Visions of Sugar Plums

           

            I don't know if you believe in Christmas, but I know that I sure do. It just goes without saying that it wasn't always this way. The grand expectations, the materialism, and most of all, the religiosity of the festival always left a lump of coal in both my stockings. Even as a child I doubted. Santa was as real for me as Jesus and the Easter Bunny. I was told it was all make believe. We never got a Christmas tree and we never exchanged gifts. As I matured, I lost touch with any sense of wonder from my youth. I put childish ways behind me and I let go of any intangible ideas about Christmas. The holiday was not alone in this dismissal. Anything I deemed a fable, or illusion, or artificial, I cast aside. I allowed the world around me to dull and limit my imagination and in so doing, I lost any ability to consciously dream. I turned away from anything that I couldn't inspect, validate or touch. You see, my parents had never really tried to ingrain any cultural traditions or even religion into my thinking. There was no magic, no miracles  and God was as unknowable as the vastness of space. Myth only served its purpose in the classroom. We didn't go to Church. We didn't own a Bible. We did not believe in fairy tales. Christmas always suffered in the end.

             When my daughter was born, I hoped, for her sake, that I would be inspired to marvel and question and even consider. Her birth was all that I needed. It was a catalyst but it did me little good. With no foundation, I always floundered. With nothing to cling to, I always ended up back in that confounding and very empty hole in my head. When it comes to such things, our family is fortunate to have my beautiful wife at the reigns; Jingle bells and all. My daughter has never not known a Christmas tree on Christmas morning, or presents or egg hunts in the backyard. The contrived idea of exchanging decayed oral matter for cash has known many financial transactions in our home. When I have questioned the lasting effect these things may have on the child, I am told in the most jovial of manner, "So that she doesn't become void like you."

            The first time I stepped into a Church, I was 30 years old.  My soon to be wife was breathtaking in her gown and veil. Up to that point, any exposure to religion or dogma had always been served cold. I was expected to partake in each ritual but my heart just wasn't in it. It was not that I had dismissed the idea of the ethereal entirely, I was foreign to any application of such a complexity. A year later found little difference. When the baby came home, I just assumed things would be different but they were not. The tactile experience of holding something you created is profound but all the esoteric rhetoric left me wanting. I didn't see a gift from the universe, I simply saw cause and effect. I did not take notice of what I did have, what I didn't have was completely affirmed. I have never felt the need to search for something greater than myself. I have always found life was better viewed with realism than imagination and faith. As my little girl approached her 10^th birthday, I still found myself in that void. Her baptism, then her confirmation had seemed silly to me. Every Christmas morning was more a waste of time and money than a heartfelt experience or snapshot of something to be treasured or recalled. The Bible the child  gave me for my 38^th birthday collects more dust than our vacuum cleaner. I resolved myself to the emptiness. No matter how I tried or how often others attempted to recondition my sense of wonder, the more I recognized the dead place inside me.

            The Christmas tree went up just like every other year. I had little to do with the process. I was more coerced manual labour than an active participant. We all went to the Christmas tree farm. I cut one down and dragged it back to the car. I was directed how it stood and where it finally rested in our downstairs living room. My wife and daughter did the decorating. As the house was lavished with gold and silver and fancy things, I sat watching the game on the television set in the basement. I protested that I had to hang the lights out front of our home and I resisted setting up the manger on the front yard. This was my contribution to each yuletide tradition. I had never known a Joyeux Noel, or a Merry Christmas, so no matter how much I was exposed to these things I just could not relate. One might have assumed that 10 years of Christmas deluge would have tugged at my heartstrings. I suppose I have always been more of a bass drum than some violin. The garland went up on the mantel, the wreath went on the front door and I just waited for it all to be over. The final touch, the last thing to be done, was the placing of three stockings, hung by the chimney with care. My wife has always found it amusing, granting me a place alongside her name and my daughter's. One dangles in glittered red. One dangles in glittered green. The epithet 'Scrooge' is scribbled on mine.      

            She blew the buildup of dust and residue in my face. I coughed and sternly condemned her action. I had promised to attend Christmas Eve mass, and like her mother, she was in my face regarding the matter. The leather-bound collection of both the Old and New Testament rested in her hands and her smile turned to a grimace when I chastised her. Regardless of my posturing, she handed it to me anyway. You could tell she expected I would read it all, like I should be studying for a great big test. My wife watched from a distance, tinkering with the Christmas tree. Nat King Cole was singing about chestnuts and scented candles filled the air with apple cinnamon and an almost heavenly glow. It all looked like Christmas. Thanks to Glade, it even smelled like Christmas. I tried my best, at least, to not interfere with the atmosphere, if only for the sake of the child. I agreed to go to Mass for this very reason. I even wore a tie, although I must admit this had more to do with silencing the nag than appeasing the child. I was noticeably ready to go long before either of the ladies were. I was enjoying Sports Center when my better half put me to work. I went out to the garage, raised the automatic door and turned on the car to warm up. I went back inside and started at the top moving down towards the living room. It was my duty to put all the candles out and make sure of it. I grabbed the snuffer from its place and started in the bedrooms. I navigated by each light, tipping the copper hat onto each flame. Tiny trails of orchard whispered behind me as I made my way. I asked myself why we needed all this luminescence with the lights turned on. I wondered to myself why we needed to go to Church when the we have all the  tapers in our house? Remembering the "importance of atmosphere," I shrugged it off like I had done every other year. I finally made it down to the family room and past the tree, snuffing as I went along. I proceeded around the room, when highlights of the game came on. I sat back down in front of the television in good measure. I was summoned almost immediately. I switched off the set, unplugged the tree and headed out to the car, jacket in hand. I switched the basement lights off when I exited. I didn't notice the lovely glow I had left burning near the tree. I am convinced it was the television that distracted my duty. I am sure that it was providence that had me leave on that flickering wick.     

            The second time I stepped into a Church, I was 40 years of age. As my wife and daughter each lit an altar candle in memory, I sat snoozing with my eyes wide open. My smartphone was in my wife's purse, silenced until after the service. I had no idea just how ironic the ritual would turn out to be. As they used a flame to remember the past, I used several to destroy our future. The fire spread fast. Down the wall and into the tree it moved. I'm told the place went up rather easily after that. The firemen came, the police tried to call me, and my neighbours watched in horror, praying it remained intact and far away from their abodes. It was rubble before we left for home. We saw the smoke and the lights long before we turned onto our street. A crowd had gathered near one of the fire trucks and a police officer was trying to call my phone one last time. I stopped the car when I saw the ashes and we all got out in the middle of the road. There was almost nothing left but a burned out frame and some embers. A pair of first responders were putting out the last of the flames. It was all gone. The house, the garage, everything, lost to stupidity and the daily scores. I looked over at my wife, who was holding my daughter against her. You could tell she was trying not to cry. She looked over at me and asked me if I had done what she asked of me. The police officer interrupted and informed us that it appeared the fire had started in the basement as a result of burning candles. The only thing I could think of, the thing that popped into my head, wasn't about our smouldering belongings. It wasn't even gratitude that we all were safe and that no one had been at home. All I could muster somewhere inside of my head, as I looked at my girls, was where's your Saviour now?

            I am well aware of my limitations. I am also very much aware of my responsibility in starting the fire. This did little to silence every word of the Pastor from that night, preaching in my head of God's Mercy and Love and how He lavishes Grace upon us all. The only thing that going to Church on Christmas Eve had accomplished was yet another reason for me not to believe. As I stood counting everybody else's blessings, I recognized that this was no wonderful life. The flames had not only stripped us of all our possessions, it stole our home and destroyed my family. As I stood watching, my wife took my daughter into a neighbour's home and waited for her parents to arrive and carry them both away. Without a word to me, they shuffled into their getaway and left me sitting in my car at the edge of our street, staring at the charcoal remnants of my entire life. As they made an escape, I lingered on the front seat, trying to force even one tear. I supposed, in the most literal of ways, that my wife had been right all along. I was void. I was dead inside. Not even losing it all could make me feel anything but resentment and anger and despair. In that moment, I did something I had never done before. I wasn't even sure that I knew how to do it. I closed my eyes, put my head against the steering wheel and for the first time in my life, I prayed.    

