a part with the past, there would be no better day than today to sign his life away.  Breaking free from the prison in which his family plot had housed him would loose the chains of ghosts that long haunted him.

Gramma Sal kept her watchful gaze upon him.  Expectant, yes, but with the careful consideration of a finely chosen hat.  Well worn, and sturdy, and the right hat for the right job.  Gramma Sal wore plenty of them as school matron.  She could not have gotten this far in life without her particular sense of style.

And Barry knew her intent was on the up-and-up, had known it would be, even before he brought the prospecting to her attentions.  She was up-and-front with him as well.  Fast friends with his mother and father, Gramma Sal had nothing up utmost respect for them, and the resourcefulness to achieve their ideals. Mentoring their only child had already seen to that.  Her further tutelage would benefit them all for future generations.

Bearded Ballads 16/30: ABCs of The Last 4th of July

A is for APPLE, which started the tale
B is for BARRY from whose lips the tale hails

C is for CLINT from whence he came
D is his DAD named Carl, where Barry got his last name.

EERIE, FORGOTTEN GRAVES on the hill
H for the HOUSE that's HAUNTED and for memories no longer still.

I is the INK on which parchment he writes
J is the JOURNALMAN, the knack for which Barry sets sights.

K is the KEY on a chain 'round his neck
L is for LEAVING the homestead a wreck.

M is for MOTHER, N her NOTEBOOKS they find
OGETHAN the best friend, with Barry's parents in mind.

P is for PAPPY a pipe in his jib
QUOTING the Bible, a tall tale or fib.

R is for REASONS she understands why he goes
S is SALLY FALLONS headmistress in the know.

T is TRAVELING with the caravan to far lands
UNDERHANDED is Hackensack with whom Barry takes his last stand.

V so VERY thoughtful, WEST where they lie, X the EXCURSION
Y is over YONDER, the time how it flies

Z this is over
ZIPPED up nice and tight
one day I'll tell you the story
but for now, it's good nite.

PRODIGAL: An Introduction, of Sorts

                                                                      BUY IT HERE!



This was Rabbit’s fourth visit to Brown Bear’s cave this morning—he’d long since learned this was the best plan of attack.  It would be better off for all of them if Bear had time to adjust, and it helped to wake the big guy in stages.  Bear wasn’t so much a grump as he was out-and-out loud, but he also had one heck of a reach.  As far as Rabbit was concerned, don’t kill the messenger.
Brown Bear harrumphed across the forest floor, still groggy from being woken up entirely too early.  Rabbit game him plenty of room as he careened through the underbrush.  The burrow with the missus would be quite welcome at this juncture.  Rabbit himself had been up since well before the sun.  Wise Old Turtle had come to him sometime in the night.  The story was long and drawn out, which was really the only way he knew how to tell them.

This was not easy listening for Rabbit.  He’d had the gist of it by about halfway through, and was dying to hop to it.  He wanted to be on the move already!  Feet thumped, like he was running in place.  Jumping to conclusions were inherent flaws of Rabbit’s character; however, he supposed he should wait.

Lightning bugs swarmed by the bottleful, fit to burst, a continual pre-dawn light necessary for council business.  At any given moment half the fireflies would be lit, while the others would be resting.  This early in the morning, however, there were quite a few still yet to be woken, the light dim.

Though the day had recently been saved, New Spring was still days away.  The chill was still here, and the threat of death lingered.  The insects arrived early enough to light the way and understood.  This was important, so much so that it would be a sign of the times before, one that advertised everything imaginable and flashed

IMPORTANT

IMPORTANT

IMPORTANT.

They didn’t know what it was that deserved the attention, but the murmurings hinted at something.  Something big.  Something possibly worth dying for, or so the Forest Kingdom breathed.

It was always darkest before dawn, so it was said.  Tonite, this morning, wherever time fell, was like no other.  Miss Moon had set and though birds were calling, Sire Sun was still hours away.  Like the animals on their way, the clouds gathered as well and fixing to storm.  The wind had not failed to mention it either as it picked up speed and shouted through the trees.

Trip. Trap. Trip.

(Concept sketch credit: Justin Gleghorn)

Barry crested the rise of the covered bridge, the stifling claustrophobic air already so hot this early in the morning.  It would normally be cool and rainy and it wasn’t even June yet.  Was a sign, but hopefully not one that read disaster for the caravan heading West to Alton A.

It was on his descent that he spotted the other man at the mouth of the cavernous river crossing, seemingly filling that space with all of his perpetual bulk.

“He’s never early.  And it’s barely past nine.” Barry mumbled with trepidation.

He was a hulking behemoth of a man.  Corn-fed and well bred, as big as a horse and could eat like one, too.  He would eat one at that, had it been on the menu.  There were five extra teeth in that massive head of his and though there weren’t any cases of him knowingly using them on his victims—there was always that possibility.

Quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, but boy when he did…  Arms like tree trunks and hands like stumps and long thick roots of fingers reaching out for his prey.  Grizzled beard and wild look of an ogre, who, if he wasn’t feral already, would turn on the unsuspecting wretch who would infer that is where his name came from.

"Trip.  Trap.  Trip.  You're late."  the man grumbled.

Yet his eyes were blue pools of goodwill, reflecting the purity he could see in everyone.

Barry hopped off his bicycle, only to be forcibly grappled by the monstrosity that was Ogethan.  Bones cracked audibly, which was normally the case.  One could always judge how happy Ogethan was to see you by the number of vertebrae protesting ‘yays’ and ‘nays’ from within Barry’s back, assenting or dissenting approval based solely upon the fact that it hurt so good.

“Big day, huh, buddy?”  Ogethen inquired of Barry.

“Ouff.”  was all he could reply for the moment.  He straightened himself and Barry looked to him briefly, as if the trip one last questioning.  Barry nodded committedly, as if every today was going to give him one last chance to back out.

“Word.”  Barry responded.

“Word to your mother.”

“And your mother, too.”

Left hands on each of the bike’s handles, rights launched into a secret handshake so complex (not to mention secret) that it can’t be written about here.  Ogethan hefted his rucksack and Barry wheeled his bike down Water Street as hot dust drifted up from its place at their feet.  It moved lazily beneath their footsteps.

They stared down their future like the barrel of a gun making their way through the park.  The cannon guarded Haven from ancient foes of a long time forgotten, the veteran’s memorial park one of their last bastions of hope.  Though pointed towards Barry’s home, sedition had since been reconciled, and the five counties of Clint now worked together as a whole.

They both walked in unusual silence, of which Barry was quite content.  Ogethan would normally be re-enacting some of the previous night’s tomfoolery.  But instead, rolled himself a cigarette, and had yet to offer any of it by the time they were halfway down the block.

“You know those things’ll kill ya, don’t you?”  Barry offered.

“Barry, my boy, I’m only living til I’m forty, ‘cause you’ll have killed me by asking the same old questions over and over again.” Ogethan protested.  “Smoke?”

They stopped at the street corner, and Barry nervously switched his packback from shoulder to shoulder.  Half a block away was Sally Fallon’s School for Exceptional Children, where Barry had boarded on and off the last five years of his life.  Though he would be glad to leave it behind, there was more than a lingering regret to be abandoning this place.

Barry’s apprehension was palpable, as thick as the heat and the humidity of the morning air.  Hadn’t Barry been wanting to be rid of this place for as long as he’d known him?  Ogethan fished into his pocket, coins jingling quietly for the lack thereof.

“Say, I’ve got a few coin…want to head over for a farewell breakfast of sorts?”

“Yah, my grandfather game me some money before I left…” muttered Barry, tearing his gaze from The Fallon House to Ogethan before he realized the error of his ways.
         
“Well then, it’s settled—breakfast’s on Pap.” Ogethan remarked as he made a left down a comfortably tree-sheltered Grove Street, with Barry quickened his pace to keep up.

Musings

Was thinking through these stories or novels or whatever and realizing that there are (for the most part?) interludes as far as the chapter breaks are concerned.

Last 4th of July will have more story-driven pieces because of the nature of Barry's livelihood: Mrs. O'Leary's Cow, interference at Fantasy Forest and even the dream sequence at the beginning of the story overall.

Not too sure about Homelands yet, though I like the scope of the book being slightly more self-contained, at least within the confines of the immediate area.

Metro is another of those Ogethan-centric tales and I think it'll be more solidified with song, especially the Superman bits.

To be honest, the mechanics of the book will come along when they need to.  Maybe I'm thinking too broadly?  Maybe I'm letting things get in the way?

Just as the thoughts come naturally, organically, maybe that's how these interlude-y things should.  A story might get some place that a song or a quote might not be able to reach, let alone mesh within the fabric of the story.  It's going to need to flow to have the reader's experience it, live it as best as possible.

7-Horsing Around

Giddy on the prospect of escape, drunk on the new wine of freedom, they belted out a raucous tune along the narrow alley.  It echoed off the walls and deep within their being where the thrill of the day could not abate this new life. Yet the farther down the impasse they wandered, the darker and more claustrophobic it got. A chilly breeze zipped through, the wind picked up and the laughter died down. The barn door banged a steady, uneasy rhythm one not in time with their frivolity.

THUD.

THUD THUD.

THUD.

The boys got skittish. 

Ogethan toed the door open slowly, stealthily, as if afraid something were going to sneak out and chaw him. Sunlight filtered in through the windows which would have been comforting under normal circumstances. Motes of dust danced, but it was one of doom. 

Barry told many a story, though those about the beast were well known across campus. Though Fallon House consisted of but a few buildings, word of the abomination’s machinations were of legend. It was as if it had been bred to be befuddling. Part of its nature one supposed.  The animal housed in the recesses of the stables had seen to a decidedly unwelcoming feeling.   Stalls lined the walls, empty all, save the last in the back.

Plan of Attack

Right before bed, I bring up some silly story idea about a faerie magician who has a monkey wrench blasting rod.  I've not gotten any further than an object and a short paragraph detailing just how said object was being contrived by one whom would be unable to wield such a weapon, due to his fae nature.  This had been discussed previously today with a colleague, I'd have a lot of  explaining to do: the logistics simply weren't there.

Enter wife.  After going on about this at length after prayers (and doing a horrible job of reiterating what my intentions were for the character and said weapon) she says to me:

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Of course." I say, knowing full well she's going to tell me not to listen to this writer-friend of mine, to just go with whatever idea it is that makes it my story.

"I think you should set yourself a deadline for the book."

I'm flabbergasted, to say the least.  That she didn't take the route she normally would, of course; what's worse, she offered something so preposterous that would lead to things like goals.  Time management.  Maybe even...sacrifice.

We bat back and forth the idea of having something ready to send out to a publisher (?!) by Christmas.  At the very least, I can have a nice gift to give this year.  She doesn't fail to point out that this was indeed the goal I've been setting for myself the last two years in a row.

Knowing I'm a bit of a numbers guy, she conned me into my birthday on 08/18.  I tried to jockey for more time.  08/18/18 would be so much better.  For hating math, I'm a little nutty when it comes to repetition [insert weird sounding math term here.]

"Absolutely not," she states, "that would be another five years."

I mumble something about Stan Lee not getting his start until 40, but to no avail.

I suggest we pray about it, but give the stipulation that she be the one to do the praying.  It was her idea.  I try for the impossible, knowing full well that she's not an "out loud" prayer.  We're quiet: I empty my head to listen to my wife, to God and His direction and will for my life.

But I really hear her.  I almost can't believe it because even though were close, she's got this cold--enough so that this is the first time in five months of marriage that I've seen her prop her head up to sleep--and the humidifier is turned up full blast.

It's faint, but boy-howdy she's whispering a prayer somewhere under her breath, I can hear it.

I'm filled with the Spirit for this woman, for this book, for my God.

08/18.

What's seven months, give or take a couple of days?

These Things Are Mine

In keeping with the output, I figured I'd give you a glimpse of Traveling Tales that I've been working on since time out of mind.  I handed this in for workshop a few years ago and had my arch-nemesis read it, BOTH to a wonky array of critiques.

Again, this is very beginning of my creative life (though new) and I'd have trouble giving up this piece, word-for-word.  I have since added more, clipped more, and have a bit of a different take than I had previously.  Even stuff here is making its way to the end, but maybe more on that later.

                He knelt at the fireplace, however briefly, jittery in anticipation of the day—if not for the need to make pee before he wet himself.  He poked absently at the snuggling fire coals with their white-ash night caps, transfixed by the glowering glowing warmth as they came to life, almost angry for being woken from their ember sleep.  Struggling in the hearth, they sputtered and spit in their irritation, voicing their concern for the morning chill.  Reds and yellows played across his face as he peered into the widening gyre of the hearth’s hellish depths.  Throwing one final log into position kicked sparks up the chimney, winking towards finality as the wind sucked them outward into the early morning sky.

                He took the stewpot from its fireplace hook, making his way through basement quarters to the garden to fill the pot from the rainwater gutterbucket.  Like a ghost, he glided silently along the rows, crops tickling the tops of his feet with dew.  He’d been out here mere hours ago, trying to go, staring up between the branches next to the tree where he marked his territory.  He hadn’t done a thing, though, shaking his head as he shook the few little dribbles he’d managed to squeeze out.  Back through the yard, eyes to the stars, a near-silent night offering up a near silent prayer to God up there.  Barry waited for an answer, not really expecting to hear one.  The stars twinkled and shone, heaven’s angels silently laughing at him in the multitude of the expansive night.

                Barry Carlson thought about this as he made water.  He was not a praying man.  He paid his respects in church, silent saint amid the motions—sit down, stand up, kneel, ad nauseum—the repetition boring him, taking him farther from what he believed church could give him.  He was tired of giving and sacrificing, and now he wanted a little back for his time and effort offered.  He knew that wasn’t how it worked, and he believed, truly he did, but why in this wide world wasn’t there a place for him?

                It had been a dry spring thus far, but there would be more than enough water to get his pappy along until harvest, should the caravan not be back by then.  Stewpot filled to the brim, Barry hefted it and waddled back inside to replace it above the fire that had caught.  What little heat it was making would be plenty to get the shower water hot.  In the meantime, Barry would nap, if just for a little bit;   knowing full well there was no chance that sleep could overtake him with such little time left to go, he lay down just the same, excitement veiling the threat of oversleep to keep him stranded in this town for another summer.

                It wasn’t that he loathed the place, far from it.  Truth be told, Barry loved Haven, and it had grown on him the way no other city in the county.  Except…like a toenail gone rogue, the whole of Clint had been poking and prodding just below the surface of the skin.  Like the infestation that it always proved itself to be, that pesky little bugger hurt like the dickens—and sent him home packing, limping back along the path.

                But sleep he did, or so he believed, restless as it was.  Caught between waking dreams and nightmares putting up another gruesome stand at the forefront of his mind, fireworks whistled and howled their incoherencies at he and his pappy, watching from the porch.  The cacophony city-side lit up the sky and echoed down the Sus’kenny River Valley.  It was a song Barry longed to hear, leaping from his sitting place and racing to the road, following in short bursts as each barrage of the spectacle reached the heavens.  The farther he made it from the house, however, the more intermittent the display of lights became.  He knew the road well, even in the dead of night, but now, as the dark assaulted his senses, enveloping him, crashing down around him and bringing him to his knees. 

                This is the exact moment in time which something on the horizon has been waiting, the formless and empty darkness chooses to release Barry from his kneeling posture.  The glorious rays grasping at the treeline, inching above the mountaintops as the dawn pokes its head for what may very well be the first time ever.  Barry tries to look upon the colors radiating from the corona, the crown of the sun bleeding out another victory, shouting from the rooftop across the morning sky.  The brief testament that proved to be the fireworks’ finale stands in only for another beginning.  The calamity which has ensued, awoken the light, and the tendrils of night dissipate as a silent fog from around the boy’s heart, and in a still, small voice weaving its way into his head

                “Barry.  Hey, Barry…”  The voice of the big man upstairs shook the foundations in Barry’s bedroom, snatching him from dreams that proved to be as out of place as he was.  Harsh sunlight coursed through the garden doorway, displacing Barry some two hours later than when he lay his head, patient, waiting.  The clock chimed upon an ominous eight-fifteen, gears grinding as his brain pondered this, squinting in incomprehension.  Calculations muddled his thoughts, making miscalculations, and then righting themselves with the realization he was going to be late.

                Lack of sleep and the abruptness of his call to being awoken had left him with one big headache, pain making its good ol’ time from the base of his skull where it met bunching at the neck, up over the top of his head to his eyeballs.  Along with this came the smells of breakfast, easing their way towards him, Barry’s stomach queased in emptiness of belly and the uncertainty of the day to come.  He doffed  his clothes, grabbed at the warm water waiting and streaked outside to the shower.

                As water cascaded about him, Barry was glad for what little rest he managed.  The haste of his lateness spurred him into action, making it farther in a shorter time than he would have made had he stayed awake, puttering around.  The urgency the shower placed upon his shoulders also made him more than grateful for the last warm shower he might have in a while.  Either way, it was over sooner than he had hoped, dragging his bucket and soap, dripping inside.

                Barry got caught up in his pants, trying to maneuver two legs into one of the homespun wool slacks, falling to the floor.  Yet in his fumblings, he located his missing moccasin that would prove invaluable for the trip; now he wouldn’t have to buy a new pair.  Leather jerkin topped things off, bone buttons undone, knowing full well the heat of the morning would be coming on quick.