By Order of the Council… 2nd draft

By Order of the Council…

By Mark Andersen

I knocked on the door, a small opening about eye level opened. I could see a set of brown eyes on the other side of the door. A disembodied voice said,

“No bible study tonight.”

To which I replied,

“But I need to speak to brother Richard.”

With that I heard the lock turn and the door creaked on its hinges as it began to open. What appeared before me was anything but a bible study room. It was dank, hot, smoky and smelled of alcohol and sweat. In the center of the room was a rectangular bar with seating around its outside perimeter. Two bartenders were serving drinks from the inside of the bar. If you could call what they were serving drinks. Yes, the clients who had money could afford the stuff on the top shelf that had been imported from the nations of California, Oregon, Washington, or the Nation of the Great Lakes, but most folks in the establishment could only afford the clear liquid on the bottom shelf, a homebrew made here in the bar. A potent blend of fermented and distilled grain. A product that has gone by many names through the years, White Lightning, Moonshine, Mountain Dew, Rot Gut and Hooch to name a few. Here it is just called Shine, a shortened version of Moonshine. Luckily here it would not blind you or kill you outright like it did in some other places.

I saw my quarry in a corner table of the room. He was in his mid-twenties, rugged looking with dark blonde hair and blue eyes. In another era people would have said he had Rock-star looks. He was surrounded by a bevy of young and old people all of them listening intently to his every word. I would have to move closer to verify what he was saying, to see if he was a worthy target.

As I edged closer to the table I noticed that the young man at the table just would not shut up.

“The government has taken away our rights, and if you speak out you will be killed! I mean really, how many people do you know that have died from a congenital heart defect? I know at least ten.” The young man said to his audience.

“There are squads of assassins everywhere, watching us, listening to our thoughts an watching our dreams.” He went on.

He really left me with no choice, had he stopped after one outburst, had he not gathered a crowd around him, I would have let it slide. Everyone slips up now and then and I understand that; however, he kept going on and on and would not stop. That last one got me…you see, I am one of the secret assassins, but I don’t work for the government, hell, the government doesn’t even work for the government anymore. After the second Civil War that broke the United States up into six parts, the government in the form he thinks of, in no longer exists. Sure, it looks like it does, and the state controlled media reports that it does; however, it is all a dog and pony show for the masses.

I work for the real leaders of the country, the Council of the Evangelical Elders. They are the men who really run the country, not the President, not the Congress, and not the courts. The Elders pull all of the strings; they are the ones that tell Congress what bills to pass. They tell the President what to sign into law and they tell the courts how to rule on every case. Me, I am just a cog in the machine no one knows what my real job is. My cover is that I work for a state owned grocery store in an administrative position. Some admin I am, my days at work are reading reports from citizens about rabble rousers like the young man I am watching tonight.

“I am telling you, they will kill you if you speak out. They have spies and assassins everywhere.” The young man said.

“Then why haven’t they killed you yet?” Asked a younger woman.

“Because I am careful who I talk to. I know I can trust everyone in this bar.”

“How do you know that?”

“Simple, this place is illegal, everyone in here is breaking the law…if there was a government spy in here, this place would be shut down.”

At that point I staggered by the young man’s chair as if I had had one to many drinks and I lightly bumped him, just enough so that he would not feel the injection. He would not die right away, but in three to four days he would have a heart attack due to a congenital defect in his heart. Seems that there are a lot of people dying of congenital heart defects these days. It is the number one killer of both men and women the United Christian States of America, at least he got that part right.

I went home that night knowing I had done my duty and that it was God’s will that the young man would die. If God had not willed it, then I would have no reason to exist. That logic had been drilled into my head from the day I was born. I was groomed for this job from birth, I never knew my parents, or if I had any siblings. I was born for one purpose in life to kill.

Once home I looked in upon my wife, beautiful Sara, she was everything to me, even more so now. She was carrying our first child, a boy from what the medical reports had said. She was even more beautiful now that she was pregnant. Her jet-black curls framing her heart-shaped face. If her eyes were open you would see that they were as green as an emerald. Add her beauty together with her pregnancy and you had a woman who positively glowed. I undressed as quietly as I could, trying not to wake her. As I slipped under the covers she rolled over and said,

“How was your day? Did you get caught up so you don’t have to work late tomorrow?”

“Yes, I did, now go back to sleep, we can talk in the morning.”

The next day arrived and I awoke to the smell of bacon, eggs and coffee. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and joined my very pregnant wife in the kitchen.

“Good morning my love.” I said to her.

“Good morning.” She said in her typical cheery voice.

“So are you all caught up at work?” She asked

“I think so, depends on the boss though. Mr. Hammonds is tough. I think it is safe for you to make plans for tonight though.” I replied.