            Asking a Divine creature for help was very much against my nature. Spending the night alone in a hotel room did not convince me that anything had been listening. In the wee hours of the morning, I could stand it no more. I couldn't just sit there and do nothing. I couldn't sleep. Most of the time, I felt like I could not even breathe. I got in my car and I started to drive. In the deepest, darkest part of the night, I pulled up in front of my burned down home and I got out to inspect what was left of my future. The water that had been used to extinguish my fate had frozen and formed patches of slick ice all around the property. Any snow that had melted due to the fire had joined these pieces. The entire scope of the grounds looked more like a skating rink than a place where my daughter had once played. I didn't pause for a moment, despite the yellow barricade tape wrapped around the seared trees which surround the building. I crunched threw the outer rubble, my scorched existence calling out my name. At what was once the front foyer, I was forced to stop in my tracks. I peered down into the shadows, past what used to be the ground floor. The chasm left by the flames was nothing compared to the growing space within me. I hungered for a glimpse of what had been but all I could picture was the look on my wife's face as she took my daughter's hand and abandoned me in my greatest hour of need. I turned from the place, almost slipping on a slick surface, and left my car sitting on a sheet of glass where our driveway used to be.

            I walked away, wandering past all the quaint little homes that used to be part of my neighbourhood. Every once in a while, Christmas lights called out to me, somehow mocking my disbelief. In the distance, at the 6 o'clock hour, the Church we had attended

rang out and pierced the night with ding dong merrily on high. I headed in that direction. I felt pulled to journey that way. I trudged through the misery, unable to imagine a life without my girls. I told myself that there was nothing left without them. There was no life to live if it meant this feeling of loss and guilt and horror. The further I walked, the more I convinced myself it was over. I was over. Every part of me cried out that this must be the end. I couldn't go on knowing what I had done and the consequence which had left me all alone. As the dawn began to break, I arrived in town and I sat down on the front steps of the Church and I started to cry.

           

            The snow fell softly on Christmas morning as I sat waiting for the doors of the Chapel to be unlocked. I didn't know why I was so compelled to linger in the shadow of a God I have never known, let alone believed in. I was empty and I did not know what had brought me there. When the bells tolled at 7 o'clock, from somewhere within came the unlatching and the turning of each lock. The service, the Christmas Mass, would begin in an hour. I slowly rose to my feet, wiping off the white dust of defeat that had covered my head and shoulders. I opened the door, stepped inside and stomped away any ice which had found my feet. Inside was as heavenly as it had been the night before. The priests and altar boys shuffled about preparing for the Eucharist and Holy celebration.  I left the fount behind me, failing to make the Sign of the Cross as I passed it. I walked up the centre aisle and dropped down, almost halfway up the row of pews. I was exhausted, and collapsed on a hard wooden seat. It took little time for me to lay my arms on the back of the pew before me, resting my head in the cradle of both hands. I starting shaking at the thought of my world coming to an end. In desperation, from the deepest part of my soul I cried out for God to help me. I was sure that no one was listening.

            "You cannot search for something if you really believe there is nothing there."

            I opened my eyes and raised my head to see who had addressed me, startled by a voice and a face which had not been there mere moments before. The old man sat down on the pew in front of me, placed his black fedora on the polished seat beside him and turned to speak. His hands gripped the back rest of the pew and I noticed his heavily stained fingers, as if they had been dipped into nicotine.

            "I beg your pardon," I replied, somewhat irritated by this intrusion.

            "When one door closes, another one always opens," he relayed.

            "I don't understand what you mean. Who are you?" I asked.

            "A friend," he assured me. "A friend and an answer to a prayer."

            He was around 60 years old, dressed entirely in black and he seemed to calm my agitation simply with his presence. He looked at me as if he could see right through me.

            "Do I know you?" I questioned.

            "As a matter of fact, you do not," he stated in the same manner.

            "I'm just sitting here waiting for the Mass to begin," I pointed out in the most obvious of ways. "I'm just here to .."

            "To ask forgiveness before you kill yourself," he punctuated.

            I looked at him, ignoring the statement, quite dumbfounded by his insight. His face was much more withered than it originally had appeared to be. His hair was gray and thinning on top. His eyes were a blue I had rarely seen before. They glimmered in a reflection from the sanctuary lights and bounced back unto themselves with an almost eerie glow.

            "I don't mean to be rude," I lied. "I have just experienced a personal tragedy and if you don't mind I would appreciate it if you left me alone."

            "Do you not feel alone already?" he inquired. "Just because you think that you have lost everything does not mean you have to abandon everything else altogether."

            I looked at him slightly astonished. What he said didn't really even register in my head.

            "May I make an observation?" he asked.

            "Why stop now?" I affirmed. He, apparently, didn't take the hint and shrugged me off.

            "The obvious fact that you are sitting in a place of worship would indicate to me that you already believe in what you are seeking. You could have chosen anywhere else. It doesn't matter where you have come from, it only matters that you are here now." He smiled at me. "You may believe your world is over but I am here to inform you that even the saddest sorrow can turn into the sweetest fate."

            I watched him push himself up, forgetting his hat, and he proceeded over to the altar candles. He reached for an over sized match, lit one, and walked back towards me. One single flicker raised out of the lifeless and empty display. He walked down the centre aisle and approached me gently. He reached down, clutched his hat and smiled at me again.

            "Love can make beauty from ashes," was the last thing he shared.  

            He breezed past me as if he was floating mere inches above the path. I turned to watch him leave and he was already gone. I looked about in an attempt to find him but there was no one. I was truly sitting by myself. The only other life in the place was the flame of that one candle. It danced and it waved and seemed to say hello. It convinced me that he had not been a figment of my imagination. What if everything he had observed and stated was the truth? If I had come looking for God, then I must believe in God. In trying to find something Holy, I forgot that seeking must come first. What if God had been with me all along? Blood raced to my face and I felt flush. My mind turned over and over and it started to throb. I grew weary. I grew weary of thinking and weary of feeling. I placed my head back onto the pew in front of me and closed my eyes to ponder what had been said. The smell of apple cinnamon woke me.  

            I don't know if you believe in Christmas, but I know that I sure do. The greatest gift I have ever received was a glimpse of what life could be. I opened my eyes and my world had been returned to me. The TV whispered, the tree shone bright, those damn candles flickered where I left them. I was back in my space, in my home. It must have been a dream. All of it was a dream. When my wife called out that I had left the car running in the garage, I knew that all was well. I was flabbergasted and quite bewildered. It had been so real. I pounced from my chair and ran to the candles sitting like demons near the spruce. I grabbed both, puffed them out and walked directly into the downstairs bathroom. My daughter found them in the morning, each submerged at the bottom of the toilet bowl. I stormed up the stairs like a giddy schoolgirl and grabbed my wife. I kissed her full on the mouth, hugged her with even more zeal and whispered "I Love You" in her ear. "What's gotten into you?" was all she had to say.

            It was strange to sit in the very spot where I had been approached in my dream. For this first time, I didn't fall asleep during the service. The priest's words had new meaning for me. The place had new meaning as well. As the congregation began to splinter and head home for the holiday, I looked about me for the man in black. He was nowhere to be found. It must have been a dream after all. As we walked towards the exit, it struck me. There was something I could just not forget. I left my wife quite confused and my daughter calling after me. I walked up the side of the pews, took a match and lit an altar candle. I almost skipped on my way to the car.

            The snow had been falling. The car needed warming. I scraped the front window and then the sides and finished with the back. As I opened the driver's door, the Church bells once again rang out of joy to the world and peace, goodwill to man. It was now Christmas Day. I looked into the night sky and I thanked whatever it was that had saved me. Across the street, standing in the heavy flakes of snow as they lingered, I saw the man in black standing on the sidewalk. He tipped his hat to me. I called out "Merry Christmas," and then he was gone. We left for home. I turned the Christmas tree off, checked for burning candles and locked all the doors. I crawled into bed and I held my wife close. It was not long before I drifted off to sleep. There were no flames to put out, no stranger to behold, just visions of sugar plums that danced in my head.

