THE LAST

NICE DAY

A Short Fiction

In Celebration

Of

The Fall Season

By

David A. Archer

02/15/1968

10/19/2006

"What a nice day!" She noticed as the public transportation released her onto the street with the standard and not even noticed swoosh of hydrolic doors.

She didn't even need to hear the guy say it. It was just that nice.

She was glad to be heading for the beach just after her audition. If things went well she would be out of there in under two hours, either way.

Sure she hoped to get the part, even though it was a bit part in some unknown and longshot pilot that hadn't even been pitched yet. But the day was so nice and she had gotten so used to it being like that all of the time.

She couldn't have been farther away in any meaning of the word from her former hellish misery back where she was from. The thought occurred to her just then that the last time she was there, summer had been on a Thursday that year.

She couldn't have been more happy that she set out on her own, "make it big or not." Besides, there was always Vegas.

She had even gotten over all of the nerves about stories you hear concerning casting couches and other seedy forms of bribery just to get your name said in this town. She got past all of that stuff which seemed only there to thwart anyone with a little ingenuity and a dream.

She was so lost in the mundane aspects of her now normal life, that she didn't even recognize the man that had issued the greeting to her..... again. This time miles away from where he had managed a glimpse of her attentions previously.

She was definitely not going to let sitting in an office waiting room for who knows how long, ruin the rest of her day at the beach.

She noted in her daily diary, as it was found some months later, that the auditions went as usual which meant that again she must have been over looked. It paled against the description of what was to be the rest of the day for her and even a note concerning writing home just to stay in touch.

When her moment in the office was up that day, she hurriedly made her way to the same old bus stop with great distraction as the cell phone bounced and the handbag filled with her beach gear continued to slide off of her shoulder.

It must have been someone she had recognized to some degree. Someone, as typically common in these instances, that she trusted to some degree as she didn't get to the bus stop.

In fact, no one found her for some months. Nearly a year even, though the evidence of long term abuses were still present on her remains, probably being a source of pride for her assailant.

He was good at this and had many connections as was evident in being able to achieve his goal in abducting her so easily. He must have even planted the individual that she had grown somewhat trusting of, as none of her other frequents recognized the vague descriptions.

It could have been any of several scams meant to lure her with the patients most doctors would envy, but chances are it was the good old "sure thing" for an inside on something opening up as for entertainment work. Usually a false front as a talent agency and the sort... but it could have been the more recently popular "secret agent" bit that seemed to be "working like a charm."

As most of them go... once they are found out... she probably spent the last of her days in a dark basement. Imprisoned in some way without even the common decency of intending to brainwash her. Just torture and power plays. Empty and useless sobs. Most likely she was kept nude and deprived of any sustenance unless she managed to comply with the every whim of her "last connection to the bigtime" so to speak. Her last "sure thing."

It is hard to say why or where they come from. Either of them. Beyond the allure of what people consider to be fame and fortune. One thinking they will find it and the other knowing they will find those seeking it.

The empty heads that seek it are nearly a pitiable lot. Someone might as well save everyone the trouble and just pick 'em off as they get off the bus, or plane.. or however else they manage to drag the same old visions and supposed dreams now nothing more than cerebral reruns, into what amounts to a tired, old town. A tired old town so callous and racked with decades of indescribable inhumane activities, that the movie industry itself can't begin to hold a candle to it.

Fact and fiction are very much only different punchlines to the same old joke in this hole. Most often ending in the same ways with different means of getting there. And all the more sad, is that no one seems to mind. It is as if there are far too many people on the planet, and everyone knows it somewhere in the back of their mind.

Most of the time no one even bothers to look for them... either of them. And most often such occurrences pass with the smallest of notice or comment even within their own circles.

The psycho-weirdo's really only do it just to hear someone submit to them in any way they can manage. No other real reason exists except of course, that they too are an example of just too many people. Too many people in too small a space, wanting the same old crap.

