Prologue

There was a knock at her bedroom door.  It was soft.  She heard it and knew it was her father, but she chose to ignore it hoping the blade of abandonment would cut both ways.

The second knock was louder.  She shuddered.  She lay in bed, buried under her covers, trying to live within her dream.  But there would be no living.  Not today.  Not any day in the foreseeable future.  Her head was still pounding from the boisterous crowd of last night’s fancy-dress party.  The door opened as he peeked in.  She lay there hidden amongst the giant pillows, still as a corpse, hoping he would just leave.

“Leota.”  He spoke in a soft voice.  He approached her bed and sat on the edge.  The weight shift caused her to fall back toward him, but she managed to pull herself away.  “I’m sorry for last night.”  His apology opened her eyes.  “Listen, I want to make it up to you.  There is something called a circus in town?  It’s supposed to have all sorts of exciting oddities and acrobats.”  It was always the same… what can I buy you to make you happy? She slowly pulled the covers away from her face.  She was only thirteen years old and her curiosity was peaked.  Instead of a new dress or servant she was being offered the chance to leave the house and be a kid.  She looked at him, sadness in her lips, her eyes too tired for someone so young.  He leaned over to move some hair from her face.  “If you would like to go, you can.  I’m sure your friends will be there.  It has been the talk of the town since the circus arrived.”  She nodded in acceptance.  He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.  “Well then, as soon as you are ready you can depart.  I have some business to attend to so I’ll have transport waiting for you at the front of the house.”  Business is what he always called it.  Leota often wondered what business the owner of a cemetery needed to conduct… sadness, pain, death.  All of the above, perfect for her father.

He stood in his newly pressed suit, reached into his pocket and pulled out some money.  He laid it on the table next to the bed.  “Enjoy yourself today; I’ll see you at dinner.”

Leota dressed as quickly as she could.  While the circus was interesting to her the thought of being out of the house was even more special.  She hurried downstairs and opened the front door.  There, spread out around the house, was one of the many reasons she was uncomfortable with the place she called home.  It was the cemetery right outside her front door.  Despite the rich, green grass and colorful arrangements of flower pots Leota couldn’t look past the acres upon acres of dead land.   All she could see were corpses trapped underneath her feet; all she could hear in the wind were the cries of trapped spirits.  It was a constant reminder of the sadness in the world.  Every day she would look out her window and see families of mourners crying over their beloved lost relatives.  It was a constant reminder of her mother’s death.

Their driver had parked the 1884 Edouard Delamare-Deboutteville in front of the house.  It was a brand new transportation vehicle imported from France.  Leota’s father was a man of great wealth and expensive tastes.  The car had a front bench seat and a rear platform.  The body structure was green with big red wheels.  It was unlike anything Leota had ever seen.  The driver climbed down and escorted Leota to the passenger side and helped her up onto the black leather seat.

“When did Father get this?”  Leota inquired.

“It arrived just yesterday, Ms. Leota.”  The driver responded.  “I’m still learning how to drive it around.  It is quite the marvel if you ask me.”  The driver added.  Leota sat back and concentrated on the road ahead trying hard to block out the images of tombstones and tears.  The car sputtered as the engine fired up. The rattling chain began to turn as the wheels rolled over propelling the car forward in a jerk.

“Sorry Ms. Leota, still getting used to it.”  The driver apologized.

The journey to the circus took less than ten minutes.  The driver pulled up to the gate and stopped to assist Leota down from the high seats.  Every passer by stopped to gaze at the vehicle.  Nobody in the small town of Liberty Square had ever seen a vehicle.  Leota was used to the attention.  Her father was eccentric and known to everyone throughout the town for his lavish tastes and elaborate parties.

Leota walked to the ticket booth.  There was a banner that stretched across the booth that read Yankee Robinson and Ringling Brothers Circus.  Leota paid her fare and slowly walked into the festivities.  The world of the circus engulfed her like a dream.  Colorful banners slapped in the wind, flags waved back and forth as if they were beckoning people to the event.  A subtle roar of crowd noise rose from the ground as dirt shifted about from the scampering feet.  Above the crowd noise floated the sound of a guitar, trumpet and drum – a trio of musical performers doing their best to set the scene for the visitors, luring them through the gates like sirens on a distant seashore.  Leota smiled, it was just the escape that she needed today.  She held her hands out to her side and let the music hug her soul.  She closed her eyes and danced through the crowd.

There was a long dirt road leading from the main gate to the big-top tent.  Along the sides of the dirt road were small tented structures.  Street performers were out juggling and clowns were dancing about doing their best clumsy impressions to get a giggle from the children.  Each structure she passed contained a new oddity or show and had a small stage erected in front of it where the performer would stand.  The performers were animatedly trying to engage the audience with their wild abilities.  There was the Fire Eater and Human Pincushion on one side.  The Bed of Nails and Snake Charmer on the other.  They over-shouted one another trying to steal each other’s crowd in a sort of game amongst themselves.  Further down on the left, a larger structure was erected that simply said Freakshow on the outside of the tent in large black letters.  This show had an additional cost of five cents and featured long vertical banners advertising its guests: The Bearded Lady, The Human Dwarf, Alligator Man, The Armless Wonder and the Dog-Faced Boy.  There was no stage in front of this tent but rather a fat man in a black suit, sweating profusely, trying to convince the audience that the attraction was something they couldn’t live without seeing.  He accepted the fare and allowed each person entry.  A little further down on the right were two smaller tents.  The tent on the right featured The Amazing Ricardo De’Lung, world-traveled Magician from Venice, Italy.  But it was the tent on the left that captured the attention of young Leota.  The left was adorned with beautiful tapestries.  Leota walked closer to read the banner: Madam Cressida Fortune Teller.  Leota paused for a moment.  She thought there had to be more to her life, a better and brighter future.  She had heard of fortune tellers before and figured most of them just gave out good news and hope.  For Leota that was all she wanted.

She peeled the curtain aside from the tent entrance and walked in.  The room smelled of incense and oils.  It was strong enough to water her eyes.  Nobody was there; she blinked. The aroma was overpowering.  She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes.  When she regained her vision a woman was seated at the table in the center of the room.  She was stunning; milky white skin, shining black hair that curled perfectly into place, and a body that would make any woman jealous.  She wore jewelry of gold, bronze, and silver as if to present herself as a token of importance.  She lifted her head from prayer and opened her eyes.  They were crystal blue, so light they could pass for white in the sunlight.  The table had another chair opposite the lady and a crystal bowl on top.  A deck of tarot cards were stacked to the side of the bowl and next to that a small bag containing some mysterious items.  The woman stared forward waiting for Leota to do something as if she was in a meditative trance.  Leota didn’t know what to do, so she just stood still right there in the middle of the room, waiting.  Her eyes wandered around the room adjusting to the smoky incense that filled the air.  A native-American Dream Catcher hung next to a Pagan Pentagram.  A Spirit Wind Chime clanged together methodically with each passing breeze that came through the tent.  Leota took a step closer to look into the crystal bowl on the table.

“You may sit.”  The woman said.  She still didn’t move.  She just sat there, arms resting on the table with her palms face up.  Leota sat down placing her purse on the table next to her.  The woman leaned forward stretching her hands across the table.  “Please place your hands in mine.”  She said.  Leota followed the directions and placed her palms face down resting them on top of the fortune teller’s.  Moments passed as the noise from outside seemed to dull.  Leota could hear the wind push its way through the entry curtain as the fabric twisted and flapped back and forth.  Then suddenly the fortune teller was looking at Leota.  “Your energy is very low my child.”  Leota retracted her hands quickly in a startle and placed them in her lap.

“I’m sorry.”  Leota said.

“Oh no need to apologize.  Most kids your age are so full of life.  Sometimes I would get an electric shock when I touched their hands.  Yours are different.  How can Madam Cressida help you?”  Madam Cressida asked clasping her hands on top of the table in front of herself.

“Can you tell me my future?”  Leota asked.

“The future can tell us many things child.  Most of which are not the concern of someone so young.  Why is your future so important to know now when you have so many paths to choose from?”  Madam Cressida inquired.

“My past has escaped me, my childhood stolen.  I’m not even sure if I have a future.  It would be nice to hope again.  Even if it were only in my dreams.”  Leota stated.  Cressida looked on intrigued.

“I see.  For you I will read your future.  But even I do not accept the reading as gospel.  You still have a chance to decide.”  Madam Cressida stated.

“Decide what?”  Leota asked.

“Decide if you want to alter your future or succumb to it.  Reading a child is very different than reading an adult.  Adults are set in their ways, creatures trained into a habit not so easily broken.  With each year of life your path becomes more clear, your direction more stern.  With children there is so much hope alive in their soul that their path is more fluid.  It flows, changes direction like the tides.  You have to choose to accept your fate or fight against it.”

“I understand.”  Leota responded.

“Good then place a dollar in the bowl and we can begin.”  Leota knew that a dollar was a lot of money, but she was willing to pay any price for hope.  She opened her purse and pulled out a dollar certificate and placed it into the bowl.  Cressida closed her eyes again and reached over to the tarot cards that were stacked next to the bowl.  Her breathing slowed as she began to shuffle the deck.  There was no reason to the shuffle; fate would decide what cards would show up.  Suddenly she stopped.  She removed the top card from the deck and set it down.  The second card was drawn and placed crosswise across the first card.  The third card was placed below the first two.  The fourth card followed to the left side and the fifth card above them all.  The sixth card rested to the right side of the middle two.  Cards seven through ten were stacked onto one another to the right of the original configuration with card 7 face down, eight on top of it, then nine and ten.

Cressida opened her eyes and examined the cards.  She was horrified; she knew what the cards were telling her she just didn’t know what to say.  She looked into Leota’s eyes and saw the poor girl practically begging for an answer.  She wanted to reach over and squeeze Leota’s hand, anything to somehow console her.  Her future was there, laid out in front of her, but it was too painful for Cressida to explain.  Cressida just calmly picked up the cards and stacked them once again.

She reached for the small bag that was next to the bowl.  She opened the bag and pulled out some rune-like tiles.  She cupped them in her hand and closed her eyes, focusing all her energy on the runes.  Then she held them over the bowl and dropped them in.  They bounced around the bowl in a dance with the paper dollar bill before finally resting.  Cressida leaned forward to look inside. Leota did the same, fully aware that she wouldn’t recognize anything she was looking at.

Again Cressida sat back with a still heart.  Leota was starting to look concerned.  Cressida stood up and walked around the table.

“Can you stand please?”  Cressida instructed Leota.  Leota stood.  “Now hold your hands out, palms up.  Leota again followed her directions.  Cressida examined Leota’s palms in great detail.  Until she saw something she will never forget… murder.  In a quick motion she pulled her hands away from Leota.  Leota, terrified, asked,

“What… what did you see?”

“I cannot help you my child.  Take your money and go.  Enjoy the circus.  Enjoy your life while you can.”  Cressida said as she turned to walk away.

“No!”  Leota screamed.  “I will not accept that.  You tell me what you saw…”  Leota began to cry.  “You tell me what you saw.”  Leota sat back in the chair burying her face in her arms and wept.  Madame Cressida combed Leota’s hair with her fingers.

“Child.  Death follows you.  It waits in your shadows for the victims to drop and picks their souls clean like a starving dog.  It laughs in the corner like it’s watching a comedy, even though the performance brings so much pain and suffering.  It has found a home among your residence.  It will not go away; it will only feed on the despair.”  Leota looked up from the table.

“Is there no hope?”  Leota cried out.  Cressida stopped.

“You cannot run from Death.  You can only satisfy his desires before he no longer has need for you.”  Cressida turned back around.  She walked toward a table that had various boxes on them.  She opened a box and pulled out a ring.  The ring was made of silver and featured a black pearl mounted in the center.

“This is a black pearl.  Black pearls are considered to be a symbol of hope for wounded hearts.  Some believe that black pearls are formed from the tears of Mermaids and because of that are considered to be the rarest and magical of them all.  This particular ring was given to me by a woman who, like you, had seen the worst in people and survived.  I was young girl, sold into slavery for a dollar when she found me.  She took me in and gave me this ring.  She raised me and taught me how to read the cards and find the spiritual realm between the living and dead.  Please, take it, wear it everyday and pray that Death spares you.”  Leota reached into her purse and pulled out more money.  She placed the money in the bowl.

“Thank you Madam Cressida.”  Leota said as she began to leave the tent.

“Child, one more thing… what is your name?”  Cressida asked.

“Ms. Leota… Leota Tomb.”  She responded.

Prologue

And he said under his breath as he pulled down upon the guillotine’s declic: Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn (In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming).

The sound of falling metal between boards of wood was quickly followed by a distinguished thump as the guillotine blade severed the head of Louis XVI, deposed King of France. Henri Sanson, son of the Master Executioner Charles Henri Sanson, seized the King’s head and showed it to the people as he walked around the scaffold; he accompanied this monstrous ceremony with the most atrocious and indecent gestures. Silence crept over the crowd as they realized the endgame had finally come. Then the faint cry:

“Vive la Republique!” Suddenly, what was a dull murmur turned into a crowd-roaring chant, “VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE! VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE! VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE!” Soon the crowd was in boisterous cheer as hats were tossed into the air.

Charles looked out over the crowd. All he could see were the ghostly faces of the hundreds of souls he had executed over his career. In unison they all raised their hands and pointed at Charles. His spine shuddered; he shook his head and wiped the sweat from his heavy brow.  He reached over and tapped Henri on the shoulder.

“That is all.” He said. The remaining executioner’s assistants were pulling on the bloated dead weight of Louis XVI, trying desperately to get his fat corpse into the burial basket. Henri circled around the scaffold one more time before standing directly behind the basket. He then lifted the severed head high into the air and dropped it upon Louis XVI’s body. The head bounced off the bulging belly of Louis XVI, rolling over until it stopped at the crevice of the armpit; his eyes, still open, stared back at Charles as the assistants put the lid on the basket. Louis’ priest, Henry Essex Edgewort, approached the basket and prayed for his fallen King.