Photo

http://comocualquiera.com/para-que-son-las-velas/

http://www.edupic.net/lang_pics.htm

The Little Extras

            I discovered that the shop had sat on the corner of Scott and King Streets for well over one hundred years. The panes of each simple window had been painted dark hunter green in at least half that amount. They now flaked with time and ill-repair. The canopy, I was sure, was once bright and friendly but now it revealed much fading and decay. Stitches made long ago had unwound allowing for small gaps of direct sunlight to pierce the inner sanctum. It leaked. Each window was tarnished from within. In places, the stain was so thick you could not see the display set up inside. The entrance, also caked with brittle disguise, met a cracked frame and compromised base set in the same colour scheme. The door was thick and heavy, bearing an old skeleton key lock and mail slot just beneath a sheet of beveled glass. Tiny white lilies and roses and hummingbirds danced around the edges like a ghostly scene. Dead centre, resting on the glass, the 'Yes, We're Open' sign welcomes inquiring minds. The post a jovial welcome indeed. Its standard appeal hidden just behind more camouflage. From a distance the place still holds a quaint appeal, but on careful study you could not help but wonder if it had been abandoned long ago. Looks can be deceiving.  

            In stark contrast to the fading storefront, right above the canopy, the signage hangs new and refreshed. Like some throwback to Victorian marketing, it dangles, cleverly jutting out over the ripped and frail rain catcher below. No rust has invaded the cast iron hold. Both sides of the hard wooden mass sit identical in nature. Both quite pristine, as if purchased and drawn the day before. In bright copper red, against a trim of hunter green and a background of white, The Little Extras names the place. Running under the width of the logo, in a thin black mark, the words "More than Collectibles" sits like a beacon, much more than just to let you know. It is subtle but worthy of note. Do not be deceived. This is not some failing precursor to the Good Will. Inside is a different world. There is much to be seen just past the front door. This dying fashion, still all the buzz. Customers from around the world came to purchase. The shop's commanding reputation would be quite pronounced throughout the world of Antiquing. What appears an ancient relic itself holds such grand and cherished things. Rumours abound of the wonders within its walls. Strangest thing about rumours. Rumours spread. The word gets out. Unfortunately, from what had been suggested, not every patron did. 

            Mr. Arthur Beasley lived above his shop just as his father's family did and his grandfather's family before that. The steep drop to the ground floor stood as a regular morning ritual for one very old man. Carefully, slowly, he would descend.  You could watch his feet approach through the smoked glass that made up the upper half of the ground floor barrier. He would rest when he sank to the plateau. Quickly adjacent to the shop entrance, Mr. Beasley locked it tight every departure and stepped next door. From his left hand pocket he would proceed by removing the large passingkey and placing it clumsily into the hole. With one small turn, only this stood between safety and invasion. He was a short man, not more than five foot five. His grey hair fluttered from under his flat cap, just like it did every morning. Every day he possessed a different colour but every day the exact same style. His matching suit fit him well, I suppose, and his shoes looked polished to a tee. On rainy days he was unaffected, despite the ruin of his overhang. On sunny days he was unaffected, despite the sun and the heat and the humidity. It was repetitive, this back and forth from door to door. From my distance, he seemed like an overgrown elf, fidgeting between each space. You could not help but notice him and the briefest journey from exit to entrance. He would open the door, the same as every day, take the briefest look behind him, then scamper into The Little Extras. He would flip the open sign then simply shut the door behind him and disappear into his ill-secured domain.  

            I had watched him going on half the month. The chore felt like a demotion. The stakeout seemed quite cockamamie when I stopped to think of it. To imagine this frail old man, over eighty his file revealed, could somehow be a criminal, was tough for me to swallow. I had been assigned this tasteless duty after his business card turned up at three missing person's residences. The plain logo accompanied by only his name and the address and telephone number of his store called nothing to motive or intent but nonetheless. My assignment was my assignment whether I liked it or not. I sensed I was misused, as if a Detective had nothing better to do with his time and energy, not that I had much to offer. It didn't matter how ill I felt, three lost souls and one little extra seemed common ground for misgivings and intrigue. Silly if you asked me. These two weeks found customer after customer unabated by whatever monster lurked within those walls. Face after face would enter, then after a reasonable amount of time they would come out with their treasure. Young women, handsome men and even families would face an unknown fear and enter in. There was nothing suspicious or questionable about this formula. With each purchase, or so I assumed, he would wave to them 'good day' from the creaking threshold and return to his duties, perhaps even mischief. Not a soul came screaming out with warning. Even the children who would enter smiled, as if charmed, then leave through way of the same door. I found nothing to give me pause.

            I called in my intent to enter and left my vehicle locked and secure. I placed my badge in my coat pocket and my firearm was hidden in the glove compartment. I was sure I would not need it. Jaywalking across Scott St. was the only crime I would ignore that day. I adjusted myself, eager to get inside, and I pushed at the wooden frame of the door. It did not open. I almost walked into the pretty glass and all those white dainty things around its border. The handle was tougher still, and it ached with sweet relief. I held it open and I stepped inside. I was shocked at what lies within. This was no mere pawnshop or thrift store. It looked and felt more like the finest museum would. Antiquity swallowed the room. Gold and silver and bronze glimmered in what was left of the outside light. Egyptian sarcophagus, Oriental swords and Tiffany lamps called out for attention. The shop was spotless. For all the artwork, all the furniture, I could not find one patch of dust to disturb. Old books lined the walls, propped up on French Provincial or Colonial shelves. Display cases filled with the most beautiful of jewels met mahogany pieces layered with nic nacs and precious things. To the left, nearer to the back, was the counter, a hard walnut ledge with an archaic, but quite lovely, cash register. It was heavily layered, so it seemed, with copper and gold. The 'No Sale' tab had risen to this occasion. Arthur Beasley stood from behind with friendly greetings. Before I could say a word, he surprised me.

            "Detective Hardy, I presume," the old fellow said with no hesitation. "Finally," he continued, "after fourteen days you have finally favoured me with your presence."

            "Listen," I tried to deny. "I don't know who you think I am but ..."

            "You are," he inserted, "Detective James Hardy of the 41^st precinct."

            "How did you ..." I stumbled.

            "You would be amazed at all the things I know," he patronized. "You, perhaps my soon to be friend, have come in search of three lost souls. Am I wrong?"

            I was flabbergasted.  I just stood there with nothing but an open mouth to guide me. He reached behind and grabbed a collection of keys so large it clunked instead of jingled.

            "Would you care for a tour?" he gestured.

            I did not know what to think let alone what to do. The old man's brazen approach took me back and then some. I watched as he rounded the counter and met me person to person. He shook my hand with a strong grip. He was smaller than I had originally presumed. His eyebrows were unkempt, with long threads of grey and dark, mixed to a point just above the far corners of his eyes. They seemed like tiny horns, fighting to stay in their place. His clean shaven face was friendly enough and the rest of him seemed pleasant, although one can never be quite sure. Despite his statement, I could not help but feel comfortable and at ease. Of course, he had seen me sitting in my car, day after day until this moment. A man of his wealth and reputation could easily uncover my identity. Perhaps he paid off a sergeant assigned to the front desk. Perhaps he knows the Chief of Police or some high ranking official on the police force. I concluded there was nothing devious within his knowledge.

            The grand front room of the shop was so well organized, it struck me more as a library of pleasures than a den of deceit. Completely ignoring his own claims, he walked to the far rear end of the over-sized room and began to open two very well maintained and large antique doors. Nothing creaked, nothing clamored as both slid, without incident, into their hiding place.  He reached just inside, past the empty space left by the doors and he flipped on a light by switch. The room was bright and well preserved. Hard wood accents ran along the wall tops and around the bottom into baseboards of the same dark stain. The walls were deep burgundy, painted not papered. I moved forward for a better look. Like puzzle pieces, each wall was coated with varying sizes of different framed pictures. These captured people I would not dare to recognize without closer, keener  examination. Those three walls each looked more like a photo album or yearbook page than a display on a wall. The floor was hardwood, polished and shined. I couldn't see even one scuff or print on it. The center of the room struck me as purposeful and spectacular.  An extra large Oriental rug ran by width and length to the outer middle, a testament to the size of the space. A ripple of copper red and hunter green dashed about a sea of burgundy and off-white. Each fringe seemed carefully laid, almost pulled in an appropriate direction. The ceiling was a simple white, with little decoration. A chandelier of reasonable size hung like ice after a warm day. A cascade of crystals flowed down at least three feet from the main stud. The height of the room was impressive. Resting firm beneath it was the most curious thing.