“Great, there is this great new play about the life and times of Jesus that I have been wanting to see. They say the lead actor is quite good. Here, read the entertainment section from yesterday’s paper, they have a review of the play.”

I opened the paper and to my surprise the actor playing Jesus was the very same man that I injected last night. Well, if my wife wants to see him perform, we had better go tonight, he will not be around much longer.

I start my day much like any other; I go into the grocery store through the back entrance and walk up the stairs to my office. Once in my office I turn on my computers and then make a pot of coffee. Once the coffee is ready I sit down at my desk and file my report about last evening. I mention that the young man appeared to have knowledge of assassins and they way we kill. The Council will probably send another of my brothers to terminate the young man in a different way to make it appear as an accident.

Once the report is filed I open my new target folder. It reads the same as any other folder, a list of transgressions against the State, witnesses to these transgressions and a photo of the target. When I get to the photo I drop hot coffee all over myself…how can it be. I have to terminate my wife for crimes against the State. Her crime, belonging to a poetry club that reads secular material. Material that has been outlawed for decades, all books deemed to be secular or undermining the faith of the people were all destroyed long ago. My orders are to dispatch her tonight which means to make it look like an accident, I am to push her off a curb into an oncoming bus at the corner of 5^th and Main this evening.

As the evening approached I became nervous about a job for the first time in my life. How could I kill my wife, the mother of my unborn child? I would not only be killing her but my son as well. I went back through the file to see if everything was in order, and it was. I contacted my superior via videoconference,

“Sir, this is X236YA2 requesting a conformation for target SUBVERT9856.” I said to the camera.

“Target is confirmed. Is there a problem X236YA2? Do you need assistance on this mission?”

“No Sir, no assistance required.” I said coldly, knowing that if I asked for assistance I would be terminated and then someone else would kill my wife.

There was no way out of this. As a man of faith, and a man of logic I knew that God was willing me to do this. I had to carry out my duty to the Lord, the Council and Country. But why would the master of all beings want me to take out my wife and unborn child? Isn’t they taking of a life in the womb forbidden? Isn’t it imperative to protect the womanly vessel that carries a child in her womb?

It was evening, time to take my wife to the last play she would ever see, and one in which the lead role is being performed by a dead man, only I am the only one who knows he is already dead. Throughout the evening I am detached, lost deep in thought. Not knowing if I can or cannot destroy the only thing, the only person, who means anything to me in life. As the play goes on the lead actor comes on stage and begins to utter his lines,

“Let he without sin…” those were the last words he ever spoke, as one of the lighting fixtures fell from the rigging onto the exact spot where he was standing. An accident, and the actor with the Rock-star looks was dead. The audience was horrified and in shock. I was surprised that such a public execution was used for the young man. But, it is not my concern to consider the reasoning behind the decisions made by the council. I looked at my watch; I had one hour to get my wife to the intersection where she would meet her demise an intersection that was only a half block away.

“Honey” I said as we were leaving the theatre, “Do you know what I do for a living?”

“Yes, you work as an admin at the grocery store.”

“No, I don’t, that is just a cover. I am actually an assassin for the Council of Elders. I know that may sound far-fetched and hard to believe. But, it is true. I kill people for a living. And tonight, I have been ordered to kill you for your subversive poetry club.” I said to her as I held her hand tightly.

Her face was drained of color and she was shaking as she said,

“I knew the poems were wrong, and I had heard the rumors of assassins. Just like everyone else, but I never believed that they would come after me for a couple of little poems.”

“I am not going to kill you. I cannot kill you, you and our son mean too much to me. We are going to head to Wisconsin, there, we can live our lives free in the Nation of the Great Lakes. But we have to go tonight and we cannot go back to our home ever again.”

I looked at my watch, still forty-five minutes before she was supposed to die. We had time to get to the train station and get aboard the last train of the evening. It would take us as far as Springfield, Illinois, we would have to make our way to the border on foot some one hundred twenty miles north of there before we would be safe.

I paid for our tickets, fifteen minutes before the accident was supposed to happen, our train leaves in ten. I pray that the train departs on time. If it does not, not only will my wife die but I will meet my end as well, and as a traitor to the Council, it will not be a quick death, it will more than likely be a slow agonizing demise.

We board the train and find our seats. The train rolls out on time. We are safe. I get up to go the dining car and get my wife and something to eat for our journey. An older gentlemen bumps into me on my left and I feel a pinprick in my right thigh. I look to my right to see my wife’s face. She says,

“You shouldn’t have told me you were an assassin and you should have followed your orders. This was a test set up by the council. You have failed the test.”

She has a small hypo in her hand. She is also an assassin…and she has killed me.