Charles and Henri Sanson exited the scaffold toward the executioner’s chambers. Once they left the scaffold patrons flocked to the blood pools to soak up King Louis’ blood with their handkerchiefs. Charles looked back at the fury and paused if only for a second, turned and continued walking to his chamber.

“Henri this is my last execution.” Charles stated as he removed his ceremonious blood-red coat; the very coat that King Louis XVI presented to Charles fifteen years ago.

“Father?” Henri replied confused.

“I am too old for the charade. You reminded me of that today. The crowd wants a show… the Republic wants a spectacle. I can no longer provide that. For four generations our family has served as the Royal Executioner of France. You will bring us into the fifth generation. You will make the Sanson name proud, and carry on our tradition.” Charles removed his cloak. He didn’t have the heart to tell his eldest son that his ghostly visions had become too unbearable for even him to handle.

“What will you do?” Henri asked. A maid entered the room with a bowl of hot water and set it down on the table. Another maid entered carrying towels, and a third maid brought refreshments.

“Retire. Find a quiet place away from the politics, away from the revolution.” Charles continued to undress.

“Where would you go?” Henri asked as he too began to undress.

“Anywhere… anywhere but France.” Charles leaned forward to a bowl of hot water and began to wash his face. A maid walked back into the room with a second bowl of hot water for Henri. Henri splashed some water on his face and then looked down at his blood-dried hands.

“Do you think you will miss it father?” Henri asked as he began scrubbing the beheaded King’s blood from his knuckles. Charles paused looking down at the blood on his hands. He did not answer. “And what about the book?” Henri asked. Charles wiped his face and hands dry and looked sternly at his son.

“I’m taking the book with me.” Charles said resolutely.

“But the teachings, my path…” Henri began to question.

“I will not let this burden fall upon you son. The path ends with me and I accept the fate of this decision.” Charles turned back to the bowl of red water. He looked down at his callused hands; dried blood formed in the grooves, blood that could never be washed away. He grabbed the bar of soap and kept scrubbing.

The Passing

Kingsport, England was a bustling British port filled with passengers looking to find a new home in America and merchants looking to export their goods into new fortunes. But more importantly it was a place where someone could blend in and disappear.

Many years had passed since Charles left the guillotine. But one thing remained constant: the demons that followed him. All through Europe, from Norway down to Greece, he couldn’t escape their ghostly trail and howling nightmares. He had tried witch doctors, and spiritual healers; none of which could cure his madness. He decided America was as far as he would go. There he would either escape them or succumb to the insanity.

Charles had only two luggage trunks with him: one carried his wealth the other his clothes. He had paid his fare to board the Vagues de Folie, a French vessel that had been captured by the British during the war. Charles traveled under the surname Henry to provide some bit of anonymity. One thing Charles couldn’t escape was his thick French accent.

As he labored about the dock Charles came upon an English Pastor who stood upon his pallet perch waving a Bible in one hand and holding the crucifix of Jesus Christ in the other. He shouted as loud as he could, preaching to all who would listen.

“Escaping to the New World will not bring you salvation. Nay, it will bring you further heartache and despair. If you are hoping to flee the King’s grasp you are misguided! You are simply running away from God and into the hands of the heathens of the New World.”  Charles crept closer. Most passer byes gave no regard to the Pastor’s sermon. But Charles was still searching, hoping that there might be more meaning than the purpose he had been chasing for so long.

“You, good man, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your savior?” He pointed down at Charles with a long wrinkled index finger as if he was performing an exorcism right there on the spot.

“No I have not.” Charles responded.

“And why is that? Are you afraid of the truth, afraid to face your sins?”

“I have no fear; I simply do not know which path to choose.” Charles added.

“Ah well if the journey was easy it wouldn’t be worth the reward.” Charles turned to walk away. “My son!” The Pastor called out. Charles turned, the Pastor was holding out cross that hung from some thin rope. “The sea is a dangerous place. Let God guide you on your journey.” Charles reached out and grabbed the cross and placed it around his neck. Without saying a word he turned again and walked toward the ship that would chariot him across the sea. The Pastor yelled out “God bless you! God bless ALL of you!” Trying to impart some final words of hope into the crowd.

Charles approached one of the deck hands, held out his boarding ticket, and handed off his luggage trunk.

“Sir, may I take your other trunk?” asked the deck hand.

“No… I am fine holding onto this one.” Charles responded.

The deck hand guided Charles to the passenger floor of the ship. Charles wanted to blend in; he wanted to be one of the commoners, most of all he didn’t want to draw any attention to his gold by claiming one of the upper-class chambers.

He was restless and sat on the edge of his bed. The crackling wood had an unsettling sound as if the water was trying with all its strength to push its way through the dense splinters of wood. The water spluttered as each shift in the current caused the water’s edge to lift and kiss the side of the ship. Charles closed his eyes and tried to relax. He concentrated on taking long, deep breaths. In and out. In and out. The footsteps of his neighboring passengers made dull thuds onto the wood boards of the ship floor. Heavy trunks dragged across the floor and then dropped with a distinct thump! It was then all he could hear about the ship … thump! Another trunk was dragged to another room… Thump! Then another… THUMP! Suddenly the face of King Louis looked up at him, lying atop the guillotine’s bascule. Charles I’m innocent! The King shouted until THUMP the blade of the guillotine dropped through the lunette. Charles walked toward the burial basket to see his once great King. As he peered over the side of the basket the head of King Louis was changed to that of monstrous design. It was green and humanoid in shape with octopi tentacles covering its mouth and a jelly like head that appeared soft and without a skeleton.

Charles opened his eyes in a panic. Water dripped onto his forearms. He looked to the ceiling for a leak, and then realized it was his sweat that was dripping. He opened his luggage and searched frantically for one of his handkerchiefs. He found one and began drying his face and neck. He pulled the handkerchief away from his face to see that it was covered in blood. He dropped it to the ground, turned back to his luggage and grabbed his mirror. He inspected his face, there was no cut, and there was no blood. He looked back at his handkerchief on the floor. It was white. Charles stumbled to the center of the room where a small table and two chairs rested on top of a round rug. He quickly pushed the furniture aside and tossed the rug like a blanket onto the bed. He pulled out a dagger from a sheath hidden under his clothes and stabbed it into the wood floor. He slid the dagger up then down, left then across right and back down again to its origin point. Then with a fury of strikes he kept stabbing the middle of the star he had just carved into the floor until his heavy arms stole all his breath. He stood and fell into his bed. Throwing the rug back onto the floor he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Sometime later Charles opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his room. He could feel his weight shift, left to right, right to left. He was certain the ship had set sail for America and that he was finally on his way. He double checked the lock on his luggage, pulled a chain from his other trunk and found a place to secure his gold within his room. He opened his cabin door and looked down the empty hallways of the lower deck. No voices, just the sound of creaking wood and the occasional passenger snoring. Uncertain of the time he decided to explore the ship. He turned down a second hallway and found a deck hand.

“What time is it?” Charles asked.

“Sir, it’s almost midnight.”

“Can a gentleman get a drink at this hour?” Charles enquired.

“Of course sir, top deck there is a tavern; The Innsmouth sir.” The deck hand pointed to a stairway leading to the upper decks.

Charles opened the door to the main deck and stepped out into the cold-bitten night. A few crewmembers labored about, some others tended to the sails. The only light came from the entrance to the Innsmouth. Charles grabbed onto a mast as he lost his balance. The sound of the front of the ship crashing into the ocean surface ripped through the air. He held his arms out for balance and hurried to the Innsmouth, taking hold of the doorknob before losing his balance again.

Inside there were six passengers: four single men and a married couple. The Tavern Keeper looked over at Charles, appearing to size him up. Fat men always made the bartender uneasy. They tended to drink too much and were too big to handle when they became belligerent. A boy walked around the tavern cleaning tables and tending to the various customer needs. He took Charles by surprise. He was young but looked as if he had already experienced one full life. He couldn’t be more than ten year’s old Charles thought. His clothes were wretched and his hands covered in bandages from hard labor. Charles looked around the room and found a table in the corner hidden in the shadows. The boy followed him over.

“Would you like something to drink sir?” the boy asked, his voice struggled to grasp onto puberty.

“Yes… rum, any rum will do.”

“Certainly, sir.” The boy ran off with a sense of urgency that impressed Charles.  The boy quickly returned with a mug of rum. He set it in front of Charles. “Would that be all, sir?”

“There’s something about drinking rum on a ship… makes me feel almost like a pirate. Tell me boy how long have you sailed the open sea?” Charles asked.

“For as long as I can remember sir. My mother was a ship maid and gave birth to me on board.”

“And your father?” Charles questioned.

“Joseph sir, a deck hand, lost at sea five years ago.” The boy responded.

“Where’s your mother now?”

“Died giving birth to me sir.” The boy answered.

“How sad, an orphan born into basic slavery.” Charles lifted his mug and drank half his rum in one massive gulp. When he finally pulled the mug from his face he could see the Tavern Keeper standing next to the boy.

“If that is all George has work to do.” The Tavern Keeper said looking down at Charles. Charles waved his hand to shoo the boy away.

“And who are you?” Charles demanded. The man stood with a towel on his right shoulder and crossed his arms.

“Thane Paltroy, Tavern Keeper.” Thane responded.

“How much do you pay the boy to work such long hours?” Charles continued.

“His wage is of no concern to you.” Thane said, upset at the question.

“Who owns the boy then?” Charles asked sternly.

“If you mean to say who cares for the boy; feeds him, clothes him, provides for him. Then that would be me.”

“Well then, it seems we have two very different definitions of what it means to care for someone.” Thane didn’t answer. He just turned around and walked back behind the bar.

“You should rescue sweet little George.” A woman’s crackling voice peeked out through the darkness. Charles looked at a neighboring table hidden even further in the dark than his own. He tried to stare through the black but could see no one. He lifted his mug and continued to drown himself in rum. “Poor Charles Henri Sanson; he can no longer tell the difference between real voices and the ones in his head.” Charles set his empty mug down on the table and leaned forward into the dark to find the voice. At the same time the gypsy women leaned forward coming face to face with Charles. Charles flinched at her sudden appearance. She was old with cracks throughout her face, but had a certain beauty underneath the deep valleys of age.

“How do you know my name?” Charles asked.

“The legendary Sanson… did you honestly think you could travel the world without being noticed? Thousands of souls follow you; their spiritual wake trails you like smoke from a fire.”

“You’re mad woman.” Charles said leaning back into his chair. He lifted his mug to finish off his rum.

“Rum will not baptize you of your sins executioner. You’ve been running for many years, how many more years do you think you have left to run? How many more nightmares can you survive?” Charles slammed his mug down this time drawing the attention of everyone in the tavern. He stood and walked to the gypsy woman. But no one was there.

Charles walked out of the tavern and back onto the deck of the ship. He looked out over the surface following the moon’s light on the water, stretching his eyes to the horizon’s edge.

“I can help you.” The gypsy woman’s voice hissed. Charles heart sank with the motion of the starboard side. He spun around and finally saw her. She wore a black dress with an elaborate rust-colored headdress that covered her entire head. The headdress was adorned with jewels, pendants, and symbols. Her dress dragged on the floor and was torn from what appeared to be years of wear. Her hands were uncovered and pale white with deep purple veins shooting to her fingertips.

“Help me? From what?” Charles asked reluctantly. He turned back around and watched the white water slam against the ship.

“Your demons, your visions, yourself.” The gypsy responded.

“I’m sure this help you speak of comes with a price?” Charles asked.

“All that I require for payment is your trust executioner. My services are to those poor spirits you are dragging across the ocean. Their cries keep me awake at night. Their peace is my only concern.” Charles turned back to face her.

“What is your name gypsy?” Charles asked.

“Cordelia.” She responded.

“Well Cordelia it’s a long sail and a small ship, make it a point to stay out of my way.” Charles turned and headed back to the stairs to retire for the night. Cordelia followed Charles, but kept a safe distance to avoid being seen. She watched him enter his room and heard the click of the door locking behind him. Cordelia approached the room next door and opened the door. The room was empty except for a bed, some sheets and a pillow. She dragged the bed away from the wall and knelt into the corner of the room. She scratched away at the side of the ship trying to break loose a sharp piece of wood. A rather large sliver pulled away but did not break free. She turned her left wrist towards the sliver and quickly ran it across her veins. Blood squirted out onto the wall. Beads of her blood raced to the floor and pooled. She squeezed her hand trying to pump more blood onto the floor. With her right hand she wiped the floor with her blood creating a large square where the bed once stood. She drew a star in the blood and an eye within the star. Once it was finished she stood above the image and prayed. The blood pool vibrated on the floor. The outline of the star glowed with a bright yellow light and the eye opened. It looked about the room and then at Cordelia. As it blinked it spoke words unlike any human had ever heard. Cordelia bowed her head in shame and spoke in her human English:

“Azathoth, Daemon Sultan of the Cosmos. I summon thee.” Suddenly the eye and star vanished and the blood stopped vibrating on the floor. It was just a pool, stationary and calm. Then a round object rose up from its liquid form taking shape into a head, then shoulders and breast. A torso followed, then pelvis, thighs, legs and feet. Finally the full bloody form of a woman stood in front of Cordelia. Her eyes opened as the blood absorbed into her milky white flesh. In a language that could only be defined as the spawn of chaos and dreams Azathoth spoke:

“Yog-Sothoth why have you summoned me to this plane?” She asked.

“Mother, the Chosen One is lost. Nyarlathotep has prepared us a new suitor. It is time for the passing.” Cordelia responded.

“Very well. Where is the lost soul now?” Azathoth asked.

“In the room next door.” Cordelia responded pointing the wall to her left.

“Leave me and prepare the suitor.” Azathoth commanded. Cordelia bowed and exited the room. Azathoth walked toward the wall and passed through its splintering wood planks and into Charles room. He slept, eyes twitching back and forth in dream. She climbed on top of his hips and straddled him. He smiled. She began moving back and forth arousing him. She leaned forward to open his shirt. Suddenly she let out a shriek starring at the cross resting on his chest. Charles blinked and woke up. His room was empty. He grabbed the cross and fell back asleep.

The next day Charles woke in the afternoon. He had slept longer than he had in decades.

He made his way back to the Innsmouth Tavern for a meal. He found another table in the back. The Tavern Keeper was behind the bar tending to drinks while two females walked around servicing the tables. Occasionally he saw young George pop his head out of the kitchen.

“Can I help you?” the waitress asked.

“Yes, what’s to eat on this ship?” Charles groaned.

“Eggs and potatoes.”

“Sounds great, and a mug of rum as well.” She walked back to the cook to place the order at the same time George was coming out. He placed a plate of food on the bar. Charles could see bruising on George’s arms that was not there last night. It made his stomach turn. George looked over and saw Charles watching him. He turned and hurried back through the cook’s door.

“A boy that young has no place on the Vagues de Folie.” Announced the gypsy woman.

“Do you ever have the common courtesy to maybe ask to join a table, or do you prefer just sneaking up on people?” Charles said catching his breath.

“At my age permission is no longer needed.” Cordelia replied.

“Something tells me you have been on this ship before.”

“I have been a lot of places, seen a lot of things. But more importantly I know where to go, and what to do.”

“Right, rescue the boy.” Charles interrupted.

“It’s not that easy Charles. Thane will not let the boy go.”

“Money changes everyone’s mind.” Charles said.

“You think a guy like that cares for money? His desires are much more… perverted.” Cordelia explained. The waitress slid the hot plate of food across the table. It followed with a full mug of rum. Charles turned to thank her and he could see bruising around her neck. When she noticed his stare she quickly adjusted the top of her collar to cover herself.

Charles began eating his meal. As much as he loved to eat all he could think about was the Innsmouth staff and their unfortunate road.

That afternoon Charles spent a great deal of time in the tavern. The Tavern Keeper could do nothing of it; as long as Charles continued to drink he was welcome to stay. Charles watched how the staff would walk, act, and obey the Tavern Keeper. Their service was not voluntary. Charles had witnessed first-hand how torture breaks the spirit of a person and these unfortunate souls had seen their fair share.

The woman with the bruised neck was exiting the tavern and Charles thought that was as good a time as any other to leave himself. He followed her across the main deck and down another flight of stairs off the stern side of the ship. He followed her through the door, down the stairs, and to her room. He watched her enter her room. He looked around and saw no other staff around. He walked to her door and knocked.

“Hello?” She softly answered.

“Miss, my name is Charles. You served me at Innsmouth. May I come in?” There was hesitation. Then the door opened a crack.

“Sir please leave, if he sees you down here he will… be very upset.” She pleaded.

“Just answer me one question. Did he do that to you? Does he hurt you?”

“Sir, can I help you?” A voice asked from down the hall. Charles glanced; it was a deck hand. The bar maid quickly shut the door. “Sir, are you lost?” the deck hand asked again louder than before.

“Miss did he do that to you?” Charles said more sternly than before (to the closed door). There was a long pause; the deck hand was now only two doors away from them.

“Yes.” She whispered. Just then Charles turned and walked towards the deck hand.

“What business do you have with Miss Julie?” Exclaimed the young deck hand. Charles gave pause and looked into the boy’s eyes. There was genuine concern; a concern that only a loved one would show.

“Whew this is not my room. Sorry lad. I started drinking a little early today.” Charles began with a loud guttural chuckle. “Have I told you how good the rum is on this boat?” Charles exclaimed throwing his arm around the deck hand as if they had been friends for years. “What is your name son?”

“Michael sir” Michael had a distinct wound on his right cheek. The cut was fresh, a knife perhaps, but not deep enough to need stitching.

“Well Michael it’s a great thing you looking about making sure everything is in correct order.”

“Of course sir, let me get you to the passenger quarters.” Michael said as he assisted Charles.

“Thank you my boy.” Charles agreed. Once Charles and Michael were out of site, Cordelia came out from lurking down another hallway. She approached Julie’s room and knocked at the door. Julie opened the door expecting her. Cordelia walked into the room and pulled out a small satchel of gold coins.

“Remember our deal… you play your part and soon this will all be over.” Cordelia said.

“Yes ma’am.” Julie responded eagerly accepting the payment for her acting services. “But how much longer? I don’t know if I can take this anymore. And did you see what he did to Michael?”

“Soon Thane will be but a memory and you will have the Innsmouth all to yourself.”

“And what about George?” Julie asked concerned for the boy who had become like a little brother to her.

“George is no longer your concern. We will raise him proper, give him everything he could dream of. Once this is all over you and Michael can start your own family.” Cordelia stated.

Michael guided Charles down a series of halls and through various doorways before they entered the passenger quarters. Charles peeled away from him and continued on his own. As he walked to his room he could hear the faint music of a cello playing. It was his favorite instrument. He found himself fixated on the music. He began leaning on every door he passed to locate the room that transcended the sound. He finally found the origin; it was the room right next to his. He stood outside the door and listened. He closed his eyes and could remember sitting with King Louis in the concert hall listening to the orchestra paint emotions that carried across the air.

The music came to an abrupt halt as the bow was yanked off the strings. Charles waited hoping the beautiful music would start again. Instead his face was met with a swift wind as the door to the cabin flung open.

“Pardon me sir! Can I help you?” She stood with such exotic beauty. She had brownish skin and an accent unfamiliar to Charles. Her hair was a long tangled mess of clumps and braids yet it was very clean and smelled of oils.

“You… you look familiar.” Charles started. He peeked in and saw the Cello resting up against a chair in the center of the room. The bed had been pushed back into the corner of the room covering the charred pentagram in the wood floor.

“Have you visited Kadath?” she abruptly said to confuse him.

“Ah no, can’t say that I have.” Charles responded.

“Well then chances are you have never met me. And if you had, you would have never forgotten.” She winked

“Well sorry to have interrupted you. I heard the music from the hall and I was captivated. I haven’t heard music played like that in quite a long time. Let me introduce myself, my name is Charles Henry. I’m staying in the room right next to yours. Might I ask… where did you learn to play like that?”

“Blessed by the Gods I suppose.” She answered.

“Where does the Vagues de Folie take you?”

“To new beginnings.” She said leaning her right thigh out from under her dress. The motion let the slit of the dress walk so delicately up her leg until she seemed fit to stop it. She waited, watching Charles’ eyes wander. “Now I would like to return to my music, I’m sure you can hear it just fine from your cabin? The last thing I need is you lurking outside of my door.” She said, and then she leaned forward and whispered in Charles ear. “It’s bad for business.”

“Of course, but before I go, what is your name?”

“Emily.” With that she quietly shut her door and sat back down to play. Charles went back to his room and lay in his bed. He held his left hand up against the adjoining wall between his cabin and Emily’s so that he could feel what little vibrations the cello could send through the crackling wood. Charles very much enjoyed the sound of the cello; his favorite piece was the Six Suites by Johann Sebastian Bach. Just as he was thinking of the movements Emily stopped playing her current piece and began with Bach’s Suite No. 1 in G major, the Prelude. The music brought Charles to tears. The next fifteen minutes seemed like the remaining distance across the Atlantic Ocean.

Charles woke to dead silence. It could have been three hours or three days. He had no idea how much time had passed, just that it had.  He felt more rested than before, as if he had died and his soul had awakened into the eternity of peace. He sat on the edge of his bed void of direction.

He got up and felt like he needed a shower. His mouth dry, smacked open and shut a couple of times to try and summon what little saliva he had left; the rum was dehydrating him. He left his cabin this time in search of a washroom.

It was night, Charles felt intrigued that he always managed to wake at night. Most of the passengers were sleeping and just a few deck hands walked about the ship handling their nightly duties. Charles located a washroom and more importantly a fresh bowl of warm water. He splashed the water about his face and removed his shirt. The thick gray hair upon his chest and belly had aged much faster than the hair on his head. He stared at the cross the Pastor gave him. He rubbed the surface of the cross with the tip of his finger; the metal was smooth. He grabbed a towel and soaked it in the water and began washing himself. As the ship rocked back and forth he began to rock himself in unison. He closed his eyes for a brief moment to see if he could remember the cello playing Suite No. 4 in E-flat major, the Sarabande. Suddenly the music filled his ears as if Emily was playing right next to him in the washroom. Suddenly the strings became more violent and rushed. The song was no longer a masterpiece but instead the twisted anger of a child beating upon the strings with the bow. The sound of glass shattering caused Charles to open his eyes. The mirror of the washroom was shattered. In the reflection Charles could see Emily behind him, her naked body wrapped in cello strings as if she was prey to a sadistic game of bondage. His cross was wrapped around her neck, choking her. Charles turned to help her. But there was nobody else in the room. He looked back at the mirror, which was not broken at all and the cross hanging around his neck resting just above his plump belly.

He exited the washroom and walked to the Innsmouth for a drink. The tavern was closed. The main deck was quiet, no shuffling of the sails, nor splashing waves, not even the sound of feet scurrying across the floor as deck hands ran from post to post.

“He took the night off.” Cordelia’s voice exploded. Charles looked around for her and saw her walking from the starboard side of the ship just behind the entrance to the Innsmouth.

“Seems the whole crew took the night off.” Charles responded.

“We are close. Have you made a decision?” Cordelia asked.

“To save the boy, or hire you as some spirit guide?”

“One or the other, maybe both. Seems like you have lots of decisions to make Executioner.”

“Lots?” Charles questioned.

“Yes, like if you plan on fucking that whore before we dock. Such a pretty talented girl to let fall through your finger tips.”

“How did you know about Emily?” Charles asked puzzled.

“Emily… so that’s what she is calling herself. Well seems I have to pack for a long journey ahead. Good luck executioner, I hope you find peace in America.” Charles didn’t respond. Cordelia excused herself as Charles looked at the moon’s reflection on water. Off in the distance lightning screamed through massive dark clouds. The ocean started to panic, slamming itself against the side of the boat. Charles turned and walked back to the stairway. As he headed back to his room he searched for a deck hand, anyone that could tell them how far they have sailed and how close America actually was. Nobody could be found. He approached his cabin and could hear Emily crying from behind her door. He stopped and knocked.

“Lady Emily are you in there?” Charles searched.

“Not tonight Charles… not tonight.” Emily muttered.

“Lady Emily, I only have a question for you, now please open the door.” He heard the click of the lock and watched the handle of the cabin door turn. The door creaked open but only enough for some candle light to cast itself from the room onto Charles. Charles reached out his right hand and pushed the door aside. Emily climbed onto her bed and pulled her legs toward her chest. She sat naked. Half her body was covered in a blanket, her eyes red from crying. The lantern was turned down, struggling to shine a minimal light into the room. Charles shut the door behind him and walked to the lantern. He could hear the sound of broken wood snap underneath his feet. He reached the lantern and turned it up. The cello had been smashed into hundreds of pieces; the strings thrown about the room as if chaos itself did not like what it heard. His eyes followed the wreckage to the foot of the bed. Emily’s left foot dangled off the edge. It was bleeding. Charles walked carefully toward her and slowly pulled back the blanket. Her entire body had been whipped by wire.  The lashings were all too familiar a scene. But unlike his victims, the hands of rage, not justice, completed her beating. She cried and tugged the blanket back over her body.

“Who did this to you?” Charles asked.

“No matter, he paid me well and left my face alone.” She responded using every bit of strength she had left to push the words out of her mouth.

“Paid you well?” Charles pondered. “Have your whoring ways made you crazy? Have you fallen so low into hell that you now believe this is acceptable payment? Charles reached down and picked up the bridge of the cello clinging to pieces of wood that puzzled out in splinters. “Does payment include this?”

“We all aren’t born into riches Mr. Henry. Some of us have to make sacrifices to eat and put clothes on our body.” Charles leaned down and looked into her eyes.

“Who did this to you?” She looked back at his sincerity. It was at that moment she knew she had him. Her heart pumped life into her lips and she smiled.

“Thane… the Tavern Keeper, Mr. Henry, he did this to me.” Charles closed his eyes and in a second a thousand tortures flashed in his mind. He could hear the spirits pounding on the outside of the ship. Their screams no longer frightened Charles; they fueled his desire.

“Stay in this room. Do not leave. Do not let anyone in.”  Charles rose from her bed and collected five cello strings from the floor. He returned to the deck. By now the ship had entered the storm. Waves catapulted themselves onto the deck trying to drown the ship. Flashes of light burst as lightning tried to find a place to touch down.

“CORDELIA!” Charles screamed. “I know you’re around here somewhere.”

“Seems you have finally made a decision,” Cordelia said walking from the shadows. A barrage of rain began drenching the two of them.

“Where is Thane’s cabin?” Charles demanded.

“I will show you.” Cordelia lead Charles back down a familiar path. It was the same direction he had followed the bar maid before. Three doors past the maid’s cabin she stopped. Cordelia simply held out her hand and motioned to the door. Charles reached out and turned the unlocked handle. He pushed open the door. George lay on the floor half naked and bruised about his body. He turned at the sound of Charles heavy footsteps. Charles whispered.

“Cordelia take the boy, keep him safe.”  George did not hesitate. He stood up and limped out of the room.

“As you wish Mr. Henry.” Cordelia obliged. Thane continued to snore, oblivious to the fate that had entered the room. Charles shut the door behind him and locked it. He found four good posts to tie the cello strings. Once they were good and tight he reached down and grabbed Thane; the smell of alcohol wheezed from his pores. Before Thane knew what was happening both of his wrists had been secured. The ship began rocking back and forth more violently than before. The waves crashing into the side of the boat muffled any sounds. Thane finally awoke.

“What’s going on?” He slurred over himself “What is the meaning of this?” He looked around the room, head dangling around his neck as he struggled to keep it up. Where’s my boy?” Charles ignored everything. All he could hear was the enraged storm pelting the ship. “You… the fat man from the bar. What is the meaning of this?” Charles finished tying the man’s legs down. He now lay flat on his back. Charles looked around the room and found the man’s wash bag. He dumped everything out onto the bed until he found a shaving razor. He flicked it open and ran his thumb on the outside of the blade to test its sharpness. Charles looked down at the man whose eyes were shocked with white. “HELP!” he screamed. Charles leaned over with the razor and sliced the shirt and pants, pulling them from the man’s body. Thane began to cry. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“You do not deserve to live.” Charles lectured.

“Who are you?” Thane begged.

“I’m Charles Henri Sanson, Royal Executioner of France and I am here to inflict the sentence of death by lashing.” Charles raised the single cello wire above his head and dropped his arm snapping his wrist forward. The string tore across the Thane’s chest.

“Ahhhhhh” he screamed as his flesh tore open causing a small bubble of blood to form around the wound.

“What a shame, this string isn’t as strong as I had thought.” Charles added. “This could take all night.” Charles thrust his hand down again, and again, and again, each slash carving a new letter-shaped angle in blood. The thunder clapped cheering him on with each strike.

Hours seemed to pass as Charles strength had finally failed him. Thane could have died an hour ago or a minute. Charles had no idea. He just kept slashing. He dropped the cello wire to the ground, tried trying to catch his breath. He was exhausted, his blood lust quenched. He searched Thane’s pants for a key to the room. He located the key and left the room making sure the door was locked behind him.

As soon as the door locked Thane’s eyes blinked open and a smile came over his face. He opened his lips to speak through the blood that poured out of his mouth:

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtag.” Thane said laughing to himself. His skin turned to blood and soaked into the sheets until there was nothing left but cello wire tied to air.

George awoke the next morning and felt warm. A large cotton blanket had covered him. He lay on an actual bed and raised his head from a pillow. He looked over to the other side of the cabin. Cordelia was up and making her bed. She was already dressed and noticed George right away.

“I hope you slept well.” Cordelia stated.

“Yes, very well. Thank you.” George said trying to sound as polite as his limited education could.

“I promise you, things have changed. You will no longer suffer.”

“What happened to Master Paltroy?” George asked.

“He is no longer of concern.” Cordelia responded.

“And Mr. Henry?”

“Ah yes, Mr. Henry. He is sick.” Cordelia tried to explain.

“Like the plague.” George contemplated.

“Not quite like the plague. His mind is lost, his actions unaccountable. I’m afraid there is no saving him.” Cordelia added. Cordelia walked over to a luggage trunk and pulled out some clothes.

“I found these, and held onto them just in case they would be needed one day. They might be a little big on you but they will work for now.” George grabbed the clothes and eagerly changed.

“Now let’s go get you something to eat.” Cordelia suggested.

The sun was bright and filled the main deck with great warmth. It had already dried up most of the rain that had fallen the night before. Cordelia noticed Charles walking towards the back of the ship.

“Go into the Innsmouth and ask Julie for some food. I have some business to discuss.” Cordelia said.

“Okay.” George replied as he watched Cordelia walk towards the back of the ship. He walked over to the edge of the ship and looked out across the sea. He strained his eyes to find a dolphin or whale swimming in the vast ocean. White wash blasted off the front of the ship sending a mist into the air. It lifted the scent of ocean to George: he loved the smell.

SPLASH! George, startled, fell backward. He quickly stood back up against the railing to look for the cause of the splash.

SPLASH! This time he held his composure. A dolphin launched itself from the depths and back into the ocean.

SPLASH! Then another Dolphin joined in. Soon multiple dolphins were breaching the surface. George wondered what they were running from. He knew the ocean held many secrets and contemplated what sea creatures could be chasing the dolphins. Then something glided just under the surface about twenty feet behind the dolphin. The wind was strong but not strong enough for the ship to keep pace. George ran forward along ship to examine the creature. He had no idea what it was. His mind convinced himself that it was a squid but the body seemed too humanlike. The creature looked up at George. It had deep black eyes and a mouth; it grinned, then with a kick of its frog-like legs it shot out of the water like a serpent and wrapped its tentacles around the lone trailing dolphin. Like a snake it squeezed the life out of the dolphin as their bodies splashed back into the ocean. Then nothing but a pool of red blood floated to the surface. The ship raced on leaving the scene in the distance. George could see Cordelia approaching Charles. As much as their conversation intrigued him, the hunger in his stomach was of greater need as the smell of cooking potatoes came pouring through the open door of the Innsmouth.

Charles stood at the railing and watched the sea sprint away from the ship. He was numb, hands still shaking from last night’s execution. He looked into his palms and picked away at the dried blood. He reached into his shirt and grabbed the cross and began to pray:

“S’il vous plaît pardonnez-moi pour mes péchés.” (Please forgive me for my sins) He spoke in plain French. He hadn’t so painlessly prayed in French since he was a boy. The words just flowed uninhibited and he cried. He heard someone walking up behind him.

“You are pathetic.” Cordelia announced. In a blink of his eye her body had transformed into a ball of tentacles with a giant mouth on her head that was filled with rows and rows of razor sharp teeth. Blood and flesh wrapped around those teeth and dripped to the floor. “You are no longer the guardian of the book!” Cordelia commanded. “Give me the key?” Charles knew exactly what key she was referring to. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large silver key inscribed with arabesque symbols and handed it to the tentacled beast. It looked into Charles soul and in its ancient language it renounced Charles. Charles eyes glazed over and his hands came to rest at his side. He methodically turned away from it and walked back to the passenger hall, vanishing into the hallway.

As Charles walked toward his room the sound of a cello began to dance through the air. The sound lured Charles back to Emily’s room. He opened the door and saw her gracefully skim the bow back and forth across the strings. Charles stood entranced, the music closing the door behind him.

“Poor Charles. A once strong and vigilant man reduced to this. You have failed us!” Emily screamed. The ghost of King Louis appeared behind her holding his own head in his arms.

“You failed me!” the head of King Louis repeated. “You failed all of us!” Suddenly a thousand voices rushed into his head all screaming the word fail.

“Your mind wanders day in and day out. I see you pacing around the ship questioning your mortality…” she reached into his shirt and pulled out the cross, “asking the fake god for forgiveness of your sins.” She stared into his soul looking for his truth. “You truly are a lost soul.” She gasped. “You are no longer the chosen one.” Emily commanded. “WE HAVE GIVEN YOU EVERYTHING!” In Emily’s rage her body began growing tentacles. She dropped the cello and bow as her hands and arms molded into more tentacles. Her mouth began to elongate and took the shape of some kind of flute horn instrument. Her arms and legs turned into thick tentacles supporting the weight of her new body. She let out screams; but not the screams of pain or horror, the screams of enjoyment – orgasmic screams of becoming her true self. Charles face flushed pale white. He felt fear, for the first time in his life he felt what true fear was like. He began to back towards the door and bumped into a slimy creature. He turned around and to his horror saw a Deep One standing behind him. Its hind legs were that of a frog. Its plump body resembled the curves of a woman. Various tentacles and fins grew out of her side and back. Gills on the side of her neck pulsated as it adjusted to breathing oxygen. Two round, black eyes the size of baseballs blinked with an iridescent eyelid. Her nose and mouth were human-like.

“Your irresponsibility has alarmed Dagon. The Deep One has been summoned here to pass judgment on you.” The sound emanated from the mass of tentacles that slithered across the floor. The Deep One approached Charles and wrapped its tentacles around his body gripping onto his clothing tightly and then tearing all of his clothes from his body.

“Hold still human, this will not be pleasant.” The mass of tentacles stated.

Cordelia walked into the Innsmouth. George was finishing his meal. Butter and cheese painted the sides of his mouth.

“Full I presume?” Cordelia asked.

“Very much so, thank you.” George responded.

“I have something to show you.” Cordelia said. Just then Julie came by to clear the table.

“Miss Julie. I assure you everything is taken care of. Thank you for feeding young George.” Julie smiled at George.

“The pleasure is all mine. And thank you Madam Cordelia for all your help.” The two nodded at one another in unspoken gestures. George stood, oblivious to the exchange and was led out of the tavern and to Charles’ cabin.

As they entered the passenger hallway George could hear the faint screams of a man. He looked around at the deck hands. None of them reacted; it was as if they heard nothing at all. Then another scream louder and from a room close by.

Cordelia opened the door to Charles’ room and let George in. Cordelia walked to the center of the room and moved the table and chairs aside. She then rolled up the rug and pushed it up against the wall. George looked down upon the symbol carved into the floor. Cordelia pulled one of the trunks over: it was made of wood and brass and had ornate carvings of the ocean and sea serpents attacking a great ship. George looked at the art. The ship had a name carved into the side of it.

“The Miskatonic.” George said. Cordelia pulled the silver key from her pocket and inserted it into the trunk. The trunk unlocked. On top of everything was Charles’s ceremonial blood-red cloak. She removed the cloak and set it on the bed. George looked in and saw all the gold. His eyes widened. He had never seen so much gold in all his life. The gold distracted him from the true prize of the trunk a large leather-bound book.

Cordelia set the book down in the center of the star symbol carved into the floor. She then knelt above the main tip of the pentagram. George could see some rune like symbols on the cover with the same symbol that was carved into the floor on the book as well.

“Have you seen this symbol before?” Cordelia asked

“The star?” George responded.

“It looks like a star, but it represents so much more. The pentagram has many meanings across many cultures. If it points straight up it’s to mean good, if it points down, evil. Most pentagrams have straight lines and often represent the elements of matter. Some cultures include the human spirit in their translation, but for us it means space and time. The Elder Sign flows like blood pulsating through your veins; it’s living. The five points still represent matter on Earth (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water) but the eye is the main ingredient. The eye represents humanity’s soul. Now our scripture states that is where the Elder Sign began, the burning of the eye was added much later.

The Christian bible tells us that God, who then created Adam and Eve to populate the world, created Earth. But so much more was left out.

God was a sentient being from the cosmos. He created Earth and its first inhabitants, which you know of as Dinosaurs. The world was a utopia as the Dinosaurs lived with nature. It was the perfect balance; they needed one another for the planet to prosper. Everything was in perfect harmony. Across the universe was another sentient being called the Cthulhu. His planet was dying and to save his family he found refuge on Earth. The Cthulhu and the Great Old Ones came from a dying green binary star system called Xoth and descended upon Earth.  For a period of time the Cthulhi and Dinosaurs, which they called Elder Things, were peaceful and respected one another. Since the balance was not disturbed, God allowed them to live on Earth. But what God didn’t know was that that the Cthulhi exhaled madness. As many years passed they lived in peace, building their great stone city R’lyeh, the Elder Things were slowly losing control of their simple minds. Soon all the Elder Things became crazed beasts and the very children he created were destroying God’s utopia. Chaos soon followed with a massive war between Elder Things and Great Old Ones that resulted in the extinction of Elder Things and the transformation of Earth itself.

So God created a new race, a race with a conscious mind, a race that could think and hold off the mental attacks of the Cthulhi. Thus humans were born and began to flourish. But as time passed, God noticed the influence of Cthulhu. While it was a blessing that the human race could think for themselves, they could also make their own decisions. God soon watched hundreds of humans following in the teachings of the Cthulhu. This angered God a great deal. God finally attacked the Cthulhi. He imprisoned the Great Old Ones in the earth. He sank R’lyeh into the Pacific Ocean, trapping the Cthulhu and its remaining spawn into the darkest, deepest part of the world. He then set out to destroy any link to the Cthulhi. The Christian Bible tells of the great destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Our records show that place was where God purged all of the Cthulhu followers.” George was mesmerized. He had heard of the biblical stories but never told the way Cordelia was dictating. George looked down at the book. The brown leather cover was worn and around the book was a black leather belt that hinged together with a buckle-like lock keeping the book sealed. Around the belt were runes that appeared to be burned into the leather. “The Elder Sign represents all that is precious on this world and all tied to the human soul.” Cordelia pointed out.

“What about the fire?” George enquired.

“The fire symbolizes the burning of Sodom and Gomorrah as a reminder of God’s wrath.” Cordelia pulled out the same silver key and inserted it into the buckle to unlock the strap. She opened the book. Its pages littered with hand written notes and drawings, all of it written in a rune-like language.

“Will you teach me to read that?” George asked.

“No, it is not something you can be taught. Once Cthulhu has chosen you the runes will be revealed to you.” Cordelia responded. She closed the book and locked the strap placing the book back in his trunk. Another scream louder than before let out startling George. The scream was followed by a gurgling sound until silence. George looked at Cordelia who seemed unfazed by the sounds. Suddenly the door to the cabin opened. George expected the see Charles walk in but it was Emily.

“I trust all is well in here?” Emily asked.

“Yes” Cordelia responded. I was just showing George the book.

“Good. Let us pray.” Emily guided George to sit in the center of the pentagram. She held the book above his head and began the séance:

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.” Cordelia joined in “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn. Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn. Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.” George felt a great energy enter his mind. “Hold out your hands.” Emily commanded. George turned his palms up. Emily set the heavy book onto his lap. George looked down upon the book. He noticed that the runes were no longer there and that he could clearly read the title in English.

“Necronomicon.” George recited.

“What was that?” Emily asked.

“Necronomicon. It’s the title of Charles book.” George responded.

“No. It is the title of your book.” Emily said as she smiled. She rested her hand on George’s back. “We will protect you now.”

Epilogue

“Land Ho.” A deck hand shouted from the crow’s nest pointing off the starboard bow. The small number of passengers had already assembled on deck to watch America come into view. The eyes of merchants’ gleaned at the thought of new opportunities, and couples hugged ready to start a new life. Then there was Emily, Cordelia and George. Cordelia had cleaned George up and dressed him proper, making him appear more like a young English nobleman than a slave in dirty rags.

They all stood silent watching the Massachusetts’ coastline grow as they approached the docks. The Vagues de Folie was the only ship in the vicinity. It sailed into the harbor and docked. A flurry of deck hands scurried about tying the ship down and preparing to disembark.

As they walked down the dock a small line formed at the registration table.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Exclaimed one of the men at the front of the line.

“This is simply a formality sir. We ask for your name, your business, and if you are here to visit or plan to make America your new home.”

Soon it was their turn.

“Welcome to America. What are your names and business?” The man spoke with a British accent and dressed in a gentleman’s wardrobe. He had a ledger opened in front of him where he recorded everyone’s name and business.

“My name is Emily and this is Cordelia.” Emily answered.

“What is your business here in America?”

“To start anew.” Emily responded.