            It was not the cherry wood table that drew my attention. Sitting like a masterpiece would, resting on a small ebony easel, an empty frame loomed like the Mona Lisa. The holder was obviously gold and inlaid with ivory lilies, roses and hummingbirds. Each delicately grazed the black satin backing where no picture was. Arthur moved deeper into the room eventually reaching the far wall. I was so dumbfounded I just stood there, like the mummy box up in the front room. He carefully reached up, took down a simple wooden frame that was carved in a way I could not make out. There was no dust for him to brush off the photo, but he pulled out a handkerchief from an inner pocket and he polished the glass to and fro. I just watched him, trying to listen should he give himself away. Thus far, I had seen nothing to implicate the man. That was all about to change.

            "The Little Extras," he began, walking slowly along the outer wall. With each step he took, he touched the encased picture by the wooden frame. He seemed to tap on it as if following some distant drum that I could not hear. He continued, "offers itself as a humble shop filled with timeless treasures and things made of gold. We sell to anyone looking for the finer things in life."

            He stopped, then removed a second picture from the end of the opposing wall and placed it on the other. He resumed the tapping on metal instead of wood. This frame was ornate, solid silver from what I could make out. As he crossed the room to the third wall, he revealed, "We even dabble in the taboo."

            He stopped, placed a finger to his chin and seemed quite perplexed over something he did not voice. He grunted, moved forward a few feet, and removed another frame from its place on the wall. This frame seemed simpler but for the shine of polished gold. It was lesser in both weight and function. It wrapped around the photograph like a single bow of great value. He placed the third picture on top of the second and proceeded with his beat in the same manner.

            "This shop offers anything your heart desires, anything you can dream of. We have unique and the rarest of things. These little extras are not our bread and butter."

            He carefully walked to the middle of the room and placed all three frames down upon the deep stained round table, knocking three times on the surface.  

            He stood for a moment, finished the tapping, and began to speak once again. He seemed stern and oddly Shakespearian, as if Hamlet was about to place his soliloquy for an audience of one. "Some people come here looking for greater wealth. Some seek out an ancient totem in the hopes of better luck and a better life.  Many customers come for mere pleasure, to have and to hold. They are somehow more in their own small minds because of a possession. All are welcome but our customer base varies depending on the need. Some come to collect, others are called."

            "Called?" I inquired.

            "We offer," he carried on, ignoring my question, "special services unlike any other." I started to smell a rat. "Take you for example, Detective Hardy."

            "Me," I asked. "What do I have to do with any of this?"

            "Did you think it was mere coincidence that you were assigned this case? It was fate, not chance, that finds you here with me."

            "Look here, Mr. Beasley," I punctuated.

            "Please," he interrupted. "Call me Arthur."

            "Look here, Arthur," I reiterated. "You seem to know an awful lot about who I am. You also seem easily distracted from the real reason I am here today. Why don't you cut through all the crap and get to your point?"

            "I assure you of my intentions," he added. "Regardless, I will make my point heard." He turned back to the table, picked up the three frames and laid each of them out, one beside the other. He touched his finger to each as he said, "Linda Hedges, Richard Grant and Malcolm Stern. How is that for my point?"

            Adrenaline rushed from my toes to my nose and I practically ran over to the trio. I was astonished by his almost confession but much more by the three missing persons, each smiling grandly, captured in wood and silver and gold. I instantly thought about my gun that I had left in the car.          

                      

            "There is no danger here," he claimed with his smile. "Occasionally, our patrons require something more than a mere ornament. Our specialized services are simply a way of helping people, like you, who readily need our help."

            "Helping me?" I inserted. " Listen here, you are treading a fine line ... Mr. Beasley."

            "No huff, no puff," he preached in a jovial manner, waving in dismissal from his midriff. 

            "Would you care to explain to me why you have photographs of three missing persons hanging on the wall of your place of business?"

            "I did business with them," he explained.

            "What kind of business?" I demanded.

            "I ended their time here," he revealed.

            "Are you telling me you murdered these three people?" I huffed.

            "Oh no," he assured me. "No one was killed or harmed in any manner."                  

            "Then where are Linda Hedges, Richard Grant and Malcolm Stern?" I puffed.

            "In those picture frames," he said as a matter of fact.

            I have seen the odd and strange and many things during my tenure on the police force. The nut balls I have arrested over the years range from sad to severe. I had never encountered anyone or anything like Arthur Beasley and The Little Extras. As I stood listening, I grew tired and weary from the stress. The chemo takes a lot out of you, especially first thing in the morning. I was overwhelmed and just wanted to lay down on that beautiful rug and sleep forever. Waves of nausea washed over me and the headache returned.  I should have tried harder to mask my predicament. 

            "May I ask you a personal question, Detective?" he pondered.

            "Why stop now?" I whimpered.

            "Why are you still working when you have been given less than six months to live?"

            "Okay," I perked up angrily. "How the hell do you know that? Nobody knows that but me and my doctor. What in God's name is going on here?"

             The old man seemed startled, as if he believed bad decorum outranked murder and collusion. He begged for my consideration. If I just allowed him to explain, all would be well again. I was faint and excused myself to the water cooler in the front room. He followed like a puppy would. As I filled my second glass, he offered me a grand chair to rest in. I took to it before I ended up on the floor. It seemed to absorb me, a delicate mix of structure and comfort. I sank into it and suddenly I felt better. I somehow knew if I left  its safety, the ill would return once again. I planted myself and bid him to continue. 

             "Linda Hedges came to me with one month left to live. Her heart was so damaged, so compromised that it took her longer to get through the front door than it does for me to descend the stairs next door every morning. Richard Grant's lung cancer was so advanced he should have been hospitalized. When he first appeared at my door, he was barely alive to begin with. Malcolm Stern was exposed to radiation when overseas with his company. It was literally eating him from the inside out. He begged me for help," he paused. "So I gave it to him."

             "What do you mean by help?" I inquired.

             "Do you believe in other dimensions, Detective Hardy?"

             I replied as succinctly as I possibly could with a hard "No!!"

              "What if I told you that you could avoid dying altogether?" He waited for my response.

             "What makes you think I'm dying, Mr. Beasley?" I quipped.

             "End stage pancreatic cancer is a death sentence," he forced at me. "Here at The Little Extras we offer a life sentence." I glanced over at him as if he was queer. "I can arrange for you to leave this reality and be placed at a new beginning. No pain, no cancer, nothing but the new life that you choose to live,"

             "So you're telling me you sent these three," I scoffed, "these innocent people into some dimension where they could start a new life?" I searched for each portrait.

            "Yes," he pointed at the round table. "Each one of these has left this plane of existence and started a new one. A new life without the terrible circumstance that brought them to me. They traded one finite existence for a never-ending one."

            "You'll have to forgive me," I projected. "Don't you think you sound more than a little wacky suggesting such a thing?"

            He gestured for me to follow him and I carefully made my way into the back room. Oddly enough, a new chair waited for me where one had not been before. It was identical to the one I had left, which I turned to spy in the same place it was before. I sat down just inside the doorway as he went from one random photo to another, addressing the name and reason for their 'departure.'  Face after face flashed at me, name after name met with each unique and special frame. He randomly jumped from one to the next, like from a phone book, picking and choosing each example in the most deliberate of ways. As my sickness left me once again, I wondered to myself just who this strange old man really was. How did he know all the information about me? What kind of wack job tried to cover up his crimes with the excuse of inter-dimensional travel and a magical escape from ill health? Each one, he pointed out, met their fate in the same unbelievable manner. Hundreds of people, he made perfectly clear, had come to him and his special brand of renewal. Hundreds of people, each one, now someplace else, trapped inside each frame. I stood, pushed back the armchair, I forgot and reached for my sidearm. A flood of misery washed over me. My stomach turned and my head began to swell. I remembered where my gun faithfully rested. My intent remained the same.

            "I need to get something from my car," I injected. "Arthur Beasley, I need to contact my station, so please remain where you are until I return."

            "As you wish," he seemed to placate. "Are you sure you do not wish to take another path?"

            I declined and turned back towards the front door. In spite of my condition, I walked as quickly as I could, leaving the shop and crossing towards my automobile.

I reached inside and grabbed my firearm, still unsure whether I would need it. I called for backup and a cruiser to take Mr. Beasley in. I closed the door then rested upon it.