Little Yellow Chevette by Mark Andersen

The plaintive cry of a mourning dove traveled through the air, the soft cooing cracking the otherwise peaceful afternoon. I was eighteen that summer afternoon, just a few weeks before I would venture into adulthood by reporting for duty in the U.S. Army. It had been an uneventful summer up to that day. I was finishing up painting my parents house to earn some cash so I could go out with my friends a few more times before we went our separate ways.

I was a skinny kid back then, skinny and what I thought to be average looking…I did have a car I loved back then, a 1978 Chevy Chevette. People laughed at it and called it a piece of shit, but I loved that car. It gave me a great pick-up line. I would walk up to a girl in the arcade or at the roller skating rink and ask her if she wanted to go for a ride in my “Vette.” It normally went one of two ways, either she would be pissed off when she saw my “Vette” was a Chevette, and not a Corvette, or when she saw my “Vette” she would think I was funny and cute for coming up with that. It worked more often than it did not. Like I said, I loved that car, and not just for its chick picking up capabilities. That car was my first bit of freedom. I could go anywhere, anytime in that car.

The “Vette” cost me eight hundred and fifty dollars when I bought it my sophomore year of High School. I used all of my paper route money to buy it. Money I had been saving since I was twelve. I was paid twenty bucks every two weeks; I would make another couple hundred in tips around Christmas time. Once I got the car I took on two other paper routes so I could fix it up. By the end of my junior year, I had a pretty sweet ride. I rebuilt the engine in auto shop, saved up for some fancy wheels and put new upholstery in, which I was only able to afford by working out a deal with the guy at the upholstery shop. I would work nights and weekends in his shop for free if he would re-upholster my car. I think I got the short end of the stick on that deal; I put in way more hours than the upholstery was worth. About the only thing I didn’t change in that car was the stereo. I bought the car from a guy who worked at a place that sold and installed car stereos. That thing could blast out the Judas Priest and Motley Crue tapes I had back in those days. I was even able to talk my way into a senior’s only auto body class in High School so I could remove the rust and paint the damn thing. It was a sweet color; it was this eye-popping sunburst yellow.

My Friends and I would go cruising down the main drag every Friday night in that car. We normally pulled off into a parking lot to watch the muscle cars race, Trans Ams, Camaros, Mustangs and the occasional ‘Cuda. If we were lucky, one of the guys would talk an older brother or sister in to buying us a six-pack of cheap beer. Six beers between four guys, and would we think we tough guys after drinking a can and a half each. When we started turning eighteen the sky was the limit. We could legally buy beer and liquor, for some reason though we never really strayed too far from a six-pack of Old Milwaukee. On Saturday nights, we would take the car to the Drive-In on the edge of town. There we would either watch a movie or try to pick up girls…we normally ended up watching the movie no matter what.
But that one summer day, a few weeks before I would leave…that was one hell of a day with that car. It started around one in the afternoon. I had just finished painting the house and was cleaning up brushes with a hose out back. My friend Chris came around the house and yelled, “DUDE!! We gotta head out, I just met this chick at the Arcade, she won’t go out with me unless I bring a friend.”

“Uh-huh…and I suppose she has a great personality.” I said.

“I dunno dude, I never saw her, but, we gotta go now.” Chris replied.

“In case you haven’t noticed Chris, I am in no shape to go out, it is ninety-five out, I am hot, sweaty and covered with house paint.” I said back somewhat irritated.

“Jim, just take a fuckin’ cold shower so you can cool off and get the paint off of you.” Chris said.
“Would you watch your language, my Mom is home….Fine, I will go get cleaned up. She better be worth it or I am kickin’ your ASS!!” I said.

Chris and I went into the house; he was going to wait in my room while I showered. That is, he was until my Mom got a hold of him. “Christopher!!” My Mom said in her sternest mom voice, “What was that language I heard you using…” She went on as I turned on the shower, “Good, he is gonna get it, it serves him right.” I said under my breath.
I showered, shaved and got dressed in a pair of cut-off shorts and a t-shirt. When I got out to the living room, there was Chris, looking like a whipped puppy. My Mom had given it to him good; of course, dropping the f-bomb in front of her would be like him swearing in front of his own Mom, we had been best friends since kindergarten and were more like brothers than friends. Chris got up from the couch and followed me out the door.

“Dude, we have to take your car.” Chris said.

“What? You don’t have gas money again?” I said.

“No, I…I have gas money…” Chris said haltingly.

“You didn’t.” I said

“Well, dude, she is hot.” Chris stammered.

“You used my line about the car didn’t you. “ I said.

“Dude, she is hot, I figured you wouldn’t mind.” Chris said pleadingly.

“Alright, we will take my car, but you owe me.” I said.

It was the mid-eighties and arcades were everywhere. We normally hung out at Voyager III on the east side. Not today, Chris had us driving over to Tilt on the west side. A side of town that a couple Blue Collar kids should not be in, I wondered what the hell Chris was getting us into.