She spent her last few months locked away with one of these sort. More than likely not even remembering who she was by the time the gift of death was issued, or just set in as her physical body gave up under whatever strains and abuses it was put to.

Just for a laugh more than likely. The unimaginable entertainment of hearing the same old pleas in a different accent maybe. This time, just to hear a little southern twang.... that time, just to listen to some deep inflections of Eastern Europe, perhaps. Always beginning with the same confusion and empty threats along the lines of "someone will be looking for me" and of course the efforts to hold on to hope as long as possible. Which is very much a known entertaining aspect to those "flip side" infections that accompany the over population of anything, in any species.

The human versions are just a bit more twisted and grotesque given that animals hunting overgrown populations, never do it just for fun.

Humans do anything "for fun." As long as they have an excuse, especially.

It was a rather nice day, I had to admit myself.

I remember it pretty clearly as I stood there and watched her exit the bus with the faint and promising scent of her perfume magically in tow.

What a nice day.

A

Little Place

Down The Road





A Short Fiction
In Celebration

Of

The Fall Season

By


David A. Archer
02/15/1968




10/11/2006







I had passed it as I was first arriving. It really didn’t strike me as out of place and most definitely didn’t seem as though it could hold the depth of sustained torment that I would soon find it housed.

It looked like an average, though quite ornate and medium sized church with leanings toward the old world décor. It had enormous stained glass windows that would make a person wonder being that it wasn’t uncommon for tornado’s to occur in this area.

It didn’t even dawn on me then that it was obviously deserted… or seemingly so, but not one of the large windows was even soiled. In fact, they gleamed.

I didn’t even think about it for some weeks after I had settled in my new place of residence just up the way.

It was a smaller sized town than what I had been used to living in, but work demanded that I move there and being a single young man I had no real reason not to. Especially given the incentive of position and stock options presented as compensation.

The house was nice. Quaint, almost petit…but rather nice. The neighbors matched it in a queer way that was hard to put a finger on at the time. As if they had been refurbished as well, when the siding had been replaced and the trim was painted.

Luckily enough for me, I lived just at the edge of a zoning area that became retail spaces. Shops and the sort which made for a level of comfort near what I had been used to in the bigger city settings. It was a main street intersection of sorts, and was situated between my dwelling and the old, deserted church.

I worked from home, being an employee of a rather large internet based commerce company, so I found that living wasn’t all together too different than what it had been in more populated settings. There was even a small café type of place with outdoor seating and a bar near, which I took full advantage of in my off hours.

Most stories around “haunting” tend to happen… or are said to happen in the darker hours. At night as it were.

I would soon find a mind altering experience which could be described as nothing but personally witnessing such super natural activity, in the light of day. At least, from what I can recall that is, when it began.

As I have stated, a person would never begin to suspect such dire occurrences in such a docile and even subdued to the point of strangeness, township. No one ever mentioned it… the church, beyond passing comments which didn’t seem too alarming. Most times speaking about it as if it were the family pet, or something. Even in response to a few of my own topical queries pertaining to it, I was met with just as remote as per substance, as was my ignorance in inquiry.... though laughably and quite usually, a bit more colorful in expression. It seemed that most of my new neighbors and co-habitants of this small town, could talk a blue streak through a brick wall without chipping the mortar or really saying anything.

I found myself kind of wishing I had possessed such skills in most of my tenure inhabiting large cities. Of all the conversations I managed with the rather hospitable populous of this smaller town, I cannot remember one thing of pertinence actually having transpired in the exchanges.

I had experienced the perfection of “small talk” first hand and found it rather comforting. Even pleasant if a person can imagine such.

I found myself with some bonus time one afternoon and decided I would use it to further familiarize myself with the area. So I set out for a walk around the extended neighborhood.

I strolled through the little stretch of residential area between my address and the retail shops, and began to notice the season. The leaves were just turning and the blossoms were falling away, leaving lonely looking stems where only recently had been a variety of blooms to rival even the ornate configurations of stained glass in the church I was inadvertently bound to experience.