            It took over an hour for the Judge to issue a warrant. Eventually, I found myself sitting on the curb waiting. Waves of discomfort crashed throughout my body like tides on a shore. When Mr. Beasley's escort arrived, I tried to stand but had to cover my imbalance with a smile. I walked back to the front of The Little Extras and instructed the two Constables of my intentions. Just before we entered, I noticed something rather odd and out of place. The pristine signage that met me when I first arrived was missing. Even the cast iron holder had disappeared. I reached for the doorknob and it opened, swinging  all the way back with a heavy squeak. I could not believe my eyes. The room was empty and in poor condition. Cobwebs and dust trails littered the crevices of each wall and across the old faded counter near the back. Not one item, small or large, remained in its place. The golden cash register was gone. The display cases, the antique shelves, had all vanished while I was outside. I was noticeably stunned.

            "Is there a problem?" one of the officers asked.

            "Its gone," I urged. "It's all gone!"

            "What?" he inquired.

            "The shop, the collectibles, they aren't where they were but an hour ago," I cringed. "Where the hell are all the little extras?"

            "Warrant says this is an abandoned building," the Officer spoke.   

            I grabbed the warrant in disbelief. I could not comprehend how any of this was possible. I began to question my sanity. I turned over and over in my mind. I reached out for proof that I had not imagined it all. Had these two weeks been nothing but a dream? Was Arthur Beasley and his magical cure simply my imagination? The other Constable walked across the room towards the rear and stopped in front of the pair of large doors.

            "Maybe there is something back here," he noted.

            With a strong gesture, he pushed both doors open. One got stuck on a rail and he forced its completion. He fumbled  for the light. The picture room was barren but it was not empty. The walls were faded, lacking the brightness they had held before. There were no images captured in a frame, not one rested on the walls. They could not be seen or noticed or found. Every part of the room looked abandoned, rather unwanted and unrefined. In the center, sitting as it had before, the dark circular table rested. From top to bottom it was covered in heavy amounts of dust. You could tell from the condition of it that the golden frame with ivory accents had waited for me. It was not streaked with webbing or covered by time. It sat all alone, middle of the table, and looked very much out of place. I walked towards it gently so as not to reveal my weakness. His face was clear. Without any question, Arthur Beasley looked at me. 

            He met me with the most friendly of smiles. I barely had the chance to absorb the spectacle of the room. I stood in front of a large wooden counter near the rear of the shop. What appeared as a gold and copper cash register glimmered in the artificial light. He reached out to her, shaking my hand like a gentleman would.

            "Doctor Elizabeth Barrett, I presume," he professed in the most polite manner.

            "How did you know my name?" she questioned, rather dumbfounded.

            "You would be amazed at all the things I know," he grinned. "You, I would hazard to guess, have come in search of an ancient remedy."

            She just stood there with her mouth half open. He reached back and took a rather burdened key chain from the wall behind him, then gestured towards two over-sized, but very shut, walnut doors. They were in immaculate condition.

            "Would you care for a tour?" he asked.

Photo

http://www.richardsfabulousfinds.com/2014/07/yes-we-are-open-on-4th-of-july.html

The Littlest Shepherd

            Azariah was not like the other children. He was smaller, much frailer. For all his 12 years, he stood lesser than most. His hair was not dark or curly, rather, it glimmered with lighter tones and hung straight and fair. Most children in Bethlehem lay sleeping this early winter night, but Azariah stood watch with his father over sheep.

            His father and the men who worked with him had been delayed in arriving home. For almost three weeks, they had been detained because of the census. The colder desert nights had come and the journey from Hebron had been dank and unforgiving. His beaten clothes, not fit for the winds of a Palestine winter, did little to bring much needed warmth. They had arrived back near Bethlehem and planned to stay in the fields until morning when the market opened. His father, a shepherd his entire life, had brought Azariah on this travelling, in hopes of building character in the boy. When he married Azariah’s mother, a Hebrew girl from the Roman territories, he did not expect her death in childbirth, nor did he anticipate that his only son would bring such disappointment and weakness. The harsh life of a shepherd was no place for someone like his son, and with no one to watch over him, he was forced to carry this reminder of God’s judgment upon him throughout the Palestine countryside.

            When the light appeared in the sky, no one was sure what to make of it. When the brightness appeared above them, they were so afraid. A few sheep, startled by the quick and the unknown brilliance, fled to safety. Azariah wanted to stay and see this marvel which magically appeared in the night sky, but his father sent him out in the dark to find the flock which had abandoned them to the same night.

            As Azariah walked into the desert, he did not hear the voices of angels heralding the good news. He did not see the celestial glow from the host which appeared to his father and the other shepherds.  He did not take his father’s hand and follow into the town waiting from the distance. He just kept walking and calling and praying he could show his father that he was strong enough and brave enough.

            Only a few sheep had strayed from the flock, but Herod’s taxes and the expense of traveling for the census meant all were precious and they could not afford to lose even one. As he walked, he thought of the mother he had never met and the taunting of other children. Life was not fun for Azariah. Between a disapproving father and the shame of his frailty, he held little in good regard. In temple, he sat and listened to the tales of Moses and David and Isaiah, but it was the words of the other children which stained him with feelings of worthlessness and sorrow. He too, just like his father, held bitterness and contempt for those whom had made his life almost not worth living. Such ridicule and endless dampening stole the innocent heart and childlike ways of this little blond boy from Bethlehem.

            He grew colder and the desolation of the desert did little to quell his fear and hesitation. He had always preferred being alone, but this night he yearned for the hands of his father, the safety of a greater place. Suddenly, he heard it. The subtle noise of beast was almost invisible, cloaked behind wind and sand and bitter sting. There, alongside an outcropping of rocks, he found the seven sheep that had strayed. Azariah sat down beside them and started to shake. The night had grown darker and colder and met the chill of his heart as he cursed his father for sending him into the desert to die.

            When the sheep laid down beside him in the sand, he could not believe his eyes. He had never seen such a thing. Azariah remembered what to do. How many times had his father told him to find warmth with each other or the animals, if ever lost in the desert come night? How many times did his father instruct him to stay huddled only until the warmth returned?

“Never sleep on the desert floor,” Azariah recalled.

“You will drown in the sand.” 

             Azariah could feel the heat returning to his skin, as he lay between two ewes and the sun-baked glow of the desert floor. Staring out into the endless sea of ebony, he searched his mind for a way to get back home. Although he had not ventured beyond the dunes, he could not find his way. He raised his head and called out into the deep black. There was no reply, no response. Not even an echo bounced back from the hills which shadowed his path to safety. There was no moon to light his way. No fire in the distance to call him as a beacon. He turned over, praying for a new perspective.

            It did not appear, but it was not there mere moments before. It filled his eyes with daylight. It was the same brilliance which had scared the sheep into running. He rose up and greeted salvation. The star shone brighter than any other he had ever seen. Its glow reached across the skyline like beams of blue and bright. It was brilliant and full, and for Azariah, it was hope. The dunes glistened with starshine and gave way through the night. The tail of the star seemed to float in the heavens until it focused on one spot. Azariah knew, he just knew.

            He quickly rounded the sheep and headed into the light. He started out, then he wandered toward the shine, for the star in the sky led his way. When he got back to the pens, he could not find his father. He could not find anyone or anything but a fenced-in mob of white cotton herded into capture. He added his seven blankets into the cage and wandered into the tail of the star. The late night gave little rescue to the answers Azariah searched for. No townsfolk could he question. He looked up and checked the radiance of the beam. It was still with him even though he was home. The star of wonder flickered then to pinpoint, it managed his way.

‘Are you far away from home

This dark and lonely night

Tell me what best would help

To ease your mind

Someone to give

Direction for this unfamiliar road

Or one who says, "Follow me and

I will lead you home."

            When Azariah was older and had a child of his own, he would sit his son down and tell him the tale of the littlest Shepherd. We would tell him of the cold desert night and how the sheep gave warmth to see him through. He would tell them of the kings and the stable and the things he saw that night. Most of all, he would tell them of his star and the wonder of how it led him home.

Sources

The Little Shepherd

(Originally Posted 12-21-2010)

http://simplekel.blogspot.ca/2010/12/littlest-shepherd.html

Meaning of Azariah

http://www.biblical-baby-names.com/meaning-of-azariah.html/

Christmas Lullaby

A Christmas to Remember, Amy Grant 1999

Photo

http://designers-house.blogspot.com/2009/12/27-amazing-widescreen-christmas.html/

Marmalade

            Alexander Stafford was a son of a bitch. He recklessly left the proof all over his wife's face. For eight years or so, she had been beaten. When they married, she had no idea she had signed up for this. It didn't matter whether he had been drinking, sleeping or taking a shit. The slightest disruption, sometimes even the smallest sound, would send him into a rage. It started almost immediately after the birth of their daughter. They married because of little Olivia. Apparently, while Karen Stafford found great hope in their newborn child, Alex found every reason for contempt and eventually abuse. He changed the day Olivia was brought home from the hospital. It must of flown over his head that all babies cry, and not always with a reason. When Karen pointed this out, he slapped her hard across the cheek. It left a mark. Slapping turned to punching, punching turned to kicking and they all met somewhere in the middle. He was at his worst when he had been drinking. No matter what happened, no matter how much pain he inflicted, protecting Olivia was Karen's primary concern. She considered herself a human shield, useful in distraction. By her eighth birthday, Olivia seemed relatively unscathed by it all. He had never laid a finger on her, Karen made damn sure of that.

            Life was like a prison, not most days, all days. Karen felt trapped, stuck in a cage from which she could not break free. She wasn't allowed to have friends. She wasn't allowed to go outside the house without his permission. She was to do her work, feed the brat and have dinner waiting for him when he got home. Most weekends she cleaned around him, passed out on the floor from the night before. She thanked God that her parents had previously passed on and could not see this. She had not seen her brother Kyle in over five years. She was isolated, brainwashed and brutalized. The time he spent at work was a godsend to her. Alex had insisted on home schooling for Olivia and Karen spent the time between her duties educating the girl. Every evening when he pulled into the driveway, Karen would rush Olivia up the stairs and have her lock her room from the inside. His unpredictability was a force unto itself. Her life had no balance, no stability. From each minute to the other, she never knew. Her daily being was getting from one morning when he left to another. She yearned for a better life, a better existence than all this terror and struggle and insecurity. Regardless, she never felt strong enough to free herself. She believed all the words and was terrified of the repercussions.

            She wanted to leave more than anything. His threats were her chains. He would see them both dead before he let them get away. No matter how much time passed, or where she went, he promised that he would find her. She was convinced he meant what he said. For Karen, his greatest threat was that he would take Olivia and disappear or even kill her. She would never hold her again. She would never brush her light blonde hair, not ever. The thought was almost more than she could bear. It crippled her and forced her to remain. There was nothing beyond his grasp. He even controlled all the money. The only time she escaped her prison was on Saturday morning when all three would get groceries at the market a few miles from their home. Every item, every purchase was scrutinized. Olivia walked beside her mother, holding her hand in silence. The heavy makeup Karen wore, and the scarf around her head, did little to disguise his temperament. She felt ashamed as she followed with her daughter, always at least two steps behind him. He was in control and Karen knew it. In secret, Olivia knew it too. The walls in their home could not protect her from the rampages of her very own monster. She heard every word. She listened at the door of her locked bedroom as he pummelled  her Mom over and over again. When he passed out, or headed to some bar to find further means for consumption, Karen would call out for her. With great trepidation, Olivia turned the latch and waited. The water running from the bathroom did not wash away her mother's shame. It did nothing to quell Olivia's growing hate and resentment.   

            When he wanted, he took her. She had no choice in the matter. He would force her down, anywhere that he cared to, and invade her even further. If she called out, or said no, the beating would turn from rape to a greater brutality. More often than not, she just stayed where she was and let him do his business. It never lasted very long anyway. After the deed, she made sure there would be no other child between the two of them. Ridding herself of any seed he had planted was simply a matter of the right household chemicals and a silent spray. After each cleansing, she would stand in front of the bathroom mirror, categorizing each new bruise, each new stain upon her dignity. Makeup never hid the truth from Olivia. The child knew fully well that her mother was trapped. Olivia knew that she was trapped as well. Every little tear, every silent sob, was simply a smaller part of a bigger nightmare. Day after day it would repeat. Year after year, the bars became stronger and any song that either one wanted to sing fell to silence.

Some birds are not meant to be caged.

            For eight years of age, Olivia was nobody's fool. Her father may have never touched her but her mother's abuse was also her abuse. Each violent scene chipped further away at her innocence. She grew up sitting on the floor of her room holding Marmalade, the only dolly she had ever been allowed to play with. With no friends, no schoolmates, Olivia's world revolved around her make believe confidant. Olivia had convinced herself that the porcelain antique understood and would never tell a soul. To the child, this explained the lonely frown painted on her pretty polished face. The doll had been part of Olivia's inheritance when Karen's mother passed away. The money she was left had been squandered long ago. With no pictures allowed in the home as a reminder, with no outside family to confide in, her mother and Marmalade became Olivia's entire existence. The doll's curly yellow hair and orange dress where the only real picture she had known of other people. The dainty shades of pumpkin silk and weave that made her hat and Marmalade's dark black shoes were the only contrast she knew in her life. Everything else always seemed blood stained. For a hundred year old collectible, the replica's condition was near mint. Olivia treated the doll like her mother treated her. She washed it, combed its hair and read it to sleep every night. It was her best friend. It was her only friend, a fellow prisoner in a cage of fear.   

            When the beast would show his fangs, Olivia hid the toy under her pillow so she would not hear the commotion. When it was over, she pretended Marmalade would cry in her place, silently, causing no provocation. The only source of true delight Olivia knew was the silence. She had been conditioned to recognize no other way. There was no vacation each year. There was no Halloween or Christmas. Life was a constant rebound, then down into it all over again. There was no peace of mind to be found. Even when he left for the day, the chance of an early return would keep both victims off balance. It was during this time that Olivia and her mother found some sense of reprieve.

            Together they would study or bake, clean up and then chat like girlfriends do. The light-hearted banter regarding better days gone by always held great appeal for the sweet eight year old. When her mother was sharing, the child saw glimmers of something she herself had never known. Her mother would tell her every day that there was always hope. Someday, she would promise, they would escape from the dungeon and go stay with her Uncle Kyle in New York City. Someday, Grand Rapids, Michigan would be nothing but a bad dream, long gone.  Someday, everything would be okay.

"When is someday, Mommy?" the child would often ask. 

            It wasn't some unresolved childhood issue that drove Alexander. He hated his life but he liked his power. He figured that the stupid bitch got herself pregnant and trapped him, so he trapped her. In some sick and twisted justification, he gave her what he thought she had given him. His callous nature only added to the torment. He felt little, if anything at all. Some men are small men. He was not a big man by any means. His average stature and less than impressive physique may have been a reason for his over-compensation, but Alex wasn't the kind of guy who took the time to consider such things. He would tell himself that he never had it so good as the little bastard on the second floor. As far as he was concerned, they both got everything they deserved. They had it coming to them after destroying his future. His dead eyes revealed a dead heart and his conscious actions revealed the very monster Olivia feared the most. If men can be truly evil and if demons really exist, then Alexander Stafford was both and so much more. His broken and battered wife was a testament to that. 

            Once upon a time, she had loved him. She gave herself to him believing that he loved her too. It was clear that he was not capable of love. Despite adjusting to her circumstances, and learning to survive, Karen stored every word, every action, away in her mind like on a flash drive. She was haunted by her error. In the deepest recesses of her mind and spirit, she hated him more than anyone could hate anything. She would fantasize. One morning she would place poison in his coffee. At dinner, she would approach him from behind and smash his fucking head in with the cast iron skillet he had once used to break her arm. While he slept, she would cover him in gasoline and send him straight to hell with one strike of a match. She knew she could never find these realities. There was really no one to look after Olivia if she went to a different prison. Her brother seemed to not care about family and Alex's kin just encouraged his behaviour. There was no way she would ever let any of them near her daughter. No amount of suffering, no form of abuse, could make her sacrifice Olivia for her own freedom. She also was well aware that something had to give and soon. She already saw the way he looked at her baby. She knew all too well her daughter's fate if they failed to escape him. This conflict was like an endless echo, repeating the truth as if from a screaming Mimi.

Madness was served each night at seven on the dot.

           

            Olivia heard laughter just outside the bedroom window. She noticed it immediately as it was foreign to her ears. Carefully, she lifted the dark brown shade and peeked out into the neighbour's side yard. She had never done anything so disobedient before. It had been made clear to her, there would be no outside. There would be no going outside and there would be no looking outside. This prison was dark and dank with dim lighting. Sunshine filled the room and bounced off Marmalade's polished face. Olivia noticed that her dolly almost looked alive in the brightness. The toy sat in the center of the bed, propped up on the pillows where she always took her place. The almost empty room filtered dust and particles that seemed like dancing fairies to the little girl. For just one moment, Olivia experienced magic. She knew she wanted more. Looking back towards the source of her wonder, she spied a young boy, no older than her. He was playing with some animal, throwing a stick then waiting for its return. She was amazed. She had only ever seen a dog in books before. She wanted to see more. As her mother rested from last night's thrashing, Olivia tiptoed down thirty-five stairs as quiet as a mouse. She knew just where the extra set of keys were to let herself out. In the pantry, behind his stash of beer, liberty jingled as she pulled free the lot. Sneaking over to the kitchen door, she used the key labelled K and found liberation. She stopped. She had left Marmalade on her bed and wasn't sure if she should go outside without her. It only took one more bark for her to forget her faithful friend. Olivia rubbed her eyes and greeted the day. Her emancipation was unattended.

            Tyler Newman was a small child but he was a delight to behold. Rufus, his sidekick, was an English Cocker Spaniel. She had learned that from her studies. As she

peered around the back corner of the house, the boy saw her and waved hello. Rufus ran over and tried to jump on her. She wrenched back quickly. Olivia didn't know what to make of him but she was thrilled with her adventure. She forgot all about the creature who soon would be home. The devil always shows when you least expect it. The standard blue 2012 Dodge Ram that Alexander drove was all thanks to providence and one very dead mother-in-law. The child didn't need all that money. He was early when he pulled into the driveway and saw Olivia outside her cage. He calmly parked the truck, got out of the vehicle and politely told her to come inside for supper. Olivia was now frozen from fear. Suddenly, Karen sprung open the kitchen door and beckoned the child to come in. Olivia moved like a spitfire just before the crash. The good mother then locked the door when they both got inside. They stood trembling, Olivia pressed against her Mommy's legs and Mommy pushed against the door. Through the kitchen, down the hall, the door opened with little fury. It was locked in the same quiet manner. He stood fuming. 

"Come here, you little shit," was all he had to say.

            Karen reacted as if she had planned her response a million times. In fact, it was closer to two million and then some. She whispered in Olivia's ear to make a dash for the stairs when the coast became clear. The child would be out of his range if she made it. She pushed Olivia behind her and reached out for the butcher's block on the counter beside the door. Without hesitation, she pulled the largest chef's knife from its place and pointed it in his direction. He rushed down the hallway, fists ready to confront her. Karen readied herself for the coming storm. When Olivia felt her mother tense up, she rushed from behind and yelled at her approaching father. He almost leapt to make contact with the frail and deserving insolent. The child fell hard against the back wall of the kitchen and curled up in a silent ball of shattered safety. Karen screamed and flew towards him in an ultimate act of defiance. She threw her arm in the air and plunged ten inches of stainless steel directly at his face. He grabbed her arm in mid-thrust and the knife fell to the linoleum floor. He kicked it far away from the both of them. Karen saw murder in his eyes. He grabbed her by the throat and started to pummel about her head and face. She dropped to the ground  and looked for Olivia.

"Run," she uttered.

            Olivia  watched as the only man she had ever known, literally punched the shit out of her mother. With every moment of the beating, she waited for the sign. When her mother fell and spoke to her through all that blood and pain, Olivia didn't hesitate for a second. Karen knew what she needed to do and grabbed hold of the monster's leg and then bit clean through to under the skin. What little soul he did have began to flow from the gushing wound. She spit him out but she underestimated his anger. With one forceful motion, he raised his fist and laid Karen straight across the temple. Her broken body knew silence on that red splattered floor. The distraction had been enough. Olivia scampered up the stairs and slammed her door shut tight. He had never been able to break through before. She grabbed Marmalade from her resting spot and shoved her under the pillows just like every other time the beast would roar. Alexander Stafford crossed the last line he had left to cross and headed for the staircase. At the bottom, he unzipped his fly with almost unimaginable intentions. He knew the time had come to quit playing games. It wasn't madness that propelled him up those first few steps. He knew very well what he was about to do. He held his injured leg with one hand and the banister with another and made his way towards the top.

            Three steps from the landing found his injured leg tripping. He didn't even notice the porcelain doll laid out across its width. The toy's head crunched and shattered under his weight. Then and there his weight shifted. He tried to grab a better hold on the hand rail but both feet flew out from under him. He tumbled down almost thirty-five stairs. When he finally landed face up at the bottom, you could hear a loud snap like a twig in the wind. Alexander may have never really ever used his head, but fate and a little girl's keepsake had. His neck broke in all the best places and his legs flipped over him, cementing themselves like some damaged contortionist. His feet rested ever so slightly at each side of his face. The old oak door creaked open, ever so carefully. Olivia peered into the hallway and wondered to herself if the silence was real. She ran back to the bed and got her dolly. With Marmalade in one hand and the doorknob in the other, she listened for any sound at all. Inch by inch, she made her way to the top of the stairs. There was no indication of anything that might tell the tale. There were no signs of struggle and nothing on the stairs. As she clutched to Marmalade, all that Olivia could see was the lifeless body of a monster, limp and quite lovely, laying in a pool of dead.

"Fucker!" was all she had to say.

            Olivia stood with her mother taking one last look at the prison. The 'sold' sash across the 'for sale' sign was freedom and cold hard cash. The monster's truck was sold the week before. At her feet rested Marmalade, prim and proper just the way she had always been. Olivia picked up her dolly, squeezed her tight and walked to the waiting car with her mother. Trevor and Rufus bid them both goodbye.  Karen's brother Kyle closed the door behind them. There was silence in the black Lexus until the engine turned over and all three drove away. No one turned around to watch as the horror faded. No one except Marmalade. The toy was held over Olivia's shoulder and seemed to peer out the rear window. A smile was now painted on her face. As the car rounded the bend at the end of the street, a small crack appeared in the doll's forehead.

Photo

http://www.pinterest.com/susanscats/character-faced-and-googly-antique-vintage-dolls/

Mirage

            Duke knew right away that he was in trouble. The energy wave in the air that he passed through seemed to kill all the systems and the plane went from soaring to descent. It was a no brainer. With no time to call for help, Duke Reed unlatched the cargo door and dropped out of the spiralling aircraft. He prayed that always wearing his parachute would finally pay off. With the chute engaged, he watched as the white and red Cessna Skyhawk dropped out of the sky and crashed onto the desert floor beneath him. The explosion rocked the sea of sand upon contact, just like a large ripple in the water would. A pinnacle of smoke and fire propelled up into the hot Egyptian sky. In the distance, Duke saw his intended destination. He had left Cairo earlier that morning and headed southwest towards Giza and the Great Pyramids. With no need to refuel for such a short trip, he planned to do a fly-by then return to the airport 15 minutes away. It was clear he wasn't going to keep his schedule. He floated softly onto the sands and shuffled about collecting his chute which he had disengaged from his body. He stood dumbfounded, both hands placed on his hips while staring into the blue middle eastern sky. He took in a deep breath, got his bearings and headed towards the plume of black smoke just over the nearest sand dune. As he neared the crash, the trail of fumes began to fade away.

            There wasn't much to salvage from the single-engine plane once the fire and smoke subsided. The crash and resulting explosion incinerated most of the contents and gutted the avionics, leaving little but a burned out shell. The radio was melted and even the black box compartment seemed to be compromised. Duke Reed was all alone, with no water, no real shelter from the searing afternoon sun and only a pocket knife as protection. He sat for the longest time, huddled under his parachute, which he had secured over a burned out wing with piles of the charcoal rubble. He waited, shielding himself from the desert glare. He expected the GPS and homing signal to bring him much-needed assistance. Surely someone had seen the thick black smoke billowing into the cloudless sky. Although his watch must have been damaged in the accident, his pilot and survivor training eventually told him that no one was coming. His only ray of hope was some water that he discovered in his carry on bag. Once the cabin had somewhat cooled, only three plastic containers of liquid love had been conserved by his titanium briefcase. His fishing hat and cell phone would be useful in their own accord. Unfortunately, he couldn't get a signal, so he gathered what he could and headed for higher ground.  Despite the heat, he knew he had to remain in his flack suit. The sun would literally eat him alive if he exposed himself to it. His cap gave little relief from the sweltering sky. His heavy boots anchored him as he climbed the highest sand dune he could find.  Between the ungodly temperature and scaling the dusty monument, he had exhausted himself before reaching the top. When he hit the summit, he fell into the baked crust.