We got to the strip mall and parked in front of a bookstore, so the girl Chris was after would not see us getting out a Chevette right away. We entered the arcade, the first time I had ever been into this particular establishment. The first thing I noticed was that it was a lot classier than arcades on the east side. All along the top of the wall were custom neon signs for each game, the one that really stood out was the blue and yellow Pac-Man sign, it looked just like the game screen. The game room was dimly lit, not the total darkness I was used to in the arcades I hung out it in. There was even a snack bar in the back…I could only imagine what they charged for a soda in this place. Chris waved and said Hi to someone I could not see from my vantage point behind him. I looked around nervously and noticed that it seemed as if there was some sort of uniform in the place…khaki shorts and pastel colored polo shirts with the collars turned up. Man, were we ever in the wrong place.

“Jim, this is Sue, and this is her friend Valerie…” Chris may as well have been speaking Swahili at that point. All of my senses were overtaken by Valerie; her jade colored eyes, her scent, the way she flipped her blonde hair back before she offered me her hand to shake and her angelic voice, even twenty-five years later, thinking of that meeting still makes my heart skip a beat. As she reached out her hand, it was everything I could do not to trip over myself. Chris asked me for the keys to the “Vette”, I fumbled around for them in my pockets and dropped them as I handed them to him. Cris and Sue left Valarie and me alone, or as alone as you could be in a crowded arcade. At this point my brain felt like it had the consistency somewhere between cottage cheese and yogurt. What could I possibly have to say to a goddess among teenage boys.

Luckily, she went first, “Hey, want to play Galaga?”

Galaga, my favorite game, not only was she hot, she played Galaga.

I somehow engaged my brain to my mouth and said, “Sure.”

I didn’t dare say much more as I would, without a doubt, say something asinine to this vision of loveliness. She went first and died rather quickly, it was my turn, five levels and forty-thousand points later it was her turn again.

“Idiot, you should let her win.” I thought to myself.

After the game she said, “Wow you are really good.”

“Thanks.” I still could not trust my tongue to do my brain’s bidding so I limited myself to one-word answers.

“Could you show me how to play Galaga like you do?” She asked.

“Sure.” This would require more than one word at a time; I hoped my brain and tongue could get it together.

I popped a quarter in the machine and said, “The game has a pattern, you just have to learn the pattern and then make a pattern around that pattern. On this level you have to stay in the corners when the ships dive, and move to center when they are not diving…on the next le…” I felt her hand on my shoulder, her breath on my neck as she stood on a stool and peered over my shoulder…I never made it past the first level.

She looked at me laughed and then asked, “Do I make you nervous?”

“Uh-huh.” I mumbled, figuring I had blown it.

“I am just as nervous as you are.” She said.

At that point, I saw her as a human being and not the goddess I had placed upon a pedestal.
She then said, “When you touched my hand, I swear I felt a jolt of electricity go through me.”
“My heart skipped a beat when I saw you.” I said.

We were leaning towards each for a kiss when Chris came in and slapped me on the back and said, “DUDE! Let’s head over to the Chocolate Shoppe for Ice Cream.” I could have killed Chris on the spot. I was sure the evil look I gave him would kill him, but, he was either immune to the evil eye or he was oblivious to it. So the four of us piled into the Chevette and headed for Ice Cream.

Once at the Chocolate Shoppe we were able to talk, I learned her Dad was the State District Attorney and she went to the only private High School in the area. She was leaving for Princeton in the fall. I was embarrassed to tell her that my Dad worked in inedibles at the meat packing plant and that the only way I could go afford college was to go into the Army. She didn’t seem to care though.

We saw each other every day those last few weeks I was home. We were in love. The day I had to leave was the hardest day of my young life. At first, she wrote me every day, when she started school it dropped down to a letter or two a week, when I was shipped overseas, it was a letter every couple of weeks. After two years I came home on leave over Christmas, it was like we had never been apart, for that month we were inseparable and talked about our futures, ignoring the possibility of a future together, it was like each of us was avoiding the conversation we needed to have. I reported for duty at Ft. Campbell, Ky. After my leave, another two years to go before my tour was up and I could start college. The letters from Valerie slowed to a trickle, about one a month. Then, in June I received a “Dear John” letter, she had met someone else…the letter basically said, “he is here, you are not, have a nice life.” The last year and a half of my time was sheer hell. If I was not on duty, I was drinking…I had no interest in meeting anyone at that point, my heart would not let anyone close.

My enlistment ended and I went home, I had money for college and could start my life anew. When I got home I tried looking up some old friends, but they were all gone, they had moved away or had changed so much that I did not know them anymore, actually, it wasn’t them that had changed, it was me, I was mature beyond my years, they were still acting like they were in High School. I pulled the tarp off my car; my Dad said, “I turned her over for you once a week…she should start right up.”

I hopped in, started my car up, and just drove around town. I found myself in front of what used to be Tilt, now it was a furniture store.

“Nothing ever lasts.” I said to myself.

I got out of my car and walked past the furniture store to the bookstore. Once inside while perusing a book on motorcycles I heard a voice from what seemed to be a lifetime ago. It was Valerie. My heart skipped a beat…While she was waiting for the clerk to get the book she asked for; she looked around the store, our eyes met. At that point I think I experienced every emotion known to man, anger, hurt, sadness, love and betrayal…to name a few.

She ran across the store and hugged me, she said, “I am so sorry I hurt you, there was no one else. I was confused and scared, and instead of doing the right thing, I did the wrong thing. I hope you will find it in you to forgive me.”

Overwhelmed my emotions, I got down on one knee and asked, “Will you marry me.”

Now today, our kids laugh at me for lovingly maintaining a ’78 Chevy Chevette and they think it is even funnier that on every wedding anniversary their parents celebrate by visiting a furniture store a bookstore and an ice cream parlor….and every time I look in her eyes today, I feel my heart skip a beat…

Memorial Day - By Mark Andersen

This is a work of fiction, none of the names are true, nor is any of this based on any real event.

Memorial Day - By Mark Andersen

The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over, using a cane and with what combat veterans describe as the thousand yard stare. A gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.

“How Many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was a finite answer, the true answer was too many. He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a flag out of his backpack and placing a flag in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were to young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all to young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.

“What a waste.” He exclaimed while shaking his head.

Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play taps, the mournful sound echoed across the landscape. The forlorn notes brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war. They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.

As he was reflecting on his past life a young man with close cropped hair, a muscular build and the thousand yard stare approached the old man.

“Hello sir, may I help you put those flags out?”

“Well, this is kind of a mission I promised myself I would complete for my fallen brothers. It is something I have done every year since 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete.”

“Sir, I have fallen brethren here as well, it would be an honor to help you.”

“Where and when did you serve son?”

“I was with the Bravo company 1/502nd Infantry Battalion, 101st Airborne Division, I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name son?”

“Troy Miller, sir.”

“Troy, I am Mike Samson, I was with the the 101st during WWII, I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”

“I was Corporal sir.”

“You don’t need to call me sir, I was never anything more than a Private.”

The two of them soldiered on, placing a flag in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.

“What are your thoughts on war.” Asked the old man.

“My thoughts on war?” the young man said

“Yeah, what are your thoughts on war?”

“I feel that as a species we have great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live, like you and me, we don’t come home the same. We are broken, yet, we try to hide it as best we can. All the while the great leaders proclaim the young men are heros. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is groomed to go to war for men with big egos. There has to be a better way.”

“You are right on the money son. My only wish throughout my life is that we would someday stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”

The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.

“I have to get going.” Said the young man.

“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”

“I would love to, but I have to go.”

“All right, It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon, he then looked down at the marble headstone,

Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom

The old men wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “What a waste.”

For my Mom

Not the story I had hoped to post....maybe later.

Mom,
Today is my first Mother’s day without you. I am finding it far harder to get through this day than I thought I would. Today I planted a rosebush for you in your honor in my front flowerbed. Everyone will see it when they come up to my front door. I know you will would have loved it. You always did love roses.

As I think of this day and the forty-two Mother’s days we shared together, I cannot think of a single one that stands out more than another. I can remember Dad taking me to Steven’s House of Gifts to get a Mother’s day gift for you. I think we went there every year together until they closed. Even as a teenager Dad would tell me before we went into the store that I could not touch anything in there. Every year we got you bell for Mother’s day...and every year you would act surprised. Even though you knew exactly what you were getting; Dad and I were creatures of habit and always got you the same thing for Mother’s day.

As I was planting my garden today I thought of you often and how much you loved gardening. How you taught me how to garden. It seemed odd planting it this year without asking you what you thought I should plant. I hope I did OK with it. I still remember you working in your garden at the house on Jacobson. You would have one of the neighbors come over with a rototiller every year. One half would be flowers and the other vegetables. You always planted enough to be able to can your own. Something I hope to do this year. I can see you standing up in the flower bed, wiping your forehead after pulling weeds and little Brad Wallom coming over and counting your toes...he could never quite figure out why you only had eight and he had ten.

I can remember all the times I came home from after being bullied and tortured and you were always there for me...you did not know it at the time but the phrase you used to say to make me feel better actually made the pain worse. “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I may as well go eat worms.” I know you thought you were being funny and you were trying to cheer me up...but Mom, I don’t think you or Dad ever really did understand what I was going through. I forgive you for it...you could not possibly have known the torture and pain I was going through...I don’t think anyone really did.