“And who is the young lad?” The man said pointing at George.

“Why yes. This is my son George.”

“What is your surname?” The man asked. Emily looked down at George and through her mind she told him: tell the man your father’s last name.

“Lovecraft, sir. My name is George Lovecraft.” He responded.

“Welcome to Massachusetts.”

The End

Recapping the Long Beach Comic & Horror Convention. Saturday, November 3, 2012 was just like any small comic con, filled with hundreds of curious onlookers. We met a couple of interested, soon-to-be fans, sold a couple copies of the book and made some tweaks in our marketing attack plan for Sunday.

Here I am chilling at the Rorshoq Books and A Raven Above Press booth with Fellow Creators (Jorge Pringles and Lorin Richards):

Sunday rolled around and we started with a fresh new idea, ashcans. These black and white freebies were placed all over the free table and handed out to passer byes. They contained snippets of a couple of the short stories and I think they did their trick. We quadrupled our Saturday sales and had a dozen more people come by just to chat and learn more about the book.

In fact one fan gave The Quickening a full Galactic Empire endorsement!

All in all it was a great first experience. We learned a lot, made some adjustments and are ready to tackle future conventions. I will be writing heavily over the next 6 months to add in at least 3 to 5 additional short stories to our next volume. Gruesome Gertie has already been finished and will make the cut in our next printing (you can preview the story here on my blog).

How To Order a Copy

Those interested in ordering a copy of my SUPER, Limited Edition book The Quickening can log in to Rorshoq Books. Just click on the “Purchase” button to be taken to a Paypal page. Enter your Paypal information and in the message field you can request a SIGNED Copy (at no additional cost). But hurry there is a Limited Supply of SIGNED books. If you encounter any issues in this process please email me at writerzkramp@yahoo.com.

• Reading level: Ages 18 and up
• Paperback: 120 pages
• Publisher: Rorshoq Books (November 2, 2012)
• Language: English
• Product Dimensions: 6 x 9

It was early, that time of night when it’s too late to keep drinking and too early to start breakfast. The only sound was the tapping of keys on the keyboard, the only light from the monitor wrapping itself around his body as he hunched over typing as if it were a race. A pair of white earphones plugged into his ears, the wire ran into his computer as if his brain was connected directly into the network.

Harold Brown was like every other “aspiring” writer, unpublished and going nowhere. As he continued his flurry of words the page counter turned over from three hundred eighty to three hundred eighty-one. His typing slowed, he paused. He sat back in his leather-writing chair and contemplated. His back and neck were sore; hours had gone by since he began this session. He thought a little while longer and began typing again. Then finally… The End.

He removed the ear buds from his ears and sat them on the table. Classical music could be heard escaping the earphones. The joints in his knees and ankles cracked as he took each step. He reached over to the light switch and turned it on. His writing desk was in the corner of his living room. A couch faced an old box television set. A small dinning room table for four pointed its way into a meager kitchen. He walked towards the refrigerator for a drink. He opened the refrigerator door. His fridge was empty except for a couple bottles of water, some orange juice, and bread. He grabbed the orange juice and began drinking out of the carton. He leaned back against the fridge starring at all the empty bottles of liquor that were piled in the sink. He looked up at the clock and it was almost five in the morning. After a couple of gulps the orange juice was gone. He placed the carton in the sink with the rest of the recyclables and walked back to his workstation. There was a letter on the edge of the desk on Scribner letterhead. It began… Dear Mr. Brown. We regretfully are writing to inform you… Yeah regretfully, Harold thought. He walked the letter back into his bedroom and turned on the light.

The bedroom was littered with books, magazines and newspaper clippings; all stacked and organized in a semi-chaotic based on topic. Harold was the kind of writer that believed in keeping every printed piece of information he felt would one day inspire him, even though he knew in the back of his mind he could find just about everything there was to know on the internet. But still it comforted Harry to be surrounded by all that writing talent as if he could soak in their brilliance by osmosis.

The bedroom looked more like a library with a bed. The only spare section of wall was a shrine to his failure. Fourteen rejection letters pinned to the wall at eye level. There were two rows of six and then a new bottom row of two. Harold stood there examining them all as he pinned up the third one to the bottom row, number fifteen of the group. He then pulled out a highlighter from his desk and like he did to the other fourteen letters and highlighted passages that would motivate him: “Your appreciation of the macabre is an asset to your writing.”

Harold lay back onto his bed starring at the rejection letter. His eyelids flickered and then shut.

A faint pounding echoed through the apartment; then again, and again. Harold rolled over and pulled his blanket over his head to drown out the sound. Outside Harold’s best friend Arthur Kennelly was banging on the door as hard as he could. Arthur looked down at his watch; it was five-thirty in the evening. Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. He found the key to Harold’s apartment and let himself in. He opened the curtain in the living room and the window. He walked back to the kitchen to find the bottles of booze. The answering machine on the counter blinked the number five in red followed by a subtle beep. Arthur opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water and then walked toward the bedroom.

“Harry. Time to get up.” Arthur walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He grabbed the Advil bottle and shook out four Advil. “Come on Harry. It’s dinner time and I’m hungry.” Arthur walked back into the bedroom and pulled the covers off Harry. He handed him the water and Advil. “Time to get up… whew and shower. What happened last night? Another bender?” Harry sat up and choked down the Advil. He didn’t respond he just pointed at the rejection wall, got up and walked to the shower. Arthur walked over to the new letter and read it; Harry closed the bathroom door and began the shower.

Harry walked out of the bedroom, cleaned, dressed and his hair still a little wet. Arthur was sitting on the couch watching TV.

“Sorry about the letter Harry.” Arthur said in an effort to offer some sort of condolence.

“Shit happens right?” Harry replied. He walked over to the answering machine and clicked play.

BEEP!

“Hello Harold. It’s mom just checking in. Call me.”

BEEP!

“Harry it’s Art. You got to get out of that apartment. I’m coming over after work and we’re going to dinner.”

BEEP!

“It’s mom again still waiting for your call.”

BEEP!

“Are you ignoring me? I hope everything is ok give me a call.”

BEEP!

“Hey Harry its Lexi. Just confirming our appointment for tonight. Same time? See you then.”

Harry deleted the messages and looked back at Arthur.

“So Artie what’s for dinner tonight?” Arthur turned off the TV and stood up.

“You know I hate it when you call me Artie.” Harry patted Art on his back, “Come on buddy we can cry together over dinner.”

The clink and clang of silverware and dishes drowned out the white noise of everyone talking. Harry and Art sat across the table from one another at their favorite Restaurant/Bar: The Green Dragon. It was a small pub that served mainly meat and potatoes and beer of course; lots of different beers. The décor was based on medieval times with coats of armor, shields and swords on the walls. The waitresses all dressed up as wenches from the 18^th century and lots of cheering went on. Harry and Arthur raised their pints and toasted one another:

“You can keep your fancy ales
You can drink ‘em by the flagon
But the only brew for the brave and true
Comes from The Green Dragon!”

They had their inside-joke chuckle and began eating.

“So I think I found something you will be interested in.” Art began.

“Please tell me this isn’t another website project?” Harry ridiculed.

“No this is for you. You know I love those collector shows right? Well on this one called Profiles in History they auction off Hollywood memorabilia. So get this tomorrow they are auctioning off a genuine Electric Chair.” Harry froze for a moment. Art knew it would capture his attention, for as long as Art could remember Harry has loved horror and the macabre and often talked about owning an Electric Chair.

“You’re kidding?” Harry said.

“No. And the best part is that this isn’t just some Hollywood prop it’s the real deal. You remember that movie the Monster’s Ball? The one with Billy Bob Thorton…”

“Is that the one where Halle Berry first flashed her boobs?” Harry recalled.

“Yup that’s the one. Anyway in the movie they used a famous Electric Chair from the Louisiana State Penitentiary. Inmates in this jail called the chair Gruesome Gertie. Seriously you can’t make this shit up. And this very chair is going up for auction tomorrow afternoon.” Art took a break from his story to eat. Harry was hypnotized with the idea of finally owning an electric chair. After swallowing his bite and washing it down with some ale Art asked,

“So what do you think? You want to give it a go?”

“Do I… but I’ve never done this sort of thing. Where do we begin?” Harry asked.

“Seriously…” Art said confused. “I’ve got an account. I’ve been bidding online on stuff since this show began. I got a number and everything, we just get there sign in and bid when it comes up.”

“How much you think something like this will go for?” Harry asked.

“Hard to say. Five, eight, maybe ten thousand dollars.” Art responded.

“Really?”

“Yeah well think about it, you have movie buffs and people like you who want sick and twisted shit in their house. There will be a bidding war just be prepared. How much can you get your hands on?”

“Maybe six… seven thousand tops.”

“Well let’s do it then. Doesn’t hurt to go down there and try.” Art suggested.

Art pulled into the visitor parking spot at Harry’s apartment complex. Harry climbed out of the car and looked back through the window.

“So are you picking me up at three o’clock tomorrow?” Harry asked.

“Yup. See you then. Harry tapped the car on the hood and walked up the stairs and back into his apartment.

BEEP! Harry sighed and walked to the kitchen counter where his answering machine beckoned him. There were three new messages. He hit play… they were all from his mom checking in. He sat down behind his computer and began researching everything he could find on Gruesome Gertie. Harry lost himself in his research.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK. The door startled Harry who had been reading up on the various executions of Eugene Johnson, Elmo Patrick Sonnier and Willie Francis. He clamored out of his writing chair and over to the door. He opened the door. There standing outside was Lexi, a five foot eight buxom brunette wearing a large black trench coat and Stiletto heals that pushed her to six feet.

“Another one of those days huh?” She said in a raspy voice.

“Give me a couple minutes to finish up.” Harry said as he sat back in his writing chair. Lexi set her gym bag down on the coffee table and removed her black coat. She wore work out clothes that hugged her body perfectly to accentuate every curve on her body.

“Where to tonight?” Lexi asked trying to steal a peek of Harry’s monitor. Harry felt her eyes on his computer and quickly directed her…

“Bedroom.”

She grabbed her bag and headed to the bedroom. On the way she saw the conquests of liquor in the sink. Harry’s drinking always concerned her. After everything they had been through and their history she did care for him deeply. She knew he was a brilliant writer and it pained her to see him drown his depression. She believed in alternate forms of eliminating his sadness.

Lexi walked over to the only dresser in the room and turned on the speaker system that rested on top. She then placed her iPod into the system and scrolled through the music library. She laid her gym bag down on the foot of the bed and unzipped it. On top was a black leather suit. She pulled it out and laid it next to the bag. The suit was garnished with chains and shiny metal rivets strategically placed throughout. She undressed and put on the suit that seemed to be handcrafted to match the contour of her body. As she began to take out various whips and other devices of pleasure, music suddenly rang out causing her to flinch. She turned around and saw Harry adjusting the volume of the iPod on the dresser behind her. The music was loud and angry. He searched through the library of songs until he found the right one.

It was going to be one of those nights where Harry’s neighbors would go to the Apartment Office tomorrow and complain about the noise. But Harry didn’t care; he had more important things to erase from his memory.

“The usual?” She asked.

“No. I want to take it up a notch this time.” Harry placed a small stack of money on the dresser.

“Sorry not as much as I like to give but I have my eye on something I need to pick up. I’ll make up for it next time. It was unusual that Harry gave her the money up front. He usually handed it to her after their session was over. She looked back at him as he undressed in front of his closet. The money on the dresser could only mean one thing… he didn’t want to get up after it was over. He pulled a pair of black leather Speedos from the dresser, undressed and put them on.

“Are you’re ready.” Lexi asked.

“I’m ready.” Harry answered. He then lifted the remote to his iPod and pushed play.

Harry stood next to his bed and leaned his head down resting his chin on his chest and shutting his eyes. The music was loading and she knew not to begin until the song had started. He could hear her footsteps walk from the foot of the bed around to him. He heard something slide across the bed, a pleasure weapon, as he liked to call them. The straps of her whip slid up his chest to the top of his left shoulder and then across the back of his neck. A chilling sensation sent a shock wave through his spine. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A guitar solo came in signaling her to begin. She knew the song; it was his favorite band Tool, the song was Stinkfist. She followed the motion of the guitar across his back in seductive combs of the whip’s leather straps. Then suddenly as the drums were about to dive into the room the straps departed his right shoulder and came crashing down onto his back.

“Come on Harry open the door!” Art shouted outside of Harry’s apartment door. He pounded on the door again with the outside of his palm. Art pounded again. “Shit Harry must I use my key every goddamned time I come over here? You better not be in there jerking off!” He pulled his keys from his pocket and opened the door. “Harry” he called out as he closed the door behind him. He could hear the faint classical music of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The music was coming from the bedroom.

Art turned the corner of the living room and could see Harry’s feet hanging off the side of the bed. Just then he heard the phone ringing. He picked it up and saw that there were more messages.

“Hello.” Art said.

“Art… is that you? Is he ok?” Asked an old lady’s voice.

“Yes, he’s in the shower. Once he’s dressed I’ll have him call you.” Art responded.

“Artie I think he got another rejection letter. Can you please keep your eye on him?” She asked.

“I sure will, I’m gonna be with him most of the day today. Mrs. Brown I got to go, talk to you later.” Art ended the conversation and walked into the bedroom to get Harry cleaned up.

Turning into the room he instantly saw blood pooled in the swell of Harry’s back. He rushed in. Time floated by as he quickly glanced around the room. Small splatter of blood dressed the ceiling and some on the wall the bed was up against, the iPod continued to orchestrate Beethoven from the dresser. Harry lay silently taking deep methodical breaths. There was some money next to the dresser, and a note:

I only took half.

I worry about you, please call me when you are up.

~X

Harry was alive, if barely. Art stopped at the foot of the bed and watched Harry for a moment. Harry’s back was tortured. The blood had already begun to dry up. His shoulders were turning a purplish hue. Art noticed the lacerations. He still had a scar on his back from his first time. Art pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Lexi.

“Hello.” Lexi answered.

“What the fuck Lex! How could you leave him like this?” Art demanded.

“Hey don’t scream at me! He wanted me to leave him like that!” Lexi shouted back.

“He’s half dead!” Art shouted.

“I’m not dead you idiot.” Harry said as he slowly pushed himself up from bed. Just then Lexi hung up on Art. Art threw his phone into his pocket and helped Harry up.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Art asked.

“Just get me to the shower.” Harry pleaded.

“You know your mom called again this morning worried about you.”

“She over-dramatizes everything, you know that.”

“Over dramatizes, from the looks of things I guess I know where you get it from. Point is you scare her when you don’t respond. What was she supposed to think when you didn’t answer her last seven calls?” Art pleaded.

“I’m not going to kill myself Artie.” Harry said as he stood under the hot water washing away all the blood.

“Yeah then what do you call all that on the ceiling, new décor?” Art argued.

“So we got a little carried away last night.”

“That’s not what Lexi said… she said you wanted more. So what’s after this?” Art demanded.

“Just shut up Artie it’s not like you don’t have your vices.”

“I don’t try to kill myself.”

“No you just smoke pot and occasionally snort heroine. That’s much safer.” Harry said in a sarcastic voice.

“Just get cleaned up.” Art ordered.

Harry spent most of the drive up leaned forward in the passenger seat of Art’s car. No matter what position he got in, nothing was comfortable. Art knew this and wanted to remind Harry of his idiot decisions but kept his mouth shut.

“Maybe you should take this time to call your mom?” Art suggested.

“I’ll call her this weekend. Lets see the damage I do today first.” Harry responded.

As they drove up Interstate 5, Harry pulled a bunch of papers from his bag and began reading.

“What is all that?” Art asked.

“I downloaded a ton of stuff on this Gruesome Gertie chair. This is going to be the inspiration to my next story. You wouldn’t believe the shit this chair has gone through.” Harry enamored.

“Well let’s here about it. We aren’t going anywhere fast in this traffic.”

“Before Gertie found a home at the Louisiana State Penitentiary it was actually shipped from parish to parish. You pretty much ordered up an electric-chair execution via Gertie and they sent you the chair. Finally after sixteen years of traveling all around Louisiana it came to rest at the State Penitentiary. But that’s not what gained Gertie her popularity. In 1946 a prison guard decided to get drunk on the job and he set the chair up wrong. Eighteen-year old inmate Willie Francis was the first inmate to ever be executed twice. When they pulled the switch the first time he didn’t fry; he was shocked. He screamed out “Take it off! Take it off! Let me breathe!” Can you imagine sitting there with just enough volt’s pulsating through your body that it rips apart your organs but not enough to actually stop your heart? They actually went back to trial after that attempt claiming that the electric chair was cruel and unusual punishment. It took over a year to retry poor Willie Francis who ended up losing his legal battle and getting fried for a second time.”

“Holy shit Harry… are you sure you want this chair?”

“Want it… I have to have it!”

“What’s wrong with you?” Art asked shaking his head in disbelief.

The drive up to Los Angeles took them about an hour and forty-five minutes with the traffic. They arrived at the auction house for Profiles in History with time to spare. After getting checked in they were handed their bid number eighty-eight and a program that showed all of the items up for bid. Harry quickly flipped through to Gertie. There was a nice one-page ad picturing the chair and a little biographical write-up.

Since they had time to kill they decided to walk around the showroom to see what other goodies were available. From the movie they had a signed script by the cast, Heath Ledger’s screen-worn officers uniform, the sketch Sean Combs’ character did in jail of Heath Ledger that was signed by Combs, the notebook of newspaper clippings that Peter Boyle’s character kept, and the piece de resistance: Gruesome Gertie. A couple of admirers circled around the electric chair like vultures, checking it out from every angle.

“It’s absolutely perfect.” Harry said under his breath to Art. An announcement came over a loud speaker that the auction would be starting soon and that everyone would need to make their way to their seats.

In the ballroom chairs lined the floor in rows with a podium up front for the auctioneer and the item up for auction to his left. In the back of the room the Profiles in History staff sat behind computers and phones taking bids.

As the auction unfolded Harry became increasingly nervous. Finally they got to the Monster’s Ball lot and the room began to whisper. It seemed a lot of people were really interested in this lot. Harry gripped his number a little tighter. First up was the script: it was signed by Billy Bob Thornton, Halle Berry, Heath Ledger and Peter Boyle. The bid started at one thousand dollars and quickly jumped to three. After the final gavel fell it landed at three thousand and four hundred dollars. The Sketch and Sean Combs signature brought in eight hundred dollars, the notebook with newspaper clippings five hundred. But when Heath Ledger’s screen-worn officers uniform came up the room lit up with bids. Five thousand jumped to eight, then jumped to ten. Thousand dollar increments pushed the bid war up to fifteen and then twenty thousand dollars. Two final bidders battled it out around the twenty-five thousand mark until the final bidder chimed in at twenty-eight thousand dollars. As the crowd relaxed the crew rolled in the next and final item… the Gruesome Gertie Electric Chair.

“Lets hang back and see where this goes.” Art suggested in a whisper to Harry.

“This is the screen-used electric chair used in the movie Monster’s Ball. It is aptly called Gruesome Gertie and was retired by the Louisiana State Penitentiary on July 22, 1991. Bidding will begin at five thousand dollars.” Said the auctioneer. Everyone looked around the room waiting to see who would be the first to bid on the piece of movie macabre. “Five thousand is the reserve, we need to start at five. Do I have anyone at five?” baited the auctioneer.

Suddenly someone raised their number and the auction began.

“That’s five thousand do I hear six.” Another number floated into the air.

“The gentleman in the front row has it at six, anyone for seven?” One of the staff on the phones in the back raised their number. “We have someone on the phones at seven, do I hear eight.”

Harry raised his number.

“That’s eight thousand to the gentleman on my right.”

“Nine thousand announced the man managing the phone bidder.” Harry raised his number again.

“Ten thousand!” Harry shouted. There was a pause.

“I have ten thousand over here to my right. Any other bidders in the room?” The auctioneer looked around the room slowly. Harry filled with anticipation. The auctioneer picked up his gavel. “Any more bids from the phone?”

The man holding the phone waved the auctioneer off.

THUD! The gavel came down.

“Bidder 88 wins the Gruesome Gertie Electric Chair for ten thousand dollars.” Harry was smiling from ear to ear. It had been a long time since Art had seen him that happy; it was a good feeling even though Art knew he would be helping pay the balance of what Harry couldn’t afford.

“So how much are you gonna need me to spot you?” Art asked as they exited to close out their purchase.

“Actually I’m good, right on the money at ten.” Harry responded. He handed the clerk two thousand in cash, and three credit cards to cover the remaining balance. Harry closed out his bill and was instructed to pull their vehicle around the back to load the chair.

“I’ll tell you right now… I’m going to be a little more than freaked out driving back to Orange County with that death chair sitting in the back of the SUV.” Art added.

Harry kept looking back at the chair lying down in the back of the SUV.

“It’s beautiful.” Harry said.

“You got to stop that Harry you are seriously starting to freak me out.”

“What can I say, my mind is filling with ideas. How about this for a pitch? Joseph Hillstrom, a famous horror novelist goes out and buys this infamous electric chair at an auction. This chair has been used in hundreds of executions, but we will focus on only two hundred and forty of them all completed by Edwin F. Davis, State Electrician, which is just a fancy title for executioner. After his last execution good ole’ Edwin goes mad and secludes himself. When Edwin reads that his beloved chair is in the hands of a civilian he hunts down Joseph, captures him, and conducts one last electric execution.”

“Sounds like a good start.” Art replied.

“Now quiet I need to think the rest of the way home.” Harry griped.

They pulled into a parking space just outside of Harry’s apartment and began unloading the electric chair. The chair was lighter than Art imagined. Art started walking up the stairs backwards forcing Harry to bear the weight of the chair below him. At the top of the stairs Art turned towards the neighbors door so that Harry could set down his end and unlock the door. Once inside they set the chair down in the center of the living room.

“So where do you want it?” Art asked. Harry looked around the room.

“Bedroom.” They dragged the chair into the bedroom and Harry pushed over a stack of books to create some space in the corner. “This is going to be a perfect reading chair.” Harry ran into the living room and brought a floor lamp into the bedroom and plugged it in next to the electric chair. While Harry was readjusting his bedroom décor Art ran back down to grab the power box and other miscellaneous straps that came with Gruesome Gertie. Harry had cleared some space next to the chair for the other items. “Perfect.” Harry jumped into the chair and grabbed a book, Dead Man Walking by Helen Prejean, off the top of his stack of books to be read. “Okay time to go.” Harry ordered.

“What the fuck Harry.” Art said angered that he was being pushed out of the apartment.

“I got inspiration flying at me, time to write. I can’t have you lingering about.”

“A thank you would have sufficed.” Art said as he left the apartment.

“Thanks bro, you’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry shut the front door before Art got down the stairs. Harry grabbed his laptop and ran back into the bedroom. He sat in the chair and opened a new Word document and began typing.

His fingers ached but he couldn’t stop for pain. His ass was raw from the wooden slabs of Gertie, his elbows scratched across the leather straps and chaffed. He played The Mercy Seat by Nice Cave on his computer turning up the volume as loud as his ears could handle.

He stood, holding the laptop with his left hand typing with the index finger on his right as he walked into the kitchen. He set the laptop on the counter the monitor reflected the bottles of liquor still piled in his sink. He opened the freezer and pulled out his favorite American Bourbon, a bottle of Maker’s Mark Whiskey, and began gulping it down.

Back in the chair he continued to type, pages flew by like crashing waves in high tide engulfing the sandy shores of imagination.

The long hand of his kitchen clock chased the short hand as minutes turned into hours: dusk into darkness.

He took an occasional break from typing only to kiss the wet lips of Maker’s Mark and chug down its sweet mana of creativity.

The laptop was possessed screaming through the Nick Cave lyrics: “the mercy seat is waiting, and I think my head is burning, and in a way I’m yearning, to be done with all this measuring of truth.”

The living room door opened as Lexi stepped into the room. She tried to shout through the music but it was useless. She walked into the bedroom where Harry was dancing naked. He spun around, eyes spinning trying to focus on Lexi.

“Hey… do we have an appointment tonight?” Harry slurred.

“You don’t remember calling me?” Lexi responded.

“Ah yes I need your help…”

“Harry can we turn down the music?”

“NO!” Harry screamed back at her throwing his empty bottle of Maker’s Mark Whiskey past Lexi against the wall shattering it. “I’M WORKING!” Lexi was caught off guard she had never seen Harry like this before. “I’m working. I have a story to write, it’s working. Now strap me into Gertie.” Harry asked.

“Who is Gertie?”

“This is Gertie.” Harry announced pointing Lexi to the chair.

“Harry I don’t think this is a good idea.” Lexi pleaded.

“THEN GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! I pay you to follow directions, have you forgot that you are a WHORE?” Harry sat down in the chair and began strapping his left wrist into the leather shackles.

“Why Harry, why must you do this?”

“I CAN’T FINISH THE STORY! Gertie knows the answer, she wants me. I want to give myself to her. I want her inside my head.” Harry reasoned. “I need to finish the story… you know I need help finishing.” Lexi undressed and helped Harry get strapped into the chair.

The music seemed to scream louder and louder as it played the same song on a loop over and over.

“Pull the bag over my head.” Harry commanded. Lexi looked to the stack of electric equipment there was a gray leather bag. She slowly placed it over Harry’s head. “Now fuck me.” Harry ordered. Lexi mounted his lap and positioned herself. She began to cry. “Choke me.”

“What?” Lexi said in a frail voice.

“CHOKE ME!” Harry screamed. Lexi wrapped her hands around Harry’s throat and tried to squeeze but her heart got in the way. “HARDER!” Harry yelped. Lexi moved like a piston, leaning in to Harry’s chest pushing her weight behind her hands, tightening her fingers. As Harry gasped the song raged on:

And the mercy seat is melting

And I think my blood is boiling

And in a way I’m spoiling

All the fun with all this truth and consequence.

Knock, knock, knock…

Knock, knock, knock…

Art took out his keys and unlocked Harry’s apartment door. It was silent. He walked toward the bedroom and found an empty bottle of Maker’s Mark Whiskey on the floor. He picked it up and set it on the kitchen counter. He entered the bedroom and looked over at the electric chair. Harry was sitting in the chair frozen in time. His left wrist was strapped down to the chair. He held the electric cord from the floor lamp; which was ripped off the lamp and twisted around his neck in a makeshift noose. A gray bag was covering his head. His right hand cradled his flaccid penis. Art grabbed a sheet from the bed and threw it over Harry’s body. The movement disturbed the wind coughing up the scent of death. Art ran into the bathroom to throw up.

The phone rang. Art washed his face and went back into the living room, still in shock he answered the phone.

“Hello”

“Art? This is Lexi is Harry there?” Art didn’t know how to answer; it had only been moments since he saw his best friend dead and the vision already began to haunt him. “Harry called me last night but I was with another client. He sounded bad Art, is Harry okay?” Art noticed the bidder paddle over on the computer workstation. He hung up the phone and dropped it as he walked toward the paddle numbered eighty-eight. He picked up the paddle and noticed the Auction Program opened up on the table. The picture of Gruesome Gertie stared back at him. There was one passage highlighted: During its fifty years, Gruesome Gertie had been used for a total of eighty-seven executions.

Art looked back at the paddle numbered eighty-eight and felt a shiver of electricity run up his spine.

The End

“Ding.” The elevator announces its arrival. The doors slide open and a middle aged man in a navy blue business suit steps off. His face clean shaven, he has a small Kleenex corner gripping the dried blood of a razor cut on his right cheek. His hair neatly combed and parted to the right. The doors to the elevator shut behind him as he checks his watch… 7:10 PM. He looks forward and sees a large mirror starring back at him. He notices the Kleenex on his cheek and steps for a closer look. He carefully picks at the dried blood to release the Kleenex from its grasp. His blue suit fits him irregular; he folds the sleeves back from his knuckles to his wrist.