            He carefully rationed each drink of water, taking only a small amount in order to keep himself somewhat hydrated. When he stood, he was weak and literally lost. He swore he had seen the three pyramids as he drifted towards the ground, but they were now nowhere to be seen. He just assumed that each dune, after each dune, blocked his view from this vantage point. He tried his phone again and again but to no avail. He looked in every direction and cringed at the endless layers of drifting and shifting sand. He spied for roads and bi-ways leading through the desert but he could find none. If he had landed within the slightest distance of those monoliths then there should be civilization somewhere, at least to some degree. There were no settlements like Al Omraneyah surrounding  the modern tourist trap. He knew that this place was heavy and congested with people. He had seen the hotels and servicing centers circling the Giza attractions. As far as his eyes could see, he saw nothing. Not a single person was in sight. There were no cars, no animals, no signs of life. It was an endless ocean of bitter sting and suffering.  

"If Moses could do it," he joked out loud. "So can I."  

            The further he travelled in the godforsaken wasteland, the more he felt like a pork chop, sizzling under an oven broiler. The longer he pressed on, the more futile his journey seemed to be. His only guide was his greatest foe. The position of the sun, and his pocket knife sitting in the sand, made for a makeshift sundial, revealing what he hoped was the approximate time and the direction he should be heading. From his initial approach by air, and the position of the pyramids which he swore he had seen in the distance, he continued on a southerly course. The blazing sun bounced off his grainy host, occasionally almost blinding him. As his sight slowly returned, he was greeted by even more sand and more dunes and nothing else but misery. He wondered where civilization had gone. He knew that the plane had crashed mere kilometres from one of the most popular tourist destinations in the modern world. He recognized that there was no indication whatsoever that anything was at all but him, tracking through hell itself. He was tempted to change his aim to the southeast in hopes of finding the Nile river, but fearing he might get further lost deterred his gut instinct. He carried on over a land that was fit for no man, especially one quite ill prepared for the journey.

            It was completely impossible but it seemed to Duke that the Sahara Desert had swallowed up any trace of man or beast. There was nothing, no marker, no signpost to help him find his way. Since Giza is the third largest city in Egypt, he figured he was standing somewhere within plain sight of the flourishing centre of commerce and tourism. If in fact he wasn't anywhere near Giza, he half expected to discover the town of Al Doqi or Kafr Tuhurmis at any moment. The suburbs of the ancient city seemed painted over with red and orange grains of glass and doom. If he had indeed crashed beyond these settlements, then there must be some reason why had he not crossed Ring Road, a main artery between old and new Cairo and the Giza Necropolis to the south. He knew that the densely populated area between both of these cities was rich in urban sprawl. In his estimation, the population would have jutted much further out into the scorching desert, far beyond where he now stood. He moved forward into forever, the piles of resting dust a constant reminder of his torrid fate. He fought on, constantly starting then stopping, then to start again. Sips of water did little to quench his need. When he saw the large shifting dune, he told himself to give it one more try. He used his last resolve to quickly scale the monster. He almost fainted from the exercise, falling to rest at the top of it.

            All hope left Duke Reed as he sat up and surveyed his lot. He saw the plain truth, stretching out into nowhere. Perched on the sand, he almost went out of his mind. It had become quite obvious to him that something beyond explanation had occurred. He was sure he had not strayed off course. He realized the world as he knew it had completely disappeared. He searched his intellect for answers, for an account of what had happened. Perhaps, he carefully considered, it was not modern civilization that vanished but somehow he had. He pondered any other rational solution but came up empty. It must have been that breach he passed through in mid-air. Although he had only experienced it for a moment before it swallowed him and his plane, he was sure that this could be the only explanation. He imagined that, like with a wormhole, he had been stolen from one place to put down in another. For all he knew, that portal had deposited him far out in the middle of the Sahara.  He was grateful that it had not chosen to leave him floating out in an ocean or melting in an active volcano. He realized he could have landed in any desert, anywhere in the world. This could be the Australian Outback or even the Arabian Desert to his east.  Still, it might have been easier for him to have died instantly in that crash, rather than shrivelling in this scorching heat and merciless sun. He didn't know what was next. Why bother moving when he could just surrender and be done with the entire struggle. He reached deep into the improvised satchel that he had clipped from his parachute and pulled out the one remaining bottle of water. Only 500 millilitres of pure spring refreshment now stood between him and sheer agony, then death. He rested, propped up high on a sandy peak with no idea what the hell he was supposed to do. He finally mustered enough strength to push himself up.  

Everyone looks for God when lost in the desert.

            He had never been a praying man, but Duke called out for anything that might be listening. He started to panic given his unfortunate circumstances. He begged and he  pleaded to the God he had never had the time for or the disposition to even consider. He grew dizzy and noticed he had stopped sweating. Recognizing the telltale signs of heat stroke, he called out into the distance with one last appeal. He checked the phone which had long ago run out of power. As he headed down the side of that giant dune, he tripped from exhaustion and rolled to the bottom. The sun had risen into an afternoon sky, of that much he was sure. He closed his eyes before they disintegrated into puddles of flesh. He flipped over to shield his face and block the glare which continually attacked him throughout the day. The wind had arrived and was blowing ever so slightly against his exposed skin. He supposed that even this minuscule relief was nothing but some tease, meant only for Divine entertainment. He felt punished. He knew madness. He gave in to abandon and surrendered to the sand. 

            The whole of the desert meant silence. He screamed out loud, cursing anything Holy in one last reprieve. Hope then rose from the desert floor. Despite his state of mind, he could hear something in the distance. It was some form of flapping, some lingering noise that remained on the wind as it picked up speed. He rose onto his elbows to look around. He knew that he had seen nothing but desolation as he had approached the dune that he lay at the base of. He was convinced that he had journeyed so far for nothing. Even now, he saw only more hills of death and isolation. Reaching for the water, he gulped some down then stood against his shining foe. He listened and heard it once again. It seemed to be coming from somewhere over the dune just beyond  him. Tiny pieces of earth stung against his face as he raged into the meagre sandstorm that had called to him. Each step he took was instantly covered by the wind blowing up the sand. He rushed as much as he could, tripping several times into the searing ocean of meant to be glass. His breath was shallow yet racing. His eyes were filled by the looming orb. He mustered everything that was left within him and he sped around the ridge. He dropped to his knees when he found it.

The ruffle from his compromised parachute danced in the breeze.

            Natalie Reed watched her husband through the thick piece of glass in the  observation room door. It had been three weeks since the plane crash and little had changed. As the only survivor, she realized how lucky he was to be alive. Duke sat in a corner of the fully white space, rocking himself in an obsessive motion. He uttered nonsense while bouncing against the padded wall. They had found him covered by his parachute, lying face down in the sands. The only thing they knew for sure regarding the incident was that someone had opened the cargo door in mid-air, forcing the plane into a tailspin due to the change in pressure and wind speed. The craft plummeted to the ground. The pilot and other passengers died instantly upon impact. The white and red Cessna Skyhawk was burnt out beyond recognition. Somehow Duke had managed to break free, landing less than 100 feet from the wreckage. When they found him, covered in sand and his means of escape, he was intact or so they thought.

"All he wanted was to see those damn pyramids," she whispered to herself.

            The wall of energy appeared out of nowhere. The plane flew through it and the engine and system conked out instantly. With little time to escape, he secured the parachute he was wearing and flew out the plane's cargo door. He floated to the ground as he watched the Cessna Skyhawk take a nosedive and drop sharply from the Egyptian sky.

The resulting explosion sent a pillar of smoke and fire and ash straight up into the air. Duke Reed seemed to hover, softly hanging above the desert floor. In the distance, like a beacon of hope, he spotted three pyramids just to the south.

Sources

http://www.cessna.com/single-engine

https://www.google.ca/search?num=30&safe=off&site=&source=hp&q=giza&oq=giza&gs_l=hp.3..0l4j0i10j0l5.276.1106.0.1631.4.4.0.0.0.0.198.558.0j4.4.0....0...1c.1.48.hp..0.4.557.xN0xleSuVOU

https://www.google.ca/maps/@30.0245469,31.1995308,12z

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giza_Necropolis

Photo

http://hd-wpaper.blogspot.ca/2013/03/desert-sands-pyramid.html