One of the memories that has stuck with me the most over the years Mom was when you were sick and in the hospital. You got to come home on weekends, oh how I cried when we had to take you back there...it must have torn you apart to leave me sitting in the car crying while Dad took you to the psychiatric ward...I still shocks me to this day that children were not allowed to visit. There was one time in particular that sticks out in my head. Dad and I went to get you to bring you home for the weekend I was maybe all of five. Dad had to leave me in the car to go up and get you. Oh I cried and cried the whole time Dad was gone...and then you came down with a gift for me. A book called “Fraidy Cat” you had just found out that I had learned how to read while you were in the hospital...and you wanted me to read it to you when we got home. I still have that book Mom...and I still treasure it. It was the first book I ever read to you.

As I write this Mom, the tears are streaming down my face and I realize that I did not cry for you when you passed away. I don’t know why...I do not know if it was the shock of your death, the stress of watching you die, knowing that you were finally at peace and no longer in pain...or that I was so concerned that I would break down while reading your eulogy...I do not know. I do know that today has brought back a flood of emotions...and tears. Mom, you are missed. Today just did not seem right without bringing you flowers and a funny card...and having you make a big fuss about them...even though you knew that is what I was going to bring you...being a creature of habit and all.

I love you Mom.
Mark

I will post more soon...

I am getting towards the end of the semester and am writing papers on Political Rhetoric and working on a research project on end-wser documentation...so not a lot of time to write fiction right now...I am planning on writing a story about the death of a parent, something I recently went through.

Nuts!

This was written at the request of friend of mine...he wanted a story about a dog being neutered...from the dogs perspective...here you go Tom, enjoy.

Nuts! - By Mark Andersen

It was the first really nice day of spring when my best friend called me and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I just about jumped through my skin when he asked. It had been a long winter and I had cabin fever really bad and I could not wait to go out for a ride. I hopped into his car and off we went. The smells of spring were so strong in the air that it was all I could do not to hang my head out of the window and suck them all in.

We drove all over the countryside; there were Robins singing and crocuses blooming everywhere. The grass was just beginning to turn green, the buds on the trees looked like they were ready to burst open and the last of snow piles were melting. It was a sure sign of spring when we saw that the A&W drive-in was open, we pulled in and the teen-aged carhop took our order. There is just something about eating a bacon cheeseburger outside that just makes it taste better.

After lunch we headed back to town, my friend mentioned he had to stop somewhere first. I didn’t mind, it meant a little bit longer outside on this beautiful day. My friend pulled into the parking lot of a non-descript building, I could hear a lot of yelling in the building but could not make out what was being said. I was worried about my friend going into this place. The he said, “C’mon, let’s go, we need to see someone here.”

I was puzzled; I normally never got out of the car and went into a place with my friend. But, if he wanted me to go in who was I to argue with him. He is my best friend and he would never steer me wrong. I leapt out of the car and looked back at him and said, “Well , what are you waiting for.”

Once inside the yelling grew louder; however, I could still not distinguish what they were saying. My friend said he was here for our appointment. Just as I was going to ask him what he meant by “Our appointment” the young lady behind the counter said,

“Right this way sir.”

She directed us to a small room with an exam table in it. “Why is he taking me to a doctor’s office?” I thought to myself. I figured he would tell me soon. Maybe he just needed moral support for a procedure and he was embarrassed to tell me about it. I was just going to ask him when a young man in a white lab coat entered the room. He looked at me and asked my friend if “I was the one.” The one what? What did he mean by that? I tried to ask what was going on, but they just ignored me. My friend said,

“Yes, he is the one. How much longer before you start the procedure?”

“Procedure!” I screamed, “What procedure!?”

My friend looked at me and said, “Quiet, you know better.”

I started looking around the room, looking for a way out. There wasn’t one. There was only one door and no windows. My friend was also holding me so I could not move. I could not even wriggle free of his grasp. What could he be doing to me, and why. Then the door opened, it was my chance for escape. I tried with all my might and I exploded out of my friends grasp. Only to be stopped by the young man in the white lab coat.

The young man asked my friend to help him put me up on the table. Once I was on the table he pulled out a syringe with some kind of fluid in it. He asked my friend to hold me down. I was panicking I did not know what was happening, there was nothing I could do. The young man in the lab coat stuck me with the needle, I howled in pain. I started to get sleepy. I struggled to keep my eyes open, it was no use. I could not stay awake.

I was really groggy and could barely open my eyes.

“How long had I been out.” I thought to myself.

I tried to open my eyes. Everything was fuzzy and out of focus. My mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. I felt awful. After about fifteen minutes the room started coming into focus. I could finally understand the yelling, they were warning me to run away. It was too late now. I could not run. I looked up and my friend was there, patting me on the head. I heard the young man in the lab coat say,

“This should calm him down, you will see a difference in his behavior and he will be less prone to wander off.”

My friend looked at me and said, “Its OK buddy, it was for your own good.”

I mustered up what strength I had and wagged my tail twice, and then licked my friends hand. All the while wondering what was done to me.

Later in the day when I woke up I realized what had been done, he had them cut my nuts off. How could he have done this to me? I will get him back though. He has to sleep sometime...and besides, he can't even lick his own nuts...so he doesn't really even need them.

Insignificant Event

Insignificant Event - By Mark Andersen

Jim Canton had come to see his son play running back in his first varsity game. He sat in the stands on that crisp October night, waiting for the game to start. While biding his time, he watched the marching band play and pom-pom girls warming up the home crowd before the game. The sights and sounds were so familiar to him that for a few moments he was transported back a generation, to a time when he played on this very field. A game that is forever burned into his consciousness even if no one else remembers the calamity that happened on the gridiron on a night eerily similar to this to this one.

He thought back to that game some twenty-five years ago, a pivotal event for his high school team that season, and for his own life. He was just a sophomore, not popular, but not an outcast either. He was one of the average teens in a school of about twelve hundred other teenagers. He played football, and as a mediocre punter, the chances of him moving to the Varsity team before his senior year were infinitesimal. Yet, he still participated in two-a-days in the summer, worked on his technique as a punter and enjoyed the camaraderie of being on a football team, even if he and the placekicker were ignored by their teammates.

The Junior Varsity team played games Friday afternoons after school. While the JV team was playing, the Varsity team would have a light practice, predominantly a stretching session, before the Friday night game, some of the skill positions would do a light workout to make sure they were sharp for that evening’s game, and it was a big game that night, East vs. their archrival, West. The city championship and a chance to go to State were on the line.

During the Varsity practice, a couple linebackers got a little aggressive when the punter was practicing, they tackled him just as he was punting the ball; they broke his leg in two places. Coach Nichols was pissed he stormed over to the adjacent field, like an infuriated hornet, where the JV team was playing.

“Al, I need a punter, who do you have for me that I can have now!” Coach Nichols said.

“Bill, I am in the middle of a game, can this wait?” Coach Nash said.

“Two chuckleheads that used to be my linebackers thought it would be funny to break my punter’s leg.” Coach Nichols said.

“Take Canton, he is my number one punter, I have a freshman backing him up so you can have him now if you really need him.” Said Coach Nash.

“Thanks, and I am sending you over a couple pinheaded linebackers, work ‘em hard for me.” Coach Nichols said.

“Canton, get yer ass over here!” Coach Nash yelled.

The young punter got up from his customary position on the bench and ran over to where the coaches were standing.

“Canton, you are moving up to Varsity, go with the Coach Nichols.”
“What about my uniform?” Jim asked.

“We ain’t got time to get you a Varsity uniform, the JV uniform is close enough and it will have to do.” Coach Nichols said.

Jim Canton had an ear-to-ear grin on his face as he ran on to the varsity field for the first time, running out with the rest of the team between the rows of cheerleaders, the cheering crowd, playing under the lights for the first time. It was an amazing feeling for him that brisk October night.

Jim watched the game from bench, as the game went back and forth; neither defense could stop the offense. It was going to be a long, high scoring game. A battle to the very end, not a punter’s game. At halftime Coach Nichols yelled and screamed, trying to motivate the team, Jim sat in the back of the locker room taking it all in, not paying attention because he knew his chances of getting in the game were slim.

Late in the fourth quarter, East’s defense stopped West’s offense; the Regents punted the ball away and the Purgolder’s got the ball their own one-yard line. The game was tied up with three minutes to go. The first play was a hand-off to the all-state fullback. The fullback exploded eleven yards and a new set of downs. First and ten on the Purgolder’s own eleven-yard line. The quarterback dropped back in the pocket and tossed a pass thirty yards down the sideline to a tall and lean wide receiver. First and ten on the forty-one, at this rate the young punter did not think his services would be needed, all the Purgolder’s needed to do was use the clock well, and then a field goal. The game would be over, without a single punt.

Then the exchange between the quarterback and the center was bobbled; it was all the quarterback could do to fall on the ball. Second and twelve yards to go, the quarterback handed the ball off to the fullback, who ran a draw up the two hole. The fullback was stuffed at the line of scrimmage, third and a long twelve to go. The quarterback got into the shotgun position,

“READY! BLUE, BLUE, 43!” Shouted the quarterback,

“SET!”

“HUT!”

The center snapped the ball; the quarterback dropped back two steps, he looked left, then he glanced to the right, out of the corner of his eye he saw the tight end break free. Just as he threw the ball a defensive end pummeled him. His pass fell five yards short.

“Canton!” yelled Coach Nichols.

Jim ran over to the coach, as he did he felt his stomach go into his throat. He was going into his first varsity game.

“Yeah Coach.” He said he said nervously.

“Canton, get in there and kick me a good punt, call max protect, we can’t afford to have this punt blocked. We need to get them pushed back so we can get this thing into overtime; GOT IT!” Coach Nichols shouted as he held Jim’s facemask.

“Got it Coach!” Jim yelled back

Jim ran onto the field and into the huddle, nervously he called out the play, “Max protect, on two.”

“READY BREAK!” Cried out the rest of the huddle.

The team lined up, Canton was lined up fourteen yards behind center; he did a quick count of men on the field. “Eleven, good.” He said to himself, he felt the bile crawl up his throat, he ran through what he needed to do in his head,

“Catch the ball, take two steps covering four yards, kick the ball, and run down field.” All the while hoping his one hundred twenty five pound frame did not have to tackle anyone.

“READY” Jim yelled out

“SET”

“HUT ONE….HUT TWO!”

The snap came to Canton, he took three steps…he immediately knew he was in the wrong position. Off balance he went made the kick, the leather hit his foot the wrong way, it went straight up, arced backwards, and fell to the earth twenty yards behind him. At that instant, he wanted to crawl off the field, hoping no one noticed what he had done. Around him was mass confusion, East players were running downfield to where the pigskin should have been, half the West players were trying to block the East players from running downfield, a lone West lineman saw where it went, he ran to the ball; picked it up, and ran it in for a touchdown.

Jim looked over to the sidelines, the coach was livid, Jim ran off the field, he tried to avoid Coach Nichols; he failed in that endeavor, “You little PRICK!” Coach Nichols yelled as he grabbed Jim’s facemask. “Get the fuck off my goddamned football field!”
Jim ran off the field, he was too disheartened to lament…he just wanted to get the hell out there. He ran to the JV locker room, he changed as quickly as he could, not even bothering to shower. His insides were tied in knots, he felt like an insignificant microscopic piece of excrement. He had let his team down, his school down and worst of all he had let himself down. If he could have crawled under the turf and pulled it over him, he would have.

Jim dreaded going back to school on Monday. He knew he was going to be taunted and teased. He was the goat; he cost East High School the city championship and a chance for the state title. He wondered if he could transfer to a different school, which was the only way he could foresee that this event would pass by.

Once at school he tried to keep a low profile, he did not go to shithead wall where he hung out. Nor did he go the cafeteria for a cinnamon roll; instead, he went to the library and hid away amongst the tomes that told of bravery and cowardice. The first bell rang and he headed to class, a class that many of his varsity teammates were enrolled in, how he dreaded going to class. When he entered he expected to be jeered and mocked, he was puzzled when he was greeted as he normally was.

Sitting in the cafeteria for lunch, he heard the discussion of several students and
players.

“Who punted for us?”

“I dunno, some freshman I guess.”

“Well, if I ever find out who he is, I am gonna kick his ass.”

“Well, he was wearing a JV jersey, and had his helmet on the whole game. No name on the jersey and I never did see his face.”

Jim decided it would be wise not to say anything, but he knew he could never go back to playing football. While the team practiced, he took his pads and uniform down to Coach Nash's office and left them there. He left a note saying that his grades were falling and he needed to work on his academics. None of his teammates questioned him about his quitting, mainly because they did not know he was on the team. He was the punter; no one paid attention to him.

Sitting in the stands now twenty-five years later, he saw a young man line up behind center; take the wrong number of steps, and have the ball go sailing behind him. The youthful punter ran off the field his head hung low, knowing that he had cost East the game. Jim leapt out of his seat, and rushed down to the locker rooms, outside he saw a teenager in pads and helmet, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Jim walked up to him and said,

“Son, don’t worry…no one will remember what just happened.”

“Huh? What do mean?” The young punter said.

“You are the nameless punter, no one, and I mean no one, will remember your name on Monday morning.” Jim said.

“I am not sure I follow you.” Said the punter.

“Twenty-five years ago, I was on that very same field, I lost the city championship, because I did the same thing you just did. I wanted the world to swallow me. And you know what, when I did go back to school on Monday…no one knew that I was the punter.” Jim said.

The young man looked at Jim, shook his head, and said,

“Mister, I don’t know who you are, but I hope you are right Thanks.”

Jim went back up the stands and sat there, wondering how if his life would have turned out differently if he had made that punt. It was then that he realized that even if he had made the punt no one would have known he kicked the ball. He smiled to himself. They started shutting the lights off in the stadium; Jim took that as his queue to leave, he realized, that after twenty-five years, that one event, was not as important as he had thought it was, in fact he realized it was an insignificant event in his otherwise eventful life.