The leaves were giving up their post at the ends of branches and twigs on branches. Some more willingly than others as was evident in the mysteriously growing number of them blowing down the breeze. This happening in the area of seasons change where you can’t really tell where they come from, being just as many still aloft and undaunted as now were skipping along the ground.

I continued past the stretch of shops and hospitality establishments, and found myself again entering a more residential type of area. Yards full of squash gardens… nearly ripe pumpkins and of course the bare stems of in flower beds. I then noticed briefly, the passing paper boy seemingly hurried to some degree. Peddling and breathing as if in a sprint. The sort of hurry that is accompanied with a spooked look, and a need to be somewhere else, though differing in the fact that it was obviously an accustomed state of existence.

It reminded me of my own similar tasks as a child. Those which dictated the immediate need in a boost of effort and concern in getting past the yard with the large, unchained dog and always open, entryway for instance.

This paper boy was concerned with something, though was obviously quite used to it however uncomfortable it may have remained in his routine.

I then looked to notice I had managed to find myself directly at the front entry to the church yard which stood open, and off the hinge. The metal frame beginning to show signs of decay as was the wooden, parched looking slats that comprised the fencing. Themselves presenting an aura as if to be charged with maintaining the tragic constant of the universe itself.

It was no sooner than I began to consider stepping into the church yard that the entire scene changed dramatically. If I were superstitious, I would have been wracked with near panic at the speed of it.

Being rational and most modern, I knew the seeming change was due to the weather pattern developing quickly as was rather a common expectation this time of season and local. I noticed huge thunder heads forming and beginning to crawl over the mountain peeks nearly surrounding the town itself. Big, dark and heavy looking clouds bent on convincing anyone of the ominous potentials they bore.

It definitely looked like rain soon.

As I again looked to the church in the near distance, just beyond the churchyard itself now seeming to be a playground of sorts for various colors and types of leaves, even being similar in the respect of clusters of them.... grouping as if in cliques here and there through out the dull, brownish tan grass, I couldn’t miss the idea that somehow the leaves seemed to be in a celebration. They tumbled and frolicked as if in jubilation brought on with the sudden change in weather. A celebration touched with a somber tone which I found accented in the sudden shiver moving through me as I gazed upon the quiet scene.

I think back now and realize, that if a howl would have been emitted from somewhere at that moment, I would not have been the least bit surprised. But there wasn’t, which maybe made it all the more tense in a subliminal way likening to ethereal velvet.

I then noticed the growing lack of light. It was still quite obviously mid day sometime, but the darkness was growing as were the clouds now immense and looming.

The darkness itself carried a similar tension as it grew… as it strained even, to gain entry in spite of the light. As if it were demanding in some way, more so even knew of itself it would eventually win out and cover everything known, in darkness.

The small, cathedral like church itself, remained as if to shine. As if the darkness were everywhere except on the structure itself. It was a reflective presence from somewhere perhaps even non-existent though easily discernable in the extreme contradiction which was represented as the wind now chilled and excited farther, the dance and frolic of the leaves. It is safely said that the immediate atmosphere now resembled something stuck between the living realm and death... though somewhat cyclically.

I now stood just inside of the grayed and splintered perimeter and found myself particularly intrigued with the grand entry way to the church as it now seemed to loom in competition with the growing clouds.

Some leaves had gathered in a corner of the deep corridor leading to the common double doors, just as commonly set with an array of depictions. They softly moved just beyond the influence of the growing breeze and looked to be huddled along with a few articles of miscellaneous derivation.

I realized that the darkness in that corridor was the only example of it on the entire form from what I could see. As if in some way by design as some unspoken effort to warn and thwart any light hearted or unsure steps that may approach.

I found myself taking a deep breath. I knew before I knew, that I was going to go into that building and my body was already preparing the fortitude with which to trod past those foreboding aspects usually given from such darkness. I was actually stepping before I made the realization entirely in a cognitive manner.

The doors were very much as I had expected them. Deep hardwood with inlays and etchings of various religious references and of course framed and fitted with iron. Forged and pounded, again as expected.

I really had no reason for concern at this point given that nothing besides my own perception had foretold of anything that might be of concern. A perception that was notably influenced from the common, though freakish turn in the weather.

Needless to say, my reason won out and I stepped through the heavy doors. Intent on making myself expect nothing in particular.

What I found immediately was nothing of the sort. In fact, it was very particular to say the least.

In a moment where I thought I may have been blinded with the contrast of the darkness outside and that which I stepped into, I luckily realized that it was only the rather natural effect of stepping from considerable darkness into rather pronounced light. I could almost feel the glare on the back of my eyes.

It wasn’t until I began to adjust to the contrast that I began to note how out of place such a presence of seemingly natural light was. It streamed through the stained glass and filled the entire cavern within the church with a bright and warm light reminiscent of those days bordering spring and summer.

It was breathtaking and even welcoming simultaneously. The colors and patterns from the large windows combined nicely with the brightness of the apparent sunlight.

A person could have thought to even sit and have a quiet moment to themselves if it weren’t for the delayed entry of a host. A rather disconcerting and confusing presence as it approached, bearing a recognizable form of a female. A considerably young.. perhaps mid twenties, female.

The confusing aspect of this presence was not in the idea of it having been a female, but more to the effect and condition of her appearance. Her blouse hung open as if it had been torn, and her breast was exposed and was obviously maimed, though still bearing the shredded remnants of a bloody brassiere. Her body must have been wracked as the contortion in movement was enough to bring most to a quick panic…then further were the noticeable wounds growing more obvious as she approached, including one of her eyeballs looking as though it had exploded in the socket.

Again I was enthralled with another extreme in contradiction being her presence and the comfort of the area itself, but the curiosity lasted only until the smell of her state in and of existence accompanied her visage. It came upon me as if it were an entity itself seeking to cover everything within it’s reach.

She was obviously dead.

When the smell hit me, I found myself surprised that it wasn’t just as visible as now was her mangled and repulsive physical being.

She stopped at the edge of the stage like riser which held an altar and various effigies gleaming in the light around a podium.

“What have we done?” I distinctly heard emit from the broken bone and torn flesh of what was once a jaw.

All I could do was sit silent in the pew and fight the urge in no longer wanting to breath as she seemed to hover… almost dangle there from her position near the podium.

“Don’t stay long” I then heard in a deep, booming voice which sounded more than familiar with the act of speaking, “You won’t be able to leave, if you do.” I looked to the top of a staircase where it became apparent that the voice was that of a priest. A priest having a pronounced wound just over the eyebrows which allowed brain matter to droop and sway slightly from it.

“We no longer hold services here” the voice continued, “none that are open to the general public, though some of us have to be a part of them here at least until the rapture.”

I then found the initial concerns lift some with the calm presence of the priest… even through the decidedly apparent fact that he was dead... while still animate.

“I feel somewhat uncomfortable in asking this….” I found myself with the courage to speak, “but just what is all this?”

The quiet in the large chamber then turned into silence. A hard silence that I had never experienced before. As if that place between the living realm and death shifted in that instant more toward that of non-existence.

Then he spoke simply and clearly, in short words; “Take up a hymnal” was all that he said, and I found myself wondering momentarily if I might just be imagining it all. Then I looked to see myself reaching for one of the many thick books he had suggested, in the back of the pew in front of me.

No sooner had I grabbed it, than it began. It started as a strange feeling.. a tingle so to speak in my fingers and hand that held the hymnal. I began to get flashes of imagery, horrific stills and terrified feelings mixed with pleasant and rather warm sensations of the same sort. It was all I could do at that point to actually bring the hymnal closer and open it.

As I began the attempt in reading my vision fell away and I found it replaced with a suspended state of consciousness.. riddled with more flashes and imagery as a person might imagine would come of a skipping needle on a record as it was placed, in extremely slow motion.

The flow of information smoothed… