Unseen (Death at Ten, a short story)

He shall not forget the moment he walked though those metal doors, it was his own first sight of death, there was a cold chilly silence in the room, he stood about while Mrs. La Rose saw, and claimed the dead body to be her husband’s—discolored and bloated; he was ten-years old, she was his babysitter. The man was just lying there; it was to him, new and terrifying. He wanted to run away, out of the city morgue. His mind came dashing back though; he leaned against a pole; the warm day and hot car Mr. La Rose was found in, found dead in (heart attack) made his body decay quicker than normal, someone said, it smelled like dead rotting something. After a few more minutes, he was actually comfortable. That’s what it was like for him that day, death previously, unseen, had lost its mystic.
As for the body—well, Mr. La Rose was a medium size man, and there had been booze on his breath—and reeking from his body, out of his pores he had sweated booze, fifty-one years old, separated from his wife for years, Margaret.

∙

It stayed in my mind all these years, that even though Mr. La Rose, was a womanizer, a drunk and non-supporter of his two boys, the same ages as me and my brother. She could not hold back her tears, although there were at the moment only a few drops from each eye; so determinedly when death came, and as it lied in front of her, she shivered with pain, I can see it again, as so often I had seen it back then, her love for a man, perched on top of a hill top, once bold.
And then as I stood there shivering in that cold room, with my boyish interest in death, a curiosity, and nervous dread, I thought: here was a man who really was not through with his life…had he been old, in his late 60s or 70s or even 80s, death might have become a comforting theme—something of that sort; at any rate, he wasn’t. But he quieted me lying there perhaps put a fear and chill in me as well.
I knew him slightly—I cannot now remember, every time I saw him, it was although only a few times, I do remember with patches of inky darkness, shadows of those days.

He was as one who goes though a wide tall building, newly constructed by the hand of death, the elevator man, as he stops from floor to floor he jumps out and tries to fling all of life he can into his already over flooded, over intoxicated system, in a matter of minutes, he never makes it to the top floor, awakening in the land called “The Dead!” thinking it’s all part of his imagination.

∙

Broken Silence

(Uncomfortable silence ensued and in the end it was broken by the voice of the morgue staff.)

Staff: There’s no one here except your husband, Mrs. If you’d like some time alone, I can watch the two boys, in the hallway. I might as well make myself useful!

Mrs. La Rose: (taking off her shawl, a dray woman—she nodded her head ‘yes’ waited for everyone to leave, she also turned to look over her shoulder to see if we all did leave, and we did.)


Note: written: 5-16-2009 (No. 400/SA 5DS)

The Limping Gringo Stranger of Huacrapuquio (a short story)

The Limping Gringo Stranger of
Huacrapuquio



One afternoon Mayor Vladimir Rodriguez, he was told a stranger had come into town, his area of jurisdiction, the little hamlet called Huacrapuquio, in the Valley of Mantaro in the central region of the Andes, in Peru (a township of some 3600- inhabitants). The Mayor sat down in a wicker-chair, in his backyard under a patch of sunshine, listened to his Governor Theodosia Tapia speak on the matter; the Mayor pretended to be very busy, as he spoke. This was to conceal his fear, in that, someone had come into his town-let, come into it and haunted it, whom he had heard about prior to his Governor’s arrival, through the grapevine (the assistant Mayor, being the Governor of that township), was told—and he told the Mayor the same thing—if he was to stare into the stranger’s two vast, disjointed eyes, which were lit with points of coal-dark coldness, which also brought several men to trembling knees—he, himself, would notice them and endure the same fate; thus, the governor was in a state of wretched fear, confusion and dumfound ness.

But I want to go back a month or so, perhaps this will help the reader with the story, connect the dots as they say. The city was putting in a road of asphalt, and dug deep along a curves just outside the town-let, and to their amazement, uncovered an entrance to a cave— perhaps, more likened to a deep dry well, some forty-feet deep; matter of fact, one of the workers pert near fell into the open pit.
It was discovered, by shinning a flashlight down into the depths of the pit, bones of a 15,000-year old Saber-tooth cat, the size of a lion, paws larger than the man’s feet, inside his shoes. Two saber-teeth were found also, about nine inches long, matter-of-fact, 70%, of the ancient cat, that the anthropologists, and archeologist from Lima’s cultural and historical museum, figured it’s weight to be around 300-pounds, a youthful cat, and had it been older the weight would of course increased conceivably.
In the process of excavation, they noticed the arms, or front legs, paws, were twice the size of the back, eliminating the concept that such cats of ancient times resembled those of today, with bodies more proportioned. This cat had a thinner and less of a torso in comparison of the modern lion or tiger, it seemed as if it leaped upon its pray rather than trying to out run it, it would have been much slower because of those back legs—yet powerful they may have been to carry out that one time fatal leap, more so than the contemporary lion, or tiger of today.

The excavation proved—without question—to be a great find indeed, only one other such cat, was found to be so complete in the whole world, and that was found in the United States, where they had found 100% of the beast. This is what brought the Limping Gringo Stranger to Huacrapuquio, so they now say.
He had the stranger that is, a haggard voice, and those who approached him, noticed his quivering mouth as they looked into his sharp dark eyes. A few of the Peruvians had asked him, “What’s the matter?” A simple question that was never asked a second time, he was what might be called a fright-agent, he’d move his hand over his mouth, becoming inarticulate, in a despairing whisper, he’d be talking to someone, whom no one could figure out exactly who.
As you can see (or have read up to this juncture)—and I speak to you, the reader—the dots are seemingly related, that is: the appearance of the stranger, connecting to the hauntingness of his devil like eyes, and the discovery of the town folks’ ancient cat, connecting I mean, in a mysterious way, but connecting nonetheless. But in the following paragraphs, why he did what he did—be it for fame or game—no one has yet to put a figure on. Perchance, you can.

The stranger first appeared to be good natured and he was to all appearances just a stranger passing right on through the township.
For seeking out a better description, especially because of his behavior, the stranger was compared to the devil himself—quickly after his arrival—whom came to work his evil on this little hamlet, he seemed to have a sin against purity, there was no man worse in that town-let. But I am afraid—my narration is getting ahead of events.