He walks over to the keypad and slowly reaches into his inside jacket pocket to retrieve a business card. In raised gold letting the business name read “The Society”. On the back of the card someone hand wrote the time “7:15 PM” and the numbers “341720”.

The man checked his watch again, two minutes had passed.

“Ding!” the elevator announced its arrival. The man looked back nervously. A couple walked through dragging their luggage behind them and froze. They looked at the man, then around the lobby then back at the plaque on the side of the elevator door. They looked at each other and started to laugh.

“Sorry wrong floor.” The man chuckled as he and the woman back tracked into the elevator. The doors slid closed and the man in the navy blue suit looked at his watch again… “7:14”. He approached the keypad and kept an eye on his watch, focusing in on the seconds hand tick across the face, hurdling the numbers like some track and field meet. Once the watch clicked over to 7:15 the man began entering the numbers onto the keypad:  3   4   1   7   2   0.  A light turned green next to the fingerprint reader. A second green light came on. The man took a step back. The noise of the camera above him sounded. He looked up and saw the camera turn to examine the room. Once it came back to rest a double click sound cracked the still air and the doors opened.

The man walked through into the lobby of the office. There was a small sitting room to the right with a single chair and a side table that had nothing on it. A receptionist’s desk faced the double mahogany doors with a black granite counter top. A woman sat behind the desk. She wore a red dress that was low cut in the front to parade her rather large breasts. She had long blonde hair pulled back into a bun on the back of her head and subtle splash of red lip gloss. Behind her the name “The Society” in big, bold letters clung to the wall.

“Mr. Jeremiah if you would please have a seat. They will be with you shortly.” The receptionist said as she continued to type away on her computer. The furniture smelled like brand new leather, the floors a dark bamboo hardwood that complimented the mahogany doors. Mr. Jeremiah pulled out his cell phone and tried to get online. But nothing would work. The receptionist leaned over.

“Sir could you please turn off your phone?”

“Sorry… I didn’t know how long I would be waiting for.” He said pulling any excuse he could think of for trying. To the right of the receptionist desk was a Smokey glass door with brass hardware. The handle dipped down as the door opened. A taller man of six foot five came through wearing a black suit and tie.

“Mr. Jeremiah welcome. If you would come with me we can begin.” He held the door open. Mr. Jeremiah walked through.

“Thank you.” The man in the black suit closed the door behind them and led Mr. Jeremiah down the hall into a meeting room. There in the center of the room was a large oak, rectangular desk. Six men sat on one side of the desk leaving one chair available opposite of them for Mr. Jeremiah. All of them were dressed in their finest suits. There were no windows in the room or electronic equipment of any kind.

“Please have a seat.” The man pointed to the single empty chair on one side, and then he walked around the table to the center empty seat on the other side.

“I’m your host, Victor Thorne. I represent the voice of The Society. We have reviewed your membership application and have invited you here to personally welcome you to The Society.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Jeremiah responded.

“Up until now you have only been made aware of the very basic elements of membership prior to this meeting. So now is the time for you to ask questions. As you know there is no turning back once you have been accepted.” Mr. Thorne threatened.

“Yes I understand sir.” Mr. Jeremiah responded.

“Good. As you know there is a payment involved with membership. Payment is determined by matter of death. Hanging will cost around three hundred thousand dollars, using a gun, five hundred thousand dollars, a bladed weapon one million. Full-fledged torture will start at one million and will be increased in increments based on duration.” Mr. Thorne walked towards the conference room door and opened it. The receptionist handed him an electronic tablet. He brought the tablet to Mr. Jeremiah and placed it in front of him. “This is our contract. It protects you as well as The Society. All of the details are there. Feel free to read and sign at the bottom and we can begin transferring the membership payment.” Mr. Jeremiah felt an overwhelming sense of anxiety. He skimmed the details of the contract and signed at the bottom. Mr. Thorne then closed the contract file and selected an icon to launch the bank application. “Please enter your bank account information.” Once Mr. Jeremiah finished Mr. Thorne handed the tablet to one of the other gentleman at the table who prepared the transfer. The man looked up.

“Have you decided the method?”

“Yes… bladed weapon.” The man looked down at the tablet and began entering numbers. He looked back at Mr. Thorne.

“We are all set.”

“Very well. Gentleman shall we adjourn to location zero.” The men all stood and existed through a door behind them. Mr. Thorne approached Mr. Jeremiah. “There’s no need to be nervous Mr. Jeremiah this is a very exciting time.” Mr. Thorne then outstretched his hand welcoming Mr. Jeremiah to join them.

The drive to location zero was quiet. Classical music played softly and all eight men rode in a black stretched limousine. Scotch was served to anyone who wanted a drink. Mr. Jeremiah had a glass to help calm his nerves. They drove for about twenty-five minutes. Mr. Jeremiah fiddled with the business card in his pocket, all he could think of was that fateful day when he searched the internet for an answer; a cure to his morbid desires. It was upon chance that he found The Society, neatly tucked away in the dark corners of Facebook. Breadcrumbs lined the digital walls of his computer, and Mr. Jeremiah dug. He burrowed deeper into the electronic psyche of The Society and there hidden amongst cyberspace he found his answer. After much correspondence and background screening, the business card made its way to him having appeared out of thin air one day with nothing more than a company name, time and pass code.

Mr. Jeremiah looked out the window and noticed that they drove into an abandoned business center. It was dark out and the street lights around the business center were all out. The limousine drove around a couple of buildings before entering a garage like entrance. The driver exited the limo and pulled down the industrial garage door. He then walked around the car and opened the door for the members to exit.

Mr. Jeremiah stepped out; his eyes had to adjust to the darkness. The sound of an animal running across the concrete floor echoed throughout the room. The room smelled of trash and the feces of squatters.

The driver opened the trunk of the car and pulled out a bag and handed it and a flashlight to one of the men. Everyone followed him towards a staircase. They all climbed down. They walked down two flights of stairs, then down the hall and into a room. The room was just as abandoned as the rest of the building. The men stood in a circle; Mr. Jeremiah was in the middle. The man with the bag pulled out six more flashlights and passed them to all of the other members. Lastly he pulled out a dagger that rested calmly in its black leather sheath. He removed the dagger from the sheath, placed the sheath in the bag and pushed the bag behind them. He then walked up to Mr. Jeremiah and handed him the dagger and returned to his place on the circle.

The men started to chant. It was in a language unfamiliar to Mr. Jeremiah. They all pointed their flashlights down at the ground. Then at a certain part of the trance all the flashlights rose, casting their light across the ground to the feet of Mr. Jeremiah, up his body to his torso. Then the chanting stopped.

“Mr. Jeremiah you may proceed.” Mr. Thorne announced. Mr. Jeremiah looked down at the silver dagger in his hand. It shined in all directions from the beam’s of light cast upon it. He rose the dagger into the air placed its cold edge on the left side of his neck and closed his eyes. In one motion he pressed the blade into his neck and yanked it across his throat severing his arteries. His body stood erect if only for a moment. Blood gushing out of neck flowing down his blue suit like a waterfall onto the ground. His right arm, limp, fell quickly to the floor snapping his hand open as it released the dagger which clanged loudly upon striking the ground. Then as if the world un-paused itself Mr. Jeremiah’s body crumbled onto the concrete floor.

One of the other men reached into the bag and pulled out a towel. He retrieved the dagger paying close attention not to step in the blood pool that was forming. He folded up the dagger in the towel and placed it in a plastic bag within bag. The men stood in unison once more. Mr. Thorne looked up and with his eyes closed he chanted,

“When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all. He keeps all his bones; not one of them is broken.” The men then turned off their flashlights.

The End.

I couldn’t imagine this journey through autism without my wife. From raising Logan, to dealing with the school system, doctors, dentists, state-run programs, therapies and everything else that surrounds Autism, I can understand the staggering divorce rate. It’s hard work; it’s really, really hard work. Some say it takes a village to raise a child, I say it takes a country to raise a child with special needs. I couldn’t imagine the extra pressure a single parent faces and it sickens me when I hear of a parent just bailing on their responsibility because they can’t handle it. You can’t handle Autism? Think of your child, not only do they HAVE to handle it they have to live with it the rest of their lives! Autism is NOT a death sentence, they will live with it for 70-, 80-, even 90-years.

Raising a special needs child means a lot of things: sacrifice, patience, courage, determination, hope, and support. Support parents offer their children. Support siblings offer their brothers and sisters. And the support family and friends offer the parents. But of all the support that flows in, the two people that need to support each other the most are the parents. Their relationship, their foundation, needs to be strong. The weight of Autism is heavy and only through a strong partnership between two loving and caring parents can their marriage through Autism be successful.

I don’t claim to know all the answers. I had a seven year engagement with my wife; we were together for 10 years before having Logan, our first child. Maybe that foundation is what makes our marriage successful. But I can tell you this it was never easy. Since that first day we heard those words “your son has Autism” we didn’t blink, we got right to work. But it wasn’t easy. We debated on care, services, how much to push Logan, when to hold back. We both understood it would be tough. But together we fought – listen to those words… we didn’t fight each other… we fought “Together”. We made sacrifices along the way, and gave each other space. We supported each other (after all isn’t that what your vows stipulate: through thick and thin, better or worse).

I still remember the conversation we had about having our second child, Lukas. Even with all the heartache we endured on this Journey through Autism. Even with all this work that was required of us. We stuck together and weighed all the pros and cons of having another child. We decided together, even with the odds against us, we could offer no better gift, no better future for Logan than a sibling – someone who would love him unconditionally after we die. Even if our second child had autism too they would be bonded to Logan as family. Two years after Logan was diagnosed Lukas was born.

They say God will test you, but he will only give you what you can handle. I’ll admit, through my life my relationship with God has become strained but I can tell you this… Lukas was the perfect blessing to our family. He balanced me as a father and husband and everyday he shows how important that sibling bond is with Logan.

I’m thankful for my wife for helping me stay strong, my son Lukas for giving me hope and most of all Logan for teaching me more than I could ever learn on my own.

While most families sign a piece of paper saying their child is going to attend the following school year – we have to go to a meeting and fight for the right for Logan to be mainstreamed. We have to fight for the right for services. We have to fight for the right for Logan to move forward and not be left behind. We sit one side of the table, the principle, Logan’s SDC teacher, the current mainstream grade teacher, school nurse, any school therapists, possibly the district psychologist and if we are lucky the district autism specialist sit on the other side of the table. We state that we want Logan to be mainstreamed so he can grow with his peers (be accepted as one of them). We want Logan to make friends (have people he can trust on the playground with him). We want Logan to move forward with education, graduate High School, and go to college. We want Logan to become an independent person, have responsibility and grow into a man who can contribute to society. While most parents complain about 35 students being too many for one classroom; we fight to get into that classroom.

Now I’m not part of the school system so I can’t speak to things like budget, and how the size of the SDC (Special Day Class) might affect a school’s funding. I’m not privy to the “formulas” the district may or may not have. All I know is that Logan is as smart (if not smarter) than his average peers (as proven by his report cards). That Logan is forced into an SDC class because he lacks focus, that’s all. Logan doesn’t scream or lash out at others. Logan isn’t behind in his studies. To put it bluntly, Logan is placed in SDC because the mainstream teacher is too busy to prompt Logan to focus.

Now some would argue “that’s not the teacher’s job” and I can understand that, after all these class sizes get bigger and bigger each year. So I respond “let’s get Logan an independence facilitator” (better known as a Shadow or Classroom Aide). To which the school simply replies… No.

Now I’m sure some of you are saying “what’s so wrong with the SDC class?” “I mean they get 3-4 classroom aides right?” “Not to mention it’s a smaller class size.” What most of you don’t know is that SDC classes are combination classes. Logan’s, for example, are grades 1, 2 and 3. So what does that mean? That means when Logan was in the first grade he had 3^rd graders as his peer role models. They could be aggressive, they could be disruptive, and they certainly are older and much larger. Point being they are intimidating to a first grader. Now that Logan is in the 3^rd grade he gets to make his classroom rounds with first graders. Why is this so important? Because in a typical 3^rd grade class everything in the class is third grade: the words on the white board, the pictures on the walls, the books on the shelves and tables, it’s consistent, it makes sense. In Logan’s SDC class you have a mixture of first, second and third grade work all over the place. How confusing is that? While Logan is learning 8-letter compound words with verb tenses, two desks over another child is learning how to spell “Stop”. As for the number of aides, don’t forget this class is not just for high-functioning autistic kids. It’s for all differently-abled children. Most of the aides need to provide one-to-one support to the visually impaired and deaf children. The bottom line is that Logan is lost in this class, he’s smart enough to know he’s in the wrong place, but too “disabled” to get into the mainstream class (their formula not mine).

And that is just for his “education” plan. We haven’t even talked about fighting for therapy services (OT, PT, Speech, Adaptive PE, etc). So start from the top of this blog post rinse and repeat.

What we come to find out is that Logan is too “disabled” for mainstream class, but not “disabled” enough for therapy services. How that is even possible is beyond me.

So tonight we get to review all the legal text, we get to prepare our position for the battle, we get to have a sleepless night while we anxiously await the Hell we are about to face. All so that we can have the same right of a least restrictive learning environment that most families automatically get by signing a single piece of paper.

Two against an entire school system; fighting for our son’s education, trying our best to provide the best possible future for our son Logan.

It was April 16, 1993 in San Diego California. It was my first year of college; like most 18 year olds, I was an inexperienced, misguided youth trying to find my place in the world. It was 8:50 in the morning. I was early like always, staring at the whiteboard, thoughts drifting into my imagination while waiting for my English Lit class to begin. I could feel my muse tapping at the door, an ever so subtle knock. She never appeared to me, she is a feeling, like the hairs standing up on the back of your neck. If colors could sing that would be the sound she makes as she floats about the room mocking me. “Imagine” she would say. The constant distracter she is. Some days she would sing so loud I would spend the entire class just documenting my own imagination. It was then I knew that I would be spending the rest of class ignoring the lecture of the professor at hand.

Then she entered the room. I examined her as I often do when I people watch. As she walked her hair bounced with each step, her blouse swayed as it hung loosely on a pair of spaghetti straps, her chest rose and fell with each breath she took. She took a seat in front of me, her momentum carrying her strawberry perfume to my desk as if it were an invitation to speak to her. But instead of speaking I closed my eyes and just breathed long deep breaths. I could sense my muse smiling behind me, as the sense of smell filled my mind with fantasy.

As I stared at the back of her brown curly hair I could see my muse reach out and comb her hair with my fingers. She turned and smiled at me as she leaned over to her bag to get some paper for class. Girls don’t smile at me, I thought. I swallowed my nerves and reached into my heart for the courage to say hi. I leaned forward to say hello when the teacher stormed in and announced the start of class.

The next fifty minutes blinked.

She packed her school supplies back into her bag, looked me in the eyes and said see you tomorrow. I watched her walk away. I would be lying if I said I didn’t. All I could think about was this mystery girl. I looked down at my paper and saw that I had scratched only two lines

A lover’s beginning foretold

My heart can now unfold.

“Dad?” A male voice cried out. I turned to look at the back of the bathroom door.

“Yeah” I answered.

“Big day Dad, are you getting ready?” I looked back at the bathroom mirror. There staring back at me was the man I had become; experienced, guided, and with purpose.

“Yup” I answered. Hanging on the back of the door was my best pressed suit. On the counter was my wedding ring. Inside the ring an engraving that simply read Forever.

It was the fall of 1999, Tempe Arizona. It was 9:00 at night and still ninety-three degrees outside. Six years had passed since that day in English Lit, where I met the girl of my dreams. We transferred to Arizona State University to make it on our own. And for six years we grew, we loved, we were inseparable. We were walking from a restaurant, our fingers clasped together as she playfully placed her thumb on top of mine. It was our little thumb war. Some say that how you place your thumb when holding hands says a lot about your relationship. I was too busy enjoying the electricity from her touch to worry about superstition.

We met friends at a local club to go dancing. She loved dancing. She told me there was something about allowing the music to guide your movements that allowed her to suspend herself in the moment. I hated dancing. For that matter I hated crowds, and honestly, hated strangers in general. I found the bar and ordered my usual: a shot of Jager and water.

In a crowd of beautiful half-naked college girls I noticed nobody but her. As she danced with friends her eyes were fixated on mine. Every bend and sway her body took sent shivers up my spine. Every time she would get buried in the crowd a playful game of cat and mouse would ensue. Bass drums filled the air as if to pump our hearts for us. I drank, she danced and my muse would look on and smile. I often wondered how jealous my muse was over my girlfriend. I remember those days I could just close my eyes and turn my radio up. The colors would dance throughout my imagination as I wrote elaborate prose of my emotions. The songs of my imagination filling my soul with the kind of peace I now felt with her.

I loved watching her dance. There was something so sexual about watching her dance. It’s like Aphrodite blessed her with this hypnotic motion that she seemed to effortlessly create with only simple hip movements, causing me to feel entranced. I would laugh as men approached her on the dance floor.  They would try their silly lines and cut in when they could, but every time they would get brushed off, no matter how fit or attractive they were. There was something about the way she rejected them; it made me feel like a God.

My friends rounded up and we headed out to another local hot spot. A quieter piano bar where we could sit, talk and enjoy the rest of the night. We could have stayed there for all eternity.  I guess that’s what memories are for. I can still remember that night; she sat next to me combing the back of my hair with her fingers. Her laughter was like an infectious disease – and I wanted to catch it forever. It was then I knew that I would spend the rest of my life with her.

What are you doing, my buddy asked. I looked at him confused, and then down at my hands. I could see that I was writing something on a napkin:

Hair falling like leaves in a fall cool breeze

Eyes with their gracious glare staring at me

Hands wrapped around my heart

with her Lips touching mine

and I see the Man I strive to be.

A knock at my bedroom door startled me.

“Dad, you almost ready?” asked my son. I looked down and saw that my shoes were untied. I leaned over and tied them. I stood and looked at myself in the hutch mirror. I was old. I looked at the picture of my wife that was on the shelf and smiled. My heart disagreed with my age, and for that I was thankful.

I opened my bedroom door and walked down the hall. The walls were covered with picture frames. She loved taking pictures. We had hundreds of photo albums and it seemed the entire family tree hung on the wall. There were baby pictures of our son, our favorite school pictures of him, some sports pictures, his prom, his wedding, baby pictures of his kids. It went on and on like a history lesson told through pictures. My favorite one was from Disneyland. He was so little, sitting on Mickey’s lap with this priceless expression like he’s trying to rationalize the reality of a giant mouse. But it’s what the picture doesn’t show that makes me smile. It was the seconds after when my wife sat upon Mickey’s lap and gave him a giant kiss on his cheek causing the chair to fall backwards as mouse and wife crashed to the floor. I can still remember my son’s laugh that day.

It was the winter of 2002. I got home from a long day at work and sat down on the couch with an ice-cold Dr. Pepper. We had been married for two years now. We graduated college, moved back to California and bought a small condo. I heard the garage door open. I set my beverage down and walked to the garage to welcome my wife home. It was always my favorite part of the day. The second I saw her eyes I could officially transition to home life and leave work at the office.

She set her things down gave me a big hug and handed me a card. She was always getting me little things. I sat down on the couch and opened the card. I looked up, she had her camera pointed at me… always taking pictures. What is that for I asked? Nothing I just want to capture this moment she said. It was then that I couldn’t wait. I didn’t even read the card I just opened it and out fell a sonogram. We were going to be parents!

That night she fell asleep on my lap watching television. I turned off the TV and just sat there watching her dream. The only light in the room was buried in the corner, it cast a light on her in such a way that she looked like an angel. It was one of those moments that a writer finds most inconvenient; my old muse, feeling as inspired as me, had filled my heart with words and I had no pen, no paper with which to pen my thoughts. So I memorized them:

I breathed

I learned,

I loved,

I became,

a Father

“Dad, did you remember to bring the notebook?” asked my son. I pulled my eyes away from the car window and looked down. A three inch binder filled with papers sat quietly my lap.  I smiled.

“Yes.” I looked back out the windows at the passing strawberry fields, the scent of fresh fruit reminding me of her perfume.

It was the summer of 2021. Our son had just left for college and we wasted no time packing up for our drive up the coast. We were on a road trip from Anaheim, California driving up to Washington State. There we were going to board a cruise ship headed for Alaska. She drove; she always did the driving which was fine by me. I never had good eye-sight, and it only worsened with age.  I enjoyed filling my mind with new scenery, inspiration for writing. Sometimes I could hear my muse whisper out in excitement when I took a mental snapshot of the ocean or the edge of the forest. I looked over. She was as beautiful as the day I married her twenty-four years ago. She rocked out while driving as she always did but it was in her small gestures that my heart raced. I pulled out my iTablet to write down some notes for a story I had been working on. The second I started powering it up she turned the radio down, she knew that creativity had arrived, knew my muse was working her magic, and didn’t want me distracted. As I wrote she calmly placed her right hand on my leg and tapped with her index finger to the beat of the song that played quietly on the radio. I’m certain she didn’t realize what she was doing, but getting lost in each other’s world was what growing old together was about.

I looked out the window; my gaze was stolen away by an undeniable strawberry scent.

Like the sweet strawberry

That ripens in May

Your love continues to sweeten

Through all of my days.

We sat idled at a green light, watching a procession of cars drive into a cemetery. An ornate concrete sign rested at the gates that read: Glen Abbey. The cemetery was surrounded by beautiful trees that overlooked a vast canyon that seemed to sprint into the foothills of the diving mountainside. My hands began to hurt. I looked down and saw that I was squeezing the notebook so hard that my knuckles turned white. By the time I looked back up we were turning into the cemetery following the procession of cars. The somber caravan turned right as we continued left down the road. As we drove on you could see the stories of lives left behind. I saw a wife grieving beside her husband’s gravestone, children playing by their mother’s grave, a father wishing his son returned had from war, or never left for it at all. Some plots had entire families engaged in a celebratory picnic for a special holiday of their own. We made a couple more turns before my son finally brought the car to a stop.

He turned off the engine and opened the driver’s door. He closed it softly and made his way across the grass towards one of the headstones. I sat, listening to the colors sing in my mind, my muse trying her best to comfort the memories I could not forget. Of the thousands of beautiful memories I have of her I could not forget the memory of her death. I tried to. I looked over and saw my son, now a man, talking to her and I cried. As the tears fell down my cheek and onto the notebook it was the memories that held me together. I opened the door and began slowly walking to her grave.

Today we would have been married for 64 years. It would be our first anniversary apart from one another. My son looked at me as if to stare into a mirror and hugged me, my body welcoming the pressure. We cried together as memories of her flashed through our heads.

“So you gonna tell me what’s in the notebook?” He asked. I leaned over to sit down, old bones cracking under the pressure of my heavy heart, my son holding my arm guiding me to the right of her gravestone.

“Within this notebook is every letter your mom ever wrote to me.” I said.

“Really, you kept every letter?

“Every last one. You see back before email and cell phones your mom would write letters and hand them to me as we passed each other on campus. Sometimes I would find them hidden in my backpack, sometimes on my car windshield. The best ones were when she couldn’t sleep, she would write a couple of pages at one or two in the morning and hand them off to me the next day. It might have taken me seven years to marry her, but we knew the very first time we saw each other in English class.”

“I never knew that” He said.

“Her letters spoke to me even when she couldn’t. She comforted me. There were some pretty dark times in my life, and each time I felt depressed I would pull out the letters and read them. Your mother saved me from myself. She taught me what true love is.” I wiped the tears from my eyes, voice cracking under each new word. My son sat down beside me and began cleaning her headstone. I closed my eyes searching for peace, I envisioned my wife dancing to the color of my muse and harmony overcame me. I opened the notebook and turned the plastic protective sheets over to the first page and read aloud.

“April 16, 1993. Today was my first day of college. I don’t know why I’m writing this suffice to say that something magical happened that I never thought possible. I was running into English class hoping not to be the last one and grabbed the first open seat next to the door. I was out of breath just barely making it before the bell rang. As I reached over to get my notebook from my bag I saw him sitting directly behind me. I chuckled inside when I realized he was the first man to wear glasses that I had ever been attracted to. My heart skipped. For the first time in a long time I felt anxious…”

The End.

“I often think to myself and wonder how you guys continue to have faith. I wonder if you believe in ‘God’ or a higher power, and if you do… how? I wonder how you have not just thrown your hands up in the air and said “That’s it, I’m done with tests, and we’ll just go about life and see how it goes.” I wonder how, with so many things you have seen as parents that many parents will NEVER have to endure, how you manage to keep going. I wonder what makes you fight for and demand answers. I wonder where all the strength that I see in the both of you comes from.” – Sam

It’s not that uncommon of a question. What might surprise you is the answer I will give.

I believe in the human spirit. What we do with our time while we are alive, what we determine is meaningful and how we respond to actions against us gives us purpose. I believe that my actions not only shape myself but my surroundings as well. It could shape relationships with my family and friends. It could shape relationships with my children. Since I decided to have children my actions speak to how my children are raised and the men I want them to become. And like a domino effect if I “show” them by my example of how to be a good person, it shapes them into adults so that their spirit is both meaningful and nurtured and can be passed onto others.

I don’t put it into a religious category of believing in God or being punished by God, or being saved by God. I don’t think of it as that black and white. I think human life is miraculous, and on my journey through Autism, I have come to appreciate just how miraculous and wonderful a differently-abled person can be. You see sides of them that speak volumes to character and their human spirit. You see things that are miraculous. You wonder how they are so aware and in tone with their own spirit yet so far from the very basic elements of nature like eating, drinking, toileting, etc. You see sides that, sadly, I don’t see in some “normal” functioning adults.

I don’t feel that the devil cursed Logan with these conditions, or that God put Logan in my life because I could handle it. I feel that God has absolutely nothing to do with Logan’s conditions, or the struggles he (we) face. God simply made it so that we could exist; so that we could make a choice to have children, and then raise those children to the best of our ability. What happens from life to death has nothing to do with God because He doesn’t intervene.  So “faith in God” as you would have it doesn’t really play a part in this journey. The only faith I have is that on the day of my death my spirit will have peace based on my actions in life. Call it heaven or enlightenment. I simply call it peace.

I “fight” for the future; Logan’s future, Lukas’ future, and the future generations that they will spawn. I fight for others who can’t fight or are too scared to stand up and say something. I fight for awareness so that those who walk the world blindly can see. If I could stop just one bully from picking on a differently-abled kid, or provide one opportunity for a differently-abled adult to succeed I can provide a better world for Logan to live in. And I will fight till my death to accomplish that.

My strength comes from Logan’s laughter and smile. It comes from the support of my family and friends. It comes from Logan’s teachers and therapists as they share in his journey enabling him (and I) to grow. Even through all the tests and complications Logan faces I can’t give up. I owe it to Logan, Logan’s future wife and children, and their children’s children, and so on. I owe it to my fellow human beings that I have placed a miraculous spirit in this chain of events called life. I might have planted the seed and my tears may very well wet the soil, but it’s the sunlight of everyone else that allows Logan to blossom into such a beautiful person.

As I look back and re-read the original question I couldn’t help but look up the definition for “perseverance”. It seemed to sum up my thoughts perfectly into two definitions:

1. Steady persistence in a course of action, a purpose, a state, etc., especially in spite of difficulties, obstacles, or discouragement.
2. Theology. continuance in a state of grace to the end, leading to eternal salvation.

Fingertips tingling

As electricity shoots through my nerves,

Racing down my hand

Into my forearm with hypersensitivity.

Around the bend of my elbow

It wraps itself around my bicep

Squeezing ever so slightly

As if it’s waiting, to ready itself.

It slowly creeps up to my shoulder

and rests upon the perch.

Looking out into the world;

Taking a breath.

It can see the two of us

Sitting still.

No words,

Just the touch.

It dives across my chest

Like a base jumper

Hurling himself off a cliff

Letting go of it all.

But it has no parachute;

No safety net.

All it has is my heart;

A pool of liquid everlasting

Of which to dive into.

And I suddenly feel overwhelmed;

There’s nothing more emotional than when we touch.