Thursday, November 22, 2012

The House in the Forest by Matt Thomas

Stood in the middle of a forest, the rain trickling down my face and back, my soaking T-shirt stuck to my shivering skin, the frosty bite of the wind nipping at my flesh. I think of what the weather was like only a few moments ago, bright, sunny and warm. I look down at my soggy shorts, knowing that I should have known that the nice English weather would not hold up for longer than a couple of hours. All I could hear around me was the trickle of rain splashing off leaves and shrubs before merging with the growing puddles of mud below my feet. The mud started to coat my shoes as I try and find my way out of this forest.

As I’m walking round trying to figure which way I entered this forest, the clouds and rain distorting my vision. I’m sure that I’m going round in circles, but there is no way of telling as all the trees and paths look the same and the muddy puddles make the paths all merge into one. My darkening wet hair slipped onto my forehead forcing more water to trickle down my face and blur my vision more. I sweep the hair out of my eyes, yet it still slips back in the way, hindering me in my travels.

I carry on walking, hoping I would find my way back out of here, or at least bump into somebody else. I remember before the rain walking past a few hikers, carrying their large sacks and huge smiles, I wondered if they would brace this rough English downpour still with the same smile.

The twigs and loose roots on the floor keep attacking my feet, threating to trip me up and making me stumble through the trees. Each time I stumble I close my eyes and pray that I don’t fall face first into the mud, but always manage to gain my balance. A few times I have to grab hold of a tree, the wet bark against my skin feeling rough and cold.

Once again I stumble on a loose root and fly thought the trees. I manage to gain my balance by grabbing hold of a thin wispy tree, look down at my feet I should watch where I’m going I think, then look up and notice I had reached an opening between then trees and a muddy path, the water trickling down the hill, almost forming the beginnings of a river.

I look up the path and notice an old, small, stone building with a spire, it looked abandoned. Shelter I thought and ran towards the building. As I got closer I noticed dark ivy swarming the building and infecting the cracks, trying to strangle and destroy this stone wonder. It was also climbing through the gaps in the roof where the pressure of earlier storms had force parts to concave and collapse.

I entered through the archway where the door once hung, the remains of the wood rotting into the ground below. Dust and cobwebs covered the air and caught in my face tangling me in silky strings; I shook them off and wiped my hands on my clothes, God how I hate spider webs I thought, being more carful of where I walked.

I could hear the pounding of the rain falling overhead, it trickled through the cracks and gaps in the ceiling splashing on the leaves the wind had discarded here. I stayed away from any of the open holes, not wanted to get wetter than I already was, which at this stage was probably impossible. I tore my soaked T-shirt away from my sodden, cold skin but it just settle and reconnected with it, as if they were one. I gave up and blew my hair out of my face.

Suddenly I heard a creaking from the floor above, I looked at the hanging level, half the floor had collapsed, the structure old and rotting. I saw one of the old wooden doors squeak open and saw an old woman totter out peering down the huge gap in the floor.

‘Who is it?’ she peered through her squinting wrinkled eyes ‘is that you Mary?’ She ran her bony crinkled fingers through her grey tangled hair and squinted harder. ‘Name yourself boy!’

‘I’m Dan,’ I looked up, feeling nervous and guilt for walking in here uninvited. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you. See it’s raining outside and I thought this house was abandoned so wanted to take shelter.’

She looked at me for a while, as if she was sizing me up, judging whether what I said was true or not. Then she slowly tottered down a set of stoned spiraling stairs just to the right of where she was stood. She staggered towards me.

‘I’m sorry’ she spoke in a high pitch voice ‘I didn’t quite hear your name.’ She said lifting her ear more towards my mouth.

‘I’m Dan’ I said slightly louder, but not loud enough so it seemed like I was shouting and being rude. She smiled at me the chuckled slightly.

‘You must be hungry Dan.’ She slowly stumbled off to the other end of the `room, working her way around the rotting obstacles.

‘I’m ok thank you. I will just go now.’ I say loudly, hoping it would travel well enough.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she shoed my comments off ‘You can’t go out in this.’ She pointed to one of the larger holes in the ceiling where the most of the water was pouring inwards. ‘I’ll cook you something up,’ She paused for a second ‘it’s been quite a while since I’ve had a visitor.’ She sighed.

I felt slightly sorry for her, she seemed like a lovely, kind women and the rain outside seemed to be getting worse. I decided to stay for a while until the rain settled a little. Maybe she will know the way out I thought to myself.

The elderly woman opened a few draws and cupboards, pulling out half rusted knives and pans, which clanged together and echoed round the room. She then looked over at me and smiled, tottering her way through the rubble. She came up close.

‘What was your name again?’ She asked kindly, I could tell that her memory was not as good as it used to be.

‘It’s Dan.’ I said kindly, she then smiled. I looked behind her for a second at where she had she come from, and noticed that she had not got out any ingredients to cook with. I looked down at her petite fragile frame and kindly asked. ‘What will you be cooking?’

She smiled at me, almost chuckling, I wondered what about. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my stomach, at first I fought it was nausea. Wondering if maybe I had stayed out in the rain too long and caught some sort of cold that was already turning its ugly head.

Then I noticed the pain was cold and metallic. I looked down at the rusted small knife stuck in just below my stomach, the darkness of my blood seeping through my t-shirt and running down my body. At the end of the knife was the old woman’s bony fingers.

‘Why you are!’ She cackled as she pulled the knife out and slid it back in. I fell to my knees and she bit at my neck, ripping away a chunk of flesh. ‘Bon appetite’ She smiled with blood and flesh hanging from her teeth.

The pain became too much for me and blackness surround.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

The Gray's House by Matt Thomas

It’s pitch black, nothing can be seen around you. You reach out to find the wall and stumble your hands over to the switch on the light. You panic for a few seconds unable to find it, worried about what you may find. There are strange grinding noises coming from in front of you. Part of you does not want to find out what they are, you want to turn back and run away, but there that small part of you that is stronger, its fighting back, it’s inquisitive and curious to see what is in this house.

The creaking of the floor boards underfoot make your hear race, it fills you with terror and excitement in the same beat. You give up on finding the light switch and carefully step forward, not wanting to make much noise. You almost seem to tip toe forward.

Each time you take a step dust particles fly around, they tickle your nose and your eyes, making you feel dizzy. The small of damp contrasts to that of the dust being kicked up, it confuses your senses and makes you feel light headed, but you still continue forward.

Suddenly you remember you brought a flash light, you feel slightly embarrassed in yourself for not thinking to use it earlier to find the switch. You sigh and pull at the string round your wrist so the torch levels upward toward your hand. You grab it and turn it on, the bulb flickers and produces a thin beam of light, and it isn’t as strong as you first anticipated when choosing it.

You turn round, trying to look back at the wall you once was stumbling over, you see if there’s any sort of switch, there is nothing but torn dark wallpaper and cobwebs. You shiver and look down at your hands; they are coated in the thick webbed substance. You fiercely wipe your hands on your clothes felling a sickness in your stomach as you think of the eight legged creatures which created these webs, as you do so you let the torch drop; it catches itself with the string round your wrist, but hits you in your side winding you slightly.

You curse yourself for this action, grab at the torch again and continue to follow the direction of the wall round. ‘This place has to have a light somewhere’, you tell yourself. As you follow the wall round you start to notice dirt and grime on the wallpaper, the colour is dark, tricky to place through the lack of light your mind starts running with possibilities and it excites you a little. ‘Maybe the rumours about this house were true’ you start to recall the rumours you heard whilst still following the wall round with your poor shaft of light.

The stains start to get bigger and more defined, they worry you, you suddenly want to leave scared of finding worse, but you can’t leave yet, you haven’t found anything and if you left you knew you would forfeit the dare and therefor loose.

You started to curse Peter under your breath for making you enter this house ‘I dare you to stay in the Gray’s House’ you hear his high pitched voice and chuckle in your head and snarl, thinking of a way to get him back next time.

You suddenly notice something on the wall that stops your thoughts in their tracks. There on the wall in front of your poor shaft of light lays a set of markings, they almost look like lettering. You step up closer to get a better look.

The colour of the stained markings becomes more noticeable and darker, it’s a brownish reddened colour, and you still can’t see what the markings are so you take a few more steps forward. Then it hits you, you can see what it says and you wish you had never seen it.

On the wall scribed in this red substance were two warning words. The words ‘GET OUT’ scrolled down the wall. You get scared you panic, thinking that you had over stayed your welcome.

Suddenly the darkness is swarmed by a bright light, your eyes shocked into temporary blindness, you don’t want to open your eyelids to see who, or what just switched on the lights, and yet for some strange reason you are compelled to. You open your eyes and suddenly realise what the markings are made with.

The dark blooded hand prints trickling down the wall brought fear filled tears to your eyes, your heart sunk in your chest, you panic and turn to head for the door. You see that stood at the door was a tall shadowed figure with piercing pale eyes. Fear builds up inside you as the figure is suddenly standing in front of you, still covered in shadows, a few large noticeable scars and those wild piercing eyes. The shadow grabes you by the throat, you struggle and tears escape your eyes, wishing you had stayed at home.

The figure throws you against the wall, you hit it with force. As you hit the wall a shooting pain spirals down your side. His voice then booms across the room towards you, it makes you freeze on the spot and fills your throat with panic and fear.

‘Welcome to my house’ he cackles. ‘We are going to have so much fun.’

Monday, October 29, 2012

An Irish barber’s tale by Martin Lochner

On busy station road you will find an old barber shop with red chevron pillars and a small retro signboard depicting a male with a pipe. The little shop is no bigger than my apartment living room and is snuggled between a ruffian biker bar and a pawn shop. With rowdy fist fights on the left and drunks selling their last possessions on the right you could go to Uncle Sweeney’s for a decent crew cut and a story.
Uncle Sweeney survived the D-Day battle in Normandy but lost all of his family due to the war. There was famine in Ireland and he felt there was nothing for him to go back to. He was allegedly standing at the Southampton harbour and received two voyage passages to two different countries.

United States was the one destination and South Africa the other one. He allegedly flicked a coin and the toss would decide where he would find his pot of gold. The result put him on the vessel that sailed for Cape Town.

He would later recall that fortune was on his side when he tossed that coin because New York was already crowded by the Irish and that the Limerick Gang were looking for him due to an outstanding bookie account. When Sweeney made the advance he was convinced that he would not survive the battle and therefore spend the “little amount” on the brothel and drink before the eve of the battle.

Arriving in Cape Town he had only two Service hair cutters he stole and concealed in his army back pack with a nifty scissor and shaver set he removed from a dead Nazi on the front. Feeling some gratitude for the allied forces that taught him to cut hair, he decided to make it his trade in South Africa.

When you enter the little shop, the smell of spirits, powder and Jojoba oil lingered in the air and the old Panasonic played crackling songs of Frank Sinatra and Billy Holiday. The walls were crowded with yellow stained pictures of old and dead heroes of the past and the magazine closest to my chair reported the big flood of 1977.
Uncle Sweeney’s assistant looked at me while finishing a small boy’s hair and said” The old man died in his sleep last night but his wife left a small note with a bottle of Jameson for you ”
“Martin, it seems Sweeney had premonition of his death and wrote this letter with a bottle of whiskey for you”
Sweeney’s note with Poem:
Ah my knew me best! I return your poem back to you with a bottle of the good stuff and for god sake no mixing it with Coca Cola! I have no regret and love you from my Heart of hearts ...find yourself a decent barber that knows how to cut sheep’s hair!

My friend Sweeney

the roaring laughter
ridiculous tales
sold as the truth

he was unstoppable

those evenings at the hearth
we exchanged views
between a bottle of whisky

as the mellow drink settled inside us
and the last red embers died

I saw his face damp and the heartbreak
of a thousand Irish families in it

rubbing he complained about allergies
telling me a limerick and cracking the seal
of another good label

Post Script: Funeral speech
10 Life lessons old man Sweeney taught me:

1 Home is everywhere you go, it is right inside you.
2 Every job is noble and worthwhile when done with passion and gratitude
3 Accept the hardships of life and compose a Limerick for each disappointment
4 Enjoy the good in your life and toast every happy event with a tot of good Irish whisky
5 Live as if there is no tomorrow and if the next day arrive run like hell!
6 Never lose a fight against a woman but if you win than God must help you!
7 A man without a tale or a song is no man.
8 Dishonesty is not good but if you must: lie the truth
9 Be true to yourself and be of the same cheerful mood every day.
10 Make the most of the little resources you have and help others.

The Two Suited Men by Matt Thomas

As two teenage boys sat on the front porch of a house, a car with tinted windows pulls up. The doors open, and two men in black suits get out and start walking towards them.

The boy on the left looked at the other boy, wondering what these two men wanted. As they came closer both boys looked at each other, they take a slight gulp of air and sigh nervously.

The two men reach the house, they are both wearing black shades, even though the sky’s dull and cloudy; the air is close and thick. They stop by the steps of the porch and in synchronisation both take off their sunglasses.
The man on the left seemed to be slightly older, shorter and a little bit more worn than the other, but except from this they almost looked identical.
The slightly older man spoke first.

   ‘Which one of you is Harry?’ He asked, glancing between the two boys looking for signs of weakness. One of the boys stood. He had dark brown hair, was very tall and slim, yet thought he was tough and strong.

‘Who’s asking?’ He demanded as the other, blonde haired boy, sat, watched and wondered.

‘I’ll take it you’re Harry then, shall I?’ The younger man said, stepping forward onto the first porch step. As soon as he did so the brown haired teenager took a nervous step backwards. Making him trip and almost stumbled back into his wicker chair.

The other boy, who had been quietly watching, gulped and took a step forward and out of his chair. He headed towards the suited men and placed out his hand.

‘Harry Foster,’ he announced with his clammy palm out-reached ‘How can I help you?’

Both men looked down at the feeble peace offering and sneered, rejecting all gratitude. Harry awkwardly dropped his hand back down to his side, then changed his mind and placed both his hands in the pockets of his brown leather jacket.

‘We need to talk to you alone.’ The older man demanded and looked across at Harry’s brown haired friend as he stumbled towards the group and interrupted.

‘Nobody talks to Harry without me.’ He paused. ‘I mean we don’t even know who you are.’ He looks at Harry for support. Then back at the two men. The younger, suited man looked angry and was about to take another step forward but the older man held him back. Harry then interrupted.

‘I’m sorry guys, but my friend here is right. My mum would go mental if she found out I was talking to strangers.’

Both black suited men looked at him simultaneously. The older man cleared his throat and spoke.

‘I’m DCI Mills and this is my partner DI Jones. We have come to ask you a few questions.’

Harry’s friend looked out the two officers, wary of what they were saying.
‘If you are officers, shouldn’t you be wearing uniforms?’ He questioned them. Both harry and his friend looked at each other, Harry nodded and looked back.

‘Patrick’s right’ He grinned. ‘Surely you would show us your badges from the start.’

The two men looked at each other and sighed. They both instantaneously reached into apposing pockets, which were inside their black jackets.
‘We didn’t want to do this.’ The younger man said and, in sync, both men pulled out revolvers and pointed them at the two boys.

Both boys stepped back in shock, raised their sweaty arms slightly, wishing they had never questioned the two suited men as much. They both looked at each other in terror. Patrick was about to open his mouth to question the men again but Harry glared at him. Patrick instantly closed his mouth again.

‘Get in the car.’ The older man ordered. ‘We have something to show you.’
Both of the boys unwillingly walked to the car whilst the men pressed the barrels of their guns into the back of the teenagers’ neck. He boys opened the doors of the car and climbed in.

The doors slammed behind them and the men got into the front. The younger man pointed his gun at the two boys as the older man started the car.

‘You should have just co-operated from the start.’ He said they set off to their unknown destination.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Grandpa by Lisa Dempsey

When I first met my future father-in-law, it was hate at first sight. I nicknamed him “The Irish Archie Bunker”. He was nasty, disagreeable, obnoxious, unpleasant, prejudiced, sexist and judgmental. (Now let me tell you how I REALLY feel!!!) I heard story after story from family and friends of how he used to be fun, loving, and pleasant, but I just could not believe they were talking about the same man. I knew he’d had a rough life. His dad had died real young and left him responsible for taking care of his mom and 3 brothers. He had multiple health problems, a business stolen out from under him by someone he trusted, and some harrowing and disturbing experiences while serving in The Korean war (which he would not talk about). These things certainly affected him deeply. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt for a long time, find ways to love him and appreciate him, (or just tolerate him) but he was just miserable. He was not a nice Grandfather either, and he and I had a number of “heated discussions” about how he would belittle my daughter or mercilessly tease her, bringing her to tears.

One of our bigger fights was about religion and the decision that Ed and I made to forego any organized religion for our children. He knew I was an atheist, and was not happy when we told him we would not baptize his grandchildren. Being devout Catholics, he and my mother-in-law (a saint if there ever was one) were worried that the children would not be welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven without it. He said I would regret it, I said I’d felt this way since I was 19 years old and that my feelings would not change. He said “stranger things have happened”…..(one of his many favorite expressions). He remained miserable.

Then a funny thing happened. I had another baby. He told my mother-in-law that THIS one was “his”. He was now realizing that when Melanie came to visit, she rushed directly into my mother-in-laws arms for hugs and kisses, then to Uncle Jimmy. She had to be prodded to even say hello to him. She was afraid of him and didn’t like him. As she grew older, he saw how much he’d missed by being so stodgy and mean. His own granddaughter didn’t want to be with him!!

From the moment Delaney was born, she WAS his!! He was caring and funny, generous and loving. He called her “Sweet Pea” and played games with her. Melanie was now seeing a different “Pop-pop”. He was softer with her and so wonderful, she was loving him up as well! Now, don’t get me wrong, he was still difficult and ornery about most things, especially about religion. He was still pissed that we didn’t baptize the kids. But whenever the kids were concerned, he was a changed man. Delaney never once saw the mean Pop-pop, so she was crazy about him, and they were very close.

When Delaney was 8, I woke up about 3AM to hear her talking. When I went into her room, she was staring into the corner, nodding her head and saying something about water. Now, she had had imaginary friends when she was younger, but the conversations she had with those friends were animated and lively. That night it was almost as if she was in a trance. I figured I knew what I was seeing. As a child, I was a sleepwalker and a sleeptalker. I’ve been told that I’d had entire conversations with my mother that didn’t make sense, emptied toy boxes into bathtubs and done all sorts of other crazy things in my sleep. I outgrew those episodes by about 9 or 10. I’d never seen her do it before, but I figured I was seeing what my mother experienced with me as a child.

Here is the conversation as I remember it:
Me: Who ya talking to, honey?
Delaney: Pop-pop
Me: Well, it’s the middle of the night. You have school tomorrow. Let’s go to sleep now. You can call and talk to him tomorrow.
Delaney: No, I can’t. Pop-pop says he has to go.
Me: Where is he going?
De: I don’t know, but it’s far away. ….Mommy?
Me: What, babe?
De: Pop-pop says I don’t have to be baptized.
Me: well, I’m glad to hear that.
(she’s still staring into the corner and speaking in monotones)
De: He says I don’t have to have cold water on my head, I will still see him in Heaven anyway (we’d never talked to the girls about Heaven, but I figured my in-laws had)
Me: of course you will, a long time from now….
De: He says I HAVE to go to college, that he has some money for me to go, right? (asking the empty corner) But not enough, so I still have to get a job.
Me: (laughing) Good…’cuz college is real expensive….(trying to lay her down now) What are you looking at?
De: Pop-pop...I TOLD you...he’s telling me all the STUFF before he goes.
Me: (now feeling a little queasy) Like what?
De: like he loves me…(nodding her head at the wall) and he loves YOU too…
(Now I look to the corner, but there’s nothing there)
De: ‘Night, Pop-pop, love you too (then she looks at me and says “Can I have bologna for lunch tomorrow?” and lays down and falls right to sleep)

After that it took me a long time to fall back asleep as I told myself it meant nothing, rationalizing that she’d been sleepwalking. The next morning, I asked her about it and she remembered absolutely NOTHING. She said she was so tired the night before that she fell asleep right away and didn’t wake up until I woke her up for school. I told the kids a little of the conversation, she said it was ME who must’ve been dreaming. She and Melanie were laughing, and I said “yeah, like Pop-pop would ever admit that I was actually right….” and both girls, almost simultaneously said “Hey, stranger things have happened” and we all got a good laugh out of it. I felt much better and got them off to school.

I was just about to leave for work when I got the call from my mother-in-law. She said that my father-in-law had died the night before. Later, the coroners report would put the time of death at around 3am (just the time my daughter was talking in her room). A few days later I learned that he had set up college funds for both my daughters. Not a lot, but a start.

To this day, I’m not sure what to make of it. Delaney still has no memory of it. I tell myself sometimes that it didn’t happen, that I DID dream the whole thing. I’m not clairvoyant at all, and the timing is too coincidental NOT to mean anything. I didn’t feel anything, or experience anything. There was no light in the room, no “energy” or feeling or breeze or smell. No funny buzzing noises or weird coolness. It was a regular night. But SHE felt something (even though she doesn’t remember it). What to make of him “telling” her that she didn’t need to be baptized after all, that she’d still get to see him in heaven? Or him “telling” her he had stuff to tell her before he had to “go”? What to make of the college funds that she mentioned that no one knew about? She was 8 years old, we had NEVER talked to her about college at that point.
And something else...she has NEVER walked or talked in her sleep again. As far as I know, it was a one-time thing. So was it really the same type of sleepwalking I'd experienced as a kid, or something entirely different? I’d like to say “Stranger things have happened”, but it’s simply not true...this is THE strangest thing that’s ever happened to me.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Electric Boogie by Dale Garman

I have always had an interest in the paranormal. While a student in high school during my 10th grade, I was enrolled in the gifted program. One of our assignments over the course of the school year was to produce a research paper on a topic of our vocational or avocational interest. When my gifted teacher reviewed the topic I had chosen, she kind of had a brow-bending look on her face – my topic was parapsychological phenomena. So, part of my research would involve learning about reports of apparitional experiences.

At that time, I had not experienced any personal encounters with ghosts – it was all purely hypothetical. It wasn’t until I was in my late 30s/early 40s (I can’t remember exactly what year this occurred) that I actually had an encounter.

While living in Sanford, FL, I decided to join a local community theatre – one of my other avocations. I joined the Shoestring Theatre in Lake Helen, FL. I was involved in a couple of plays working on the technical crew – Little Shop of Horrors and Little Women. It wasn’t until I had enlisted for my third production (Harvey – the one about the invisible rabbit LOL), I believe in the spring of 2002, that I heard that the theatre was supposedly haunted.

Rumor had it that some of the former cast and crew members in previous productions had seen a little girl and heard her singing at times. It was even mentioned in an article of the theatre’s newsletter once (see below).

Well, I witnessed two of three incidents that occurred over the course of the final weekend of the play, Harvey.

1st incident: On Saturday, as a few casts members were gathering backstage to prepare for the performance, the atmosphere was ELECTRIC. Everyone was excited – Saturday performances most always were, because many of the cast and crew had family and friends attending to see the performance on Saturdays – there was a lot of energy in the air, a vibrancy of the living. The handyman who built our sets came in to the room with his little, 4-or-5-year-old daughter trailing him. She was laughing and giggling and telling her Daddy – “look at the girl up there Daddy, she’s funny” – maybe not in those words, but you get the gist. What she was pointing at was the corner of the room where wall meets ceiling. There was nothing there. But, the little girl was seeing something which amused her.

2nd incident: That same night, I was backstage in the men’s dressing room with another actor preparing for our final scene. As we were getting dressed, we were standing face-to-face talking to each other. At the same instant during our conversation – his eyes veered to the right and my eyes veered to the left – while the hair on both of our necks stood up. A noise had interrupted our conversation. To our side was the bathroom for the men’s dressing room where a paper towel roll was rapidly and frantically unrolling itself to the floor. It was a full roll – and it all ended up on the floor.

3rd incident: As I was on the technical crew also for Harvey, part of my job was to make sure the actors and actresses were ready for their cue. During our Sunday performance, I went to find one of the actresses due on stage. When I went to the women’s dressing room, she was pounding on the door and yelling “Let me out.” I simply turned the knob to the door – no problem. Asking her why she couldn’t open the door, she said it had slammed and she heard a female voice scream “No!!!” as it slammed. All her efforts to open the door yielded nothing but a jammed door.

So, there’s my story. I never actually saw a little girl or heard any vocal utterings from the supposed apparition that haunts the theatre. But, I am convinced to this day that there were no “tricks” being played – no fishing lines or pulleys or anything like that. Believe me - that paper towel roll was moving at an astounding speed and any wires or pulleys being used to guide the feat would have become tangled – it’s Murphy’s Law. And, if the handyman’s little daughter was just putting on a performance, then, I hope to see her one day on Broadway – because she was very convincing. As for the jammed door – your guess is as good as mine.

I was never in fear for my or others’ safety while witnessing these incidents. It’s almost as if the unseen presence was playful. Just an unseen presence, wanting to dance with mere mortals - like electricity wanting us to dance the…

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Slipping Away by Mark David

Day by day
It is all slipping away

more memories
new memories
old memories
just memories

day by day

my youth slips away