The Mayor shook his head miserable to the governor, both of them sitting in those handmade wicker-chairs in the Mayor’s backyard, under a patch of sun. The Mayor cleared his throat, so that he could make his voice soft and say something quiet, if anything, without noticeable agony, and try to act like an intelligent politician. He then repeated to the Governor, in a devotional phrase, and he was not a man of God per se, but perhaps to act like it, in return God would help him to handle this correctly.
“Tell me what you’ve done for this man, I say, for him, and to rid this city of him?” asked the Mayor in penury.
The Governor looked at him through his near tearful eyes, and had no response, thus, the Mayor repeated himself, and again, he was reassured by the Governor’s distraught impression he created he’d have to abandon this approach.

●

The Mayor met the stranger, as the stranger had asked, which entailed seeing the remains of the ancient cat bones, still under excavation, they had been preserved in the mud, and the cave had been shut off from civilization, now to the contrary. At first, when he, Mayor Vladimir Rodriguez, met the Limping Gringo Stranger, he seemed pleasant enough—limped every other step it seemed, a bit off balance physically, matter-of-fact, they acquired a kind of commodore within minutes. But Vladimir was watchful, feeling behind the curtain of this man’s face, reverend or not at the moment, his mortal soul was alone in this situation, was in danger, and then the stranger did his labored whispering, sibilant and cautious, broken at intervals, as if he was talking to his higher priest, his words all being inaudible and in question, incoherent for the listener.
Said the stranger, the Limping Gringo, looking down at the bones, then at the Mayor, “I see someone broke the tooth during the excavation, it is not hard to fix…!”
The Mayor knew this was fact—that the tooth was accidentally broken during the process of digging it out, but how did the stranger know it was broken that way, and not in the past 15,000-years, this was in question—deep in the vaults of the Mayor’s mind, and was the Gringo implying he could fix it, really fix it to where it never was broken, or looked broken? Perhaps the stranger was teasing him, it was to the archeologists a difficult task, to say the least, and he said to the stranger with a daring voice, “This is a serious complex situation you speak of.”
The Mayor waited, straining nervously to hear what the stranger would say next, “I can fix it for you, standing up here, looking over it, if you wish?” said the stranger, in a quite clear and audible voice.
Vladimir’s turn to talk came next, he now being quite alarmed at the stranger’s statement—but the National Institution for Culture was considering building the township a small museum to house these bones, and this would be an unprincipled victory for him, if indeed he could fix the tooth, what seemed really to be unfixable, he would look even better; but it would be submitting to some kind of black magic, a weakness to his real faith—or so he proclaimed to be Christian, but living the life of one was a different road, I mean he had rosaries, and statues in his house of the Virgin Mary, and Christ on the Cross, and in his car a silver medal hanging around the mirror, but faith, that little muster seed the Good Book talks about, that was a different animal, it was far and in-between when he actually said a prayer, meant it without asking for something in return, not really believing, but going through the process, the motions to impress his onlookers as if he had that seed of faith, and if the stranger could have some kind of victory, in showing man’s weakness, in violation to humanity’s ability, so be it, let him show-off, but he would in the process stamp his association with the grayish world this man lived in, and be connected perhaps with the ebony mark of his soul. But so be it, it was a chance he was willing to take, and magic was more trick than authenticity, I mean, the Mayor believed that the devil himself had no more power that the tactician, perhaps likened to his faith in God.
Don Vladimir was almost memorized by the stranger’s eyes, “Yes, do as you say you can do, dazzle me if you can with the near to impossible,” said the Mayor to the Limping Gringo.
“Ok,” said the stranger, “I shall astound you,” and at the same time cast you into those unrepentant wild creator’s bones!”
“You are boastful,” said the Mayor, “you are taking up much of my time, and now you say, you can cast my flesh and blood into those bones, and fix the saber tooth now cracked in the blink of an eye, if you can’t what do you offer me for my time?”
The words blurred in the face of the stranger, but he kept his composure, and you could hear a husky mumble, he now hesitated as if tensely he was looking for something to offer.
“I confess,” said the stranger, “what do you want?”
Vladimir had never contemplated this before, but he had convincing ears that maybe something could be gained from this escapade. The stranger gazed at Vladimir, and fear took on a solid form for the mayor, he had not prayed at any given moment, nor tried to convince God Himself, he was in need, but nonetheless, he was in a tense emotional struggle.
And now there was beside him a most beautiful woman, she stood naked in a most shameful position, long reddish hair, youthful, “She can be your mistress for as long as you want her, a slight courtesy rendered to you, until you make up your mind, that is, what you really want.”
His heart and lungs beat fast as a trains wheels, pressing out of his chest, his face precipitately lay in the crook of his elbow, he took off his light jacket, and put it on this fleshly, shapely human looking female, as if to be a gentleman, in the devil’s world.
“Ok,” he said as if, he was ready to go home now, that there was not going to be any demoniac notion partially possessing him.
“Bless me Father,” he said to some dark face deeply imbedded into the stone wall of the cave, “My friend, he has taken a bite of temptation,” then instantly the bone of the saber-tooth cat, was mended as if it was new, then he looked at Vladimir, said, “This was really an easy task,” now the shadow of the woman, moved a little to the far corner of the narrow limestone slat that dropped forty-feet to the bones, and she waved for the Mayor to join him.
The Mayor had come to a point of exhaustion, still looking at the lovely lady, with immodest thoughts and desires, not even able to whisper the Lord’s name for help, too caught up in the evil being played upon him—the scheme of schemes, and in a strange, romantic excitement, a curious thing did happened, he fell with the damsel, and was melted into the bones of the beast, where he possessed the days and encounters of the beast when he walked the earth, 15,000-years ago.

●

The bones, with delicacy were taken out of the trench, and put into the town’s museum, even until the last moment, when he burned his bronze flesh as if in fire, into the bones, he could see the hard-eyed incorrigible girl whom seducing him, her tight pressed fingers shoving him deeper and deeper into the bones.
The stranger, the Limping Gringo that is, felt a great relief in a job well done. For the moment, the Limping Gringo, like the commoner in the king devil’s chair, he tasted the arrogance of the state of affairs, murmured to his high priest.
And now, Vladimir, who had come to his senses, he began to repent, aloud but of course, meaninglessly, “Oh, God Almighty, I am so sorry for having offended thee… but you must fix this now, lest I remain here and walk the same paths over and over within the life of the saber-tooth cat, and my life as well.”
A minute later, a door opened up in the museum, and you could hear a woman’s voice, giving two people a tour of the bones, a man, gringo from the United States visiting the township, and a Peruvian woman (man and wife), that is when he came to the full realization of what he had done.
In spite of his wishful thinking, this subterfuge of the devil’s helper was his impossible new world, at least until the final judgment day.




Note: Written out on napkins, 12-23-2008, a day after visiting the hamlet, Huacrapuquio, Peru, and handing out hundreds of books to the children of that city for Christmas, 2008. Completed on 12-25-2008, and reedited on 12-26-2008. The story originally written out in draft at 1:15 PM; having seen the town, and the museum, and hearing about the saber-tooth cat, of 13,000 BC., the author tried to plant fiction with nonfiction, creating this story, “The Limping Gringo Stranger…” The story does not show the real character of the Mayor or Governor of Huacrapuquio, whom are to the contrary of the writers characters; and should not be assumed otherwise.

Dedicated to the town folks of Huacrapuquio, Peru

Fireside of eh Yellow Planet (Science Ficion/Flash Fiction)

Fireside of the Yellow Planet

(The Russian Account)

(An out of sequence, ‘Cadaverous Planet’ Sketch)







If someone is reading this, then it means you have been to the fireside of thee Yellow Planet, or you know someone who has, someone who may have access to the journal account of the first mission to that side of the planet. Read this carefully if you plan on going there, because it is a living and dangerous planet, all sides of it. Historically, this is the second time humans have been on this planet, recorded anyway, and the first time human eyes have seen the fireside.
Tangor recorded the first mission here, and he had left a warning for all those whom may follow, and I have just given it to you, in my own words of course.

“Never mind about the warning,” said Igor, the others three on his expedition, nodded their heads ok, but the warning was to the point, not the less the three along with Igor would have tier first mission, the first part of their mission, into the deep woods as Tangor ventured.
Talcoss, David, and Ximena, the captain’s crew, of the Russian Space Federation, walked into the thick of the forest, the same one Tangor and Rognat had, and was subdued by the leafage just like they were, by the living organisms thereof. (Had it not been for Siren, and her quick thinking, it would have been curtains for them two.)
While Igor was within the forest, he also got drowsy, and over heated, and saw his three comrades barely standing, and ordered them to go back tot the ship, and he quickly went back to the ship also, perhaps taking into consideration, Tangor’s message—a bit too late.

He had left a bottle of natural medicine in the ship, once on the ship he drank it and lost consciousness, when he awoke, he discovered his three partners were all dead, his medicine had soaked into his bladder, saturated it, saved him, whereas it was just the other way around, the deadly fumes from the leafage on the planet, its yellow mud, soaked into the bladders of Igor’s shipmates, and killed them. Why he didn’t tell his mates he had the medicine was because it was costly, and there was only enough for one person’s recovery. He was foretold of the plants deadly vapors—not quite believing it—but what was more important he survived, and believed I now. And for the moment, this was priority for the Federation: how to survive on this deadly planet, and then to go to the opposite side, the fireside and bring back a description of it, for it had never been seen by human eyes, not even Tangor’s or anyone from the United States, Russia would be the first. This was part two of the mission.

As the space craft, circled the planet, and Igor attended to his anxiety, that is, his close call to death, the ship orbited closer to the planet’s surface.
After collecting his thoughts, he sensed something was wrong, only to discover he was right, the roof, the space craft’s front head, was leaking, yellowish moist mud had started to eat it way through the ships metal structure: a substance that was plentiful where he had just been, and it was growing stem like tentacles.
As he looked out his port window, he could see the fireside of the planet, it was all it was made up to be, the sun seemed to be baking the planet alive, no moon to provide shade, and the water on the planet, as he could see from his monitors, was boiling, in streams and lakes and so forth, no waterways untouched by the sun’s rays. He wanted to land the space craft, and scrape the living mud off his ship, evidently, the faster the ship went, the tighter the mud molded into and through the ship’s outer metal. But if he landed, it would have to be in a boiling lake of fire. Perhaps that would kill the substance on the outer surface of the ship he thought, because he couldn’t see a living green thing below. He couldn’t turn the ship towards earth; he’d never make it, especially with holes in his ship.
He had to think fast, before the yellow mud ate its way all the way through into the ship’s inner guts, crippling it.
Other thoughts came to his mind were: on one side of the planet, there was much oxygen, he felt on this side there was very little, and if a hole was in the ship, he’d lose what he had, and would be forced to land. His best scenario for survival was to land the craft, and let the heat to the work for him, and hope he can reach orbit again, if not, he had other plans, not good ones, but plans nonetheless. Thus, his conclusion was to land in the lake of fire.

Note: of the many sketches and short novelettes, and stories this author has done pertaining to the Cadaverous Planets, this story here was not meant to be part of the sequence, that was written over the past five years, although it is in relation to the characters of that series, and of the solar system the author has used, being that near his infamous planet Moiromma. 8-6-2008 (This is the second story of the Yellow Planet); modified 8-25-2008.

Sergeant Clare (A Short Story of an Odd Romance)

Sergeant Clare (A Short Story of an Odd Romance)



Sergeant Clare met Hilleary Trenton, just before Easter at a house party in Huntsville, Alabama. He had stopped there on his way home to Minnesota to oblige the brother of friend he had met at Troy State University, in Troy Alabama; he was stationed at Fort Rucker, (1977); the brother of a classmate to be exact. So he confided in himself, and believed, this would be a simple task, why not do it, plus have some fun. He had planned to stop off in Huntsville for a day only, and he stayed three full days, then headed on to St. Paul, Minnesota, to spend time with his mother on a Easter day, then return, ‘play around a little more with my southern bell,’ so he told himself; he thought about her a lot on his return—on a plane, a shapely, calm, lean, bronze girl. ‘For her to come out of Alabama,’ he said, talking to himself on the plane, ‘she’s sharp looking, bred in just a fine southern tradition, polite and all,’ with just the right amount of sex appeal. He didn’t say that part out loud, he just thought it. That alone was not the drawing force, he had been at Fort Rucker going on two years, belonging to the University staff, and in touch with a few of the highly respected professors, Officers on the military base and the mayor of the city, and had money enough to spend, being single and all, and from a family of an upper middle class Midwestern merchant. And apart from that, Hilleary was lovely, but a tinge lacking vigor and strength. I think what he was really feeling, pulling at him, but not knowing, was she possessed something magnetic (that made him come back), like Marylyn Monroe, who was beautiful, and kind of, almost kind of awkward, in a alluring way, and sumptuous beyond his understanding, perhaps smarter than he first gave her credit for. What he said to her when they first met, was simple, and to the point, he was passing through, and was looking her up, to see if all was fine, because he was asked to, by his friend’s, brother, this was all he commented at first, and she for her own reasons took to him right away.


He had been told to go to this house, and she was pointed out to him during the party, they spoke to each other but for a few minutes, and she left out the back door, he followed her to a taxi, and having rented a car, asked if she wanted a ride, and she accepted, leaving the taxi go his own way.
This all took place so fast, when in essence, he was just going to meet her, give her a message from his friend’s brother, and here he was driving her someplace, it did dawn on him, this was perhaps meant to be (at first), you know, one of them flukes in life, you meant someone and you click, and the next minute you fall in love and get married and tell the world how magical it was. But she hardly looked at him in the car, hardly at all, she was too busy looking in the mirror putting on lipstick, and tidying her hair up, primping you could say for someone, and it wasn’t him. They really had had not given each other a very good introduction, of one anther.
She was sitting beside him, in the car, silent, her breath exhaling quicker and quicker, trying to prepare herself or whatever. “Where we headed?” Sergeant Clare asked with his Class A, uniform on, some Vietnam ribbons mounted on his upper chest.
She answered, without looking at him, rolling down the window to light up a cigarette. “To a boyfriend’s house, I mean apartment?” She hesitated, “…it’s kind of rude of me to say so I suppose, but you asked me, and I can save the Taxi fare.”
“I guess I don’t mind, having nothing else to do anyhow,” said the Sergeant.
“Sure, thanks!” she said, flicking the rest of her cigarette out the window and watching the red furnace tip fly and bounce off the dark road behind them.
“If you wish, you can come in and say hello, to my friend, when we get there.” She announced.
“That sounds dangerous.” He said, eyebrows hitting his brow.
“He needs to see other folks are interested in me, and then perhaps he’ll place a higher value on me.”
He now was afraid to look at her, she was staring at him, was this a joke or for real. “I’ll just wait in the car for you, and take you home afterwards, how is that?” he asked.
“You don’t mind,” she said.
“Before tonight, you were simply nonexistent, and all of a sudden you’re real, I’m just here to look you up, see how you’re doing.”
“But do you know what you’re doing, looking me up?” she asked.
“Not really.”
“I think when you get back to Fort Rucker, your friend’s brother will ask you, want you to be accountable to him, to let him know, what I was doing, well, I’m doing, so what will you tell him if he asks?” .
“What should I tell him?”
“Someone else has taken his place!”
“Who?”
“You, on your return!”
“But you have a boyfriend, and are using me, and for some reason, keeping another in the dark in another place in Alabama.”


That night, he sat in his car, until early morning, looking at the stars and the apartment window he saw her shape through the shades, and the man’s shape she was with, not studying them, just looking now and then, in lack of having nothing else to do. Then he got thinking about how people get emotionally hooked, blinded, that was it, blinded. A girl he had never seen, never heard of before a few days ago, now in this apartment with another guy, and another guy wasting for her at Troy, Alabama. And me, here fretfully here, waiting like everyone else for her, and getting hungry; then she appeared at the door way…!

Then the plane landed, and he went right to a telephone to call Hilleary.


3/3/2007

Bettersweet, Were her Kisses! (Chapter #9)) Sandy, the Stripper))

Sandy, the Stripper (1982) 9



Lee said to himself, ‘I should have suspected as much,’ in him, was a mentality, constituting a wind of sinister interest in Sandy again, not in the same way as it had been, different this time, an element of curiosity.
He had gone to San Francisco, in 1968-69, and got drafted into the Army in October of 1969 ((in-between: he went to North Dakota for a few weeks)), and ended up in Vietnam, in 1971. When he got out he did some traveling, and now it was 1982, he had spent several years in the Army (he had went back in a second time, after 30-months out), and a year in Erie, Pennsylvania. He was in Europe for four of those years, between 1969-1980; now he was back in Minnesota; he had forgotten about Sandy for the most apart, and on his way back from California (where he got drafted through), to Minnesota (where he would be inducted into the Army), when he got drafted in ’69, he stopped off to talk to Ms Lopez, told her he was sorry for taking off somewhat abruptly, and she of course had wondered way (for at the time she said: she wondered if something bad had happened to him), I mean, one day he was there, and then the next he wasn’t; but he had been in a war and all, so he told her, and didn’t want to drop a sad story on her, and she accepted that, with even a little undue respect for Lee, undue respect, I should say, for it was out of rudeness he did not inform her of his ventures to be.
She was happy though to see him, but things had changed, and now he was at the Clover Leaf, night club with several of the neighborhood fellow’s, and there was Sandy, yes, his old girlfriend, Sandy, it had been somewhere around twelve or thirteen years since he has seen her.
“I should have suspected…” that is what he said out loud, as she stood on the small stage, men all around her (she was always comfortable with men around her), Lee with three guy friends, “I know her,” he told his buddies, and they replied, “Everyone knows her…”
Lee was still a big drinker in ’82, he gave the stuff up, in ’84, along with bar life and smoking, gambling, all his bad habits went in one month, he had been a roaring legend in his younger days in St. Paul, but this was then, and it was now, he was slowing up, going out with the guys, and drinking sole mostly now. He thought in his mind, ‘when she was seventeen, what a doll, and now, what a slob’ I mean, she still had what she used to have, but it was all a mad, unrefined mix-up, eyes looking everywhere, almost dreamy, he didn’t want to relive those days, patsies days for her he felt, perhaps some of those days she even felt dutiful to lay with him. It was a sad moment for him, then all of sudden, almost hysterically, she stopped dancing, looked at Lee, “Is that really you?” she bellowed…above all the chatter. I think Lee felt like jumping into Dante’s infernal, he smiled, he really wanted to say hi, and she moved quickly off stage, admiring Lee’s intelligent, or worldly look, said, “I can’t believe it, I heard you were off traveling around the world, when did you got back?” And before he could say a word she kissed him, and gave him a big bear hug. She was still a halfway good looker, and dancing toned her body somewhat, but weight had also done its duty with age, and drinking and so forth and on, you could see that, and her brain was communicating well but a tinge off tone it seemed, eyes closed he kissed her back on the cheek, she on his lips. “Unbelievable,” she sighed.
Again, she was impressed, but perhaps for the first time, self-consciousness crept in; Lee produced an angelical smile, it was too profound perhaps, and they closed with some distance, they both had been through much, no longer entwined, but still old friend. And Lee, leaving his friends behind, had to leave the bar, the friends, seemed to be, as always, interested in Sandy.

Bittersweet, Were her Kisses! (Chapters 1-6)

Bittersweet, Were her Kisses!

(Based on a true Story)


By Dennis L. Siluk



Copyright © Dennis L. Siluk, 2007
Bittersweet, Were Her Kisses






Illustrations inside the book By D.L. Siluk
Cover by Yang Yang
[permission to use for cover of book given]
Photo by Rosa Penaloza de Siluk



Index by Chapter



Introductory Chapter-Poem (by the Cathedral)

1—The Dojo (1967)
2—Brenda and Sandy
3—Sandy, Lee & Oscar
4—The Café and Parties
5—The Rape and Fight
6—Jerry’s Bar, Sandy and Ms Lopez (1968)
7—Ms Lopez, Johnny, Patty & Lee (1968-‘69)
8— The Meeting of Greg (1985)
9—Fifteen Years Later (1982)) the Meeting of Greg))
10—Thirty-nine years Later (Winter of 2006) Jerry’s New Bar

End Poem: ‘Donkeyland—Sunset’



Introductory Chapter and Poem



Passing by the Cathedral [2006]


I often pass by the St. Paul Cathedral:
Passing by in a car,
Perhaps I’ve passed it a million times
I’ve never counted, it always swells
My heart
I pass it so fast (nowadays, or so it seems)
It’s hard to make it out; but no need to, I
Know it by heart…,
I want to get out of the car and go up to it:
It rests on a summit (the highest point
in St. Paul, I do believe), to what, I’m not sure,
It seldom changes its composure.

A passing glimpse is all I get—my eyes are not
As quick, or swift as they used to be—
Getting old.

When I was young: to walk in those great halls
Of hers, under her great dome—walk
Around those monstrous pillars: often crossed
My mind—and one day I did, and I seemed
So very small, listening to my echo… return!

In autumn, its copper dome looks bluish, with
Autumn colors of: red, orange, green and blue
(around it): most beautiful. Leaves brushed across
its encircling streets and lawns, by the
Minnesota winds….

They put brown copper onto its dome, a new
Roof, they call it; about five years ago, that no one
On earth likes—heaven I doubt will even
Glance at it now.

It’s a shame, the young folks will only have
Pictures to look at how it used to be, until that is,
Until the copper molds with age again.



#1229 2/21/06, written at the Coffee House in Roseville, Minnesota (Har Mar Mall)


Note by the Author: “I grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota, and the dome was always that bluish old copper; the cathedral was built around the turn of the century, and myself created in the middle of the century, thus as a kid it had turned its colors. So I’m sure at one time, the original time, it was brown copper to start out with. But I shall nonetheless cherish the memories of the blue copper, as I suppose the youth of today will adore the brown.”
Spanish Version
Translated by Nancy Peñaloza


Pasando por la Catedral


A menudo paso por la Catedral de San Pablo:
Paso en un carro;
Talvez he pasado esta un millón de veces,
Jamás lo conté, esto siempre hincha
Mi corazón.
Paso tan rápido (hoy en día, o así parece)
Es difícil de distinguir, pero no hace falta, yo
La conozco de memoria...,
Quiero bajarme del carro y acercarme a esta:
Esta descansa en una cumbre (el punto más alto
En San Pablo, creo), a lo que, no estoy seguro,
Esta raras veces cambia su compostura.

Un fugaz vistazo es todo lo que consigo—mi ojos no son
Tan rápidos, o veloces como solían ser—
Están envejeciendo.

Cuando era joven: caminar en aquellos grandes pasillos
De esta, o debajo de su gran cúpula–caminar
Alrededor de aquellos pilares monstruosos: a menudo cruzaban
Mi mente—y un día lo hice, y yo parecía
Tan pequeño, escuchando a mi eco... ¡regresa!

En otoño, su cúpula de cobre parece azulada, con
Colores otoñales de: rojo, naranja, verde y azul
(alrededor de esta); más hermosa. Hojas traídas a través
de sus calles rodeadas y céspedes, por los
Vientos de Minnesota...

Ellos pusieron cobre marrón en su cúpula, un nuevo
Techo, ellos lo llaman; casi cinco años atrás, que a nadie
Sobre la tierra le gusta—el cielo dudo le echará un
Vistazo ahora.

Esto es una vergüenza, la gente joven sólo tendrá
Fotos para mirar cómo solía ser, hasta que,
Hasta que el cobre se moldee con los años otra vez.


# 1229 21/Febrero/2006, escrito en la Cafetería en Roseville, Minnesota (Har Mar Mall)


Apuntes por el Autor: Crecí en San Pablo, Minnesota, y la cúpula de la catedral era siempre ese viejo cobre azulado; la catedral fue construida a comienzos del siglo, y yo nací a mediados del siglo, así cuando niño esta ya había cambiado sus colores. Entonces estoy seguro que en cierta época, el tiempo original, esta era de cobre marrón al empezar. Pero sin embargo abrigaré las memorias del cobre azul, como supongo la juventud de hoy adorará el marrón.



The Cathedral of at St. Paul, Minnesota



The Story




The Dojo 1

Brenda Muller and Sandy Swindle crossed the arch of the door from Arcade Street, into the karate dojo, and, sat down in the chairs provided for visitors along the side of the wall, while they watched the karate demonstrations, and karate members freestyle fight, and exercise. Sandy played with a loose thread in the bottom of her skirt, as Brenda sat still for the moment, seemingly a tinge more refined, and fussily looked about. There were several karate remembers doing katas and so forth in the dojo, and she (Brenda) got Lee’s attention—first. He looked interesting to her: then Sandy looked at Brenda looking at Lee, and she got interested in him—and to Lee’s surprise (feeling satisfied), he had both girls looking at him at the same time, he smiled, at both of them, analyzing in a way, it was an odd experience.
At this point it come to mind to him that with the light above him, and the street light reflecting in from the front windows and doorway (it was 7:00 PM, the fall of 1967, it got dark early) he was more noticeable than the others, more public. He was not sincerely acclimatized to this spotlight of two young flashy teenagers looking at him. In his own mind he always felt confident with girls, he was nineteen, going on twenty in a few months (Brenda he would find out later was sixteen, and Sandy seventeen). Not a world of difference. He slipped back into a karate stance and did some more katas (technique), trying to be anonymous, but hardly was.
He stopped working out, and settled himself by the girls; they both seemed to be attached to not only his personal appearance (he had auburn hair, five foot eight, build strong, and slim), but his rough liability countenance, but also to his politeness and soft spoken voice, he was charming, unattached, and available (and perhaps usable). He was of a raw-breed, thought Brenda, by her looks she estimated she could tame him. But Sandy, was different, her eyes were most obviously adult, with a definite air of being willing to do what ever it took, for whatever she wanted.



Brenda and Sandy 2


Lee started dating both Brenda and Sandy, nothing had happened between them, it was for the most part, so simple, lacking in situation or crisis. He’d go visit each one, at their homes, with his 1957, Ford, four-door, red and white, rustic, one that used perhaps more oil than gas, and had to sandblast the sparkplugs every week because oil would leak on them. He worked at Ron Saxton Ford at the time (but soon would quite to start working for Swift, Meat Company in South Saint Paul, where his mother worked; it was double the money). He lived on the East Side of town, of St. Paul, at 900 York Street, a duplex with a lot of single rooms for single folks. The refrigerator was on the second floor, for the whole household, there were perhaps five rooms filled with men, one old timer who works for a fur company, perhaps in his 90s, he always greeted Lee when he came home, he sitting on the porch, drinking Lee’s beer. He told the old man one day, “How come you go all the way up there each day and only take one beer?” His response was, “I’d take two, but I’d fall on my way back down.” So Lee always left two beers on the porch for the old man.
As I was saying, nothing really happened to this point, and so as usual, Lee would go visit one or the other of the girls, depending on whom called him first. After about two months of this dating, Brenda was getting to Lee a bit, it seemed she wanted to saver herself for an evening wedding day before she’d go sleep with him, and Sandy, impersonal, kept a safety valve for getting serious, but was knocking at his door after a few months, and he told her to “Come in”, and they started a habitual sexual romance, scarcely noticed by Brenda, but felt somehow by her, and Lee admitted it was developing into that.
No shrillness of an inferiority complex for Lee Stone on the matter, in a way, he was getting tired of making three visits a day to see girls. When he broke it off with Brenda, her voice sank to a slackened flatness; she felt chilled and said, “I suppose Sandy putout for you? (hesitation)…but I just can’t—perhaps if you’re patient …” she stopped there, looked at Lee, knew she was off balance with his way of thinking, and became silent sitting on the patio.
She was an ideal hostess, thought Lee, a lady more so, than, not so, placid, friendly, efficient—never obtruding, and keeping her reserve to a thoughtfulness. Although her opinions were smart, and she was tolerant of his choice, almost amusingly so—but she was hurt nonetheless, as expected coming from a caring person, as she was, showing a soft air of composure, nonetheless; she had that look of ripeness, Lee Stone enjoyed (perhaps all men enjoy).
Lee had left without friction, or movement or even a sigh from her, not still a protest. Then as he looked out through his 1957-Ford window at Brenda, all except a faint blue shadow could be seen, the silhouette of her dress.



Sandy, Lee and Oscar 3


When Sandy heard of the swing towards her, Lee made between her and Brenda (as far as the relationships went), a light went on inside her head, her face was clear, aglow came over it, and near flames in her eyes appeared, along with a stirring mind: a skeptical transforming of joy had taken over her.
The familiar face of Lee returned to his room quietly, where she was patiently waiting for him with a calm hand he turned the key, there she was, naked on the bed waiting, like a delicious Strawberry Sunday.
After a while Lee went down to see the old man who lived on the first floor, Oscar Olson (he once worked for a fur company, he told him, downtown in St. Paul, Minnesota, out of business now, that was back in the 20s), Sandy had fallen to sleep, as he had for an hour, but remained unmoved with her eyes shut. He and Oscar talked quietly down on the porch, the door opened somewhat to let the summer air in.
Sandy moved about in the bed—opening her eyes, not feeling Lee by her, waiting for his movements, not finding, or feeling them, he was gone. Discovering he wasn’t there she had become anxious and it became her chief concern; then opening the door to the small sleeping room, she looked down the hall, went quickly up to the brown painted wooden railing, next, looked over it, heard voices, saw the old man, Oscar Olson talking to Lee on the porch, by the screened-in doorway, she had only a pillow covering her. She formed a gesture to the ninety-three year old man, with a smile, and Lee appeared.

As Lee walked back into his sleeping room— modestly and self-satisfied; Sandy straightened herself with civility and a tinge of difficulty indisposing of her disappointment of finding herself alone.
Lee, on the other hand knew (or at least felt something was wrong, men don’t always catch on right away) knew, he was perhaps a bit naughty leaving her alone, but took her hand ever so lightly, and it all was forgotten in a clap of an eye, as she grabbed onto his shoulders to brace herself—for love making. Then she sunk her fingers deep into his flesh. She spoke loud and clear, almost into his ear—“Lee!” she got a look of personality returned and they both shut their eyes!



The Café and Parties 4


At several months into this new and somewhat, solo relationship (one that was turning into a part-time relationship), Lee looked up from his breakfast meal, at ‘The Little Chief,’ café off East Seventh Street, a few blocks away from his sleeping room, it was a weekend, Sandy on the other side of the table (they had eaten their several times in the past), “I hear there is going to be a graduation party with the kids graduating from and around Cayuga Street, over at Indians Mound, next weekend, will you take me?” asked Sandy.
“I hadn’t heard of it, but if they are going to have one, I can (he hesitated)—but perhaps you’d want to go alone, you’ve met several friends at the recent parties, anyone of the guys can take you.”
“Yes, I know, but I feel safe with you, even though I want to be able to fool around with whomever I wish and you can too of course, but everyone will be drunk, and I’m a bit fearful of a few of the guys.”
There had been a time when Lee had ceased to be jealous, or annoyed with such talk, oh, he liked her, but he knew he could never hold her, and perhaps she knew the same, both felt the same way. He looked at his sunny side up eggs, indirectly at her, she seemed to like the look he gave her, almost forgotten though as she finished her eggs and toast. He was thinking, and she was waiting. He pictured the parties he had taken her to recently, and the guys she had met, and those she was trying to accustom herself to during these discovery parties, he’d often leave early, knowing he might make her uncomfortable.
“Yes,” said l Lee, “…if that’s what you want,” and finished his breakfast.
“Well,” she murmured in a childish way, now completely done with her breakfast also, a little behind him, looking up at him “What—oh, you said yes…!”
He sat straight up, grabbed a napkin, found a pen in his pocket, “Give me the time and date,” he asked her, she was about to polish her nails. Next, Lee wrote down carefully, big and legible the information and put it in his wallet, “So we can meet at my place, and I’ll drive us down to the spot, OK?”
“Yes, a good deal, thanks a lot, I very rarely ask for something like this, but I want to go to the bash and this sounds good, plus, I’m graduating also you know.” Lee knew that already, but the Cayuga Street Gang was not all familiar with her, only a few from the neighborhood were, so it probably was wise to engage him, perhaps uses him, but then, he knew it was more like to like.
As they stood up, he laid the money for the food on the table, put his arm round her shoulders, “Why don’t we settle down at my place for the rest of the day, I got some beer, just fool about?”
Sandy stopped fiddling around with her nails, leaning her cheek against him she said, with a purposeful little moan, “I try to keep myself looking good for you, Lee—“
‘Oh sure,’ he thought, ‘me and who else,’ I suppose the old habit of sudden mannish control made him stiffen up a bit, (for he did) especially in his throat, but the moment they reached the duplex, and opened the door to his room, caution and power was thrown to the wind, “You always look nice,” he said, as they both jumped on the bed, shoulder to shoulder laughing and ignoring, if not forgetting to close the door.



Party at Indians Mound 5
(The Rape and Fight)


[The Rape: 11:00 PM] Lee heard a voice calling for help, then the voice called his name, “Lee, help, help, he’s raping me…!” and so Lee left the party with its bonfire blazing, a bottled-glass of beer in his hands, and went perhaps 125-feet behind the fire, in the bushes, and there was Greg straddled over Sandy, slapping her, and tarring her cloths off, calling her every name under the sun.
“What you doing (it really was a rhetorical question at best)!” asked Lee, in a puzzled way, and Greg’s reply was, “What do you think I’m doing!” A few more times Lee told him to stop, “Fuck off,” he said…then he was inattentive to all his pleas, and slapped her again, and pulled his pants farther down, he had started to insert himself into her, “Enough,” shouted Lee, you had better take this as a last warning (he really didn’t need to rape her, she’d probably go with him after the party, if indeed they could come to an agreement)” but he paid no attention, perhaps trying to get his climax before Lee took action, but to his dismay, it did not happen that way; Lee’s eyes focused on him as she spoke loudly and clearly, almost into Greg’s ear, “Stop!” Yet laboriously, he arched himself, as if to prepare for the pinnacle and tried to get into her further, and that was the end of the entry, Lee grabbed him, and…


[The Fight] He threw caution to the winds. Greg Layman lay there on the ground, bellowing, his nose was smashed flat, both eyes closed to sheer slits, his face one red facade of pulped fleshy tissue and blood, but through the slits of his eyelids his eyes still blazed with old darkness, it was a ferocious attack, as Lee had several times crashed his right hand with the beer bottle in it, onto his jaw, face, and head. He had knocked men down with one blow, or one straight and solid kick before, but not like this, he buckled to the ground. Then Lee felt himself slipping, he was tired and half drunk (Greg perhaps somewhat drunker than he), his legs trembling, he then rallied to Sandy, who was white from fright, and bruised in her face from his backhand slaps, with her nose bleeding and a raw jaw, other bruises were on her thighs and back.
Lee heard in the distance a voice say, “Hey, whatsa matter, Greg?” People were starting to gather and come over their way, by the bushes, when she was screaming no one heard but Lee, but whatever, Lee was at an end to his vitality (he didn’t wish to fight anymore, and had he stayed any longer, it would have led into that), and Sandy in a sort of panic, without a quiver, he grabbed her by the hand and got off that hill, and to his car, as quickly as possible. Again, I say, had he stayed any longer, there were several of Greg’s relatives nearby. It was funny, he didn’t see it as rape, rather as an attack on him, save, she could live through it, but he shouldn’t have to, and as if one was responsible to fight fare. One drunk to another is what it was, with the perpetrator, crying about his wounds. He was not sorry for what he did, he was simply sorry, someone stopped him, and he got a shit beat out of him.

[The Hospital]: Greg Layman was taken to the hospital; a number of stitches were used to close his wounds, ones that would leave scares. As for Sandy, she also was taken to the hospital, for trauma, and bruises. The following day, Lee got a kind phone call from Sandy’s mother telling him how grateful she was that he stood firm with the man trying to rape her daughter. And he got also a message, several of them, from Greg’s family and friends, that they would not forget what he had done to him. He remained in the hospital for a spell.
Perhaps it was excessive force, but how can one measure it when one is drunk; thus, Lee used the same excuse Greg did, but Greg never acknowledge he did wrong, to him, Sandy was a tramp, a whore, in his eyes, but one he wanted to screw nonetheless. Perhaps to Lee, Greg was no more than a grasshopper, which he could have cared less if he hurt him or didn’t hurt him, yet, it was always in his constitution, to avoid fights except when life and lime is in danger. Who can say, it was trying times, youthful times. And no matter what, at eighteen-years old, Greg was just as much a whore as Sandy, if indeed we are to call names, so he got what he deserved, so Lee thought, and felt.




Jerry’s Bar, Sandy and Ms Lopez (1968) 6


Being young has much to do with orientation and did bring some nervous understanding into Lee’s agenda, his daily life, and with clarity: he would never own, or be able to keep Sandy for his own, so when they were not together he looked, shopped around you could say (an egomaniac at times), and not for a tongue in cheek relationship, it won’t do, therefore, he met Miss Lopez at a bar off Rice street, a short Mexican woman, who had two kids, freshly divorced, with long black hair, and dark brown eyes, perhaps twenty-two, not necessary a storybook introduction at this point, but she was very quiet when they met, and Lee was with an old drinking buddy, somewhat sedate at this point also, he was thinking of going to San Francisco with the friend he was drinking with, Jim Larson from the dojo, he was several years older than he, a welder by skill and trade. And he was the person drinking with him, but he had to get on home to his wife, leaving Miss Lopez and him alone, this started a new affair, one on the side you could say.
As this developed, it was easier to leave Sandy on her own as she often wished, and she was wanting that moreso nowadays; but she wanted to hang on to Lee also, kind of a security blanket, or having a ‘Plan B.’

It was a not summer’s day(1968) when Lee took Sandy to visit a friend, who had just purchased a bar, so Lee had hear about it, and his friend had told him a few times that was his goal.
As Sandy went to the pool table, and Lee talked to Jerry Bunn, the owner of the bar, and close friend to Lee, another man was there, he handed her a pool stick, “Wanta play?” he asked, looked at Lee, smiled, then at Jerry, and handed her the stick. Inside of Lee, deep inside him was being filled with a violent, unreasonable irritation, perhaps the Irish and Russian blood stirring. “Just a moment,” the man said, and then put a coin into the pool table slot along side the machine.
“Haven’t seen you for a spell,” said Jerry, “let me show you my bar,” and his twin brother, Jimmy was behind the bar, poured both Jerry and Lee a beer, a glass frosted beer. Down it went, “Magnified,” said Lee, as he got his tour of the dingy little bar on University Ave, close to Rice Street, bee in hand.
As the tour went on, so did the pool game, and Lee overheard Sandy’s conversation with the black leather jacket brute, that was playing with her, and it was very much what he had expected, consequently, his acute phase of a jealous attack was over, the murmur of the regurgitating valves in his heart was normal.

Lee and Jerry had something of a short history together, he was befriend by him sometime ago, went to his dojo, and saw Lee fight, and was impressed (matter-of-fact, so impressed, he would at a later date, join his studio, and far off in time, become a 3rd Degree Black Belt), for the time, he wanted Lee to be his bodyguard (kind of), as he went to parties to collect money (Jerry didn’t really need Lee as a bodyguard, so he felt, he carried a gun, and was a street fighter himself, but he needed—so he said, “…someone to watch my back.”) He had prior to this, just come out of the Navy, a four year hitch.

The girl came back to Lee, leaning against the bar by Jerry, unhurriedly, “I lost…” she said with a dim-teasing-smile to Jerry, and a more proper introduction took place between Jerry and her. The talk seemed to loosen the edges of her

It was scarcely more than a week, when Lee stopped back at the bar to see Jerry, have a few drinks, he was underage of course, but Jerry would serve him nonetheless, and perhaps he’d pick up a six-pack to go. She, Sandy was back again he notice, with a face of unconcern, as if she knew everyone better than he, she was fooling around with a make-up box under one arm, as he walked in.
“Hello Lee,” remarked Sandy with a very plausible ease, “I really like this place, thanks for introducing me…” Jerry was behind the bar. She couldn’t almost hear Jerry say, “She just showed up Lee…hope you don’t mind?”
“No, I don’t mind,” he said appreciatively.
“We don’t want to be enemies over a girl—right.” He replied.
“Good luck,” said Lee, knowing there was not much luck involved in this, just time, and she’d helplessly fall into his arms, willingly.
Sandy filled in the next half-hour with a visit to Lee, “Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked.
“Not sure,” said Lee.
“What shall we do…?” she questioned.
(A Drunken Soldier walked by.) Piano music came over the radio, an empty beer glass sat on the bar, Lee’s. She had been so preoccupied with this and that, and the bar scene, she was going to say something, but forgot. Fate was kind to her, Lee thought. They had no more than exchanged a few guarded smiles, when the agitated soldier came back from within the bathroom, “You want to play pool, Ms?” He questioned her, as if it was not a request rather short of a demand, if not part of her job. “Yaw,” she said, and the man walked away to stack the balls, and she turned to Lee, “Jerry said he might give me a job here.”
He had been prepared for this, the face, on what might have been called anger, came out as convenience, its good side. Lee looked a bit vicious and hard-bitten, but said his goodbyes and disappeared along side the shades of the bar, where the beaming sun seep through its openings. As he got into his car, he noticed she was so set aback, and so absurdly comfortable, just this one glimpse through the glass doorway told him, she’s trying to find her way–almost motionless he drove off in his red and white Ford.


http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Poeta Laureado De San Jerónimo de Tunan, Perú

Awarded the Grand Cross of the City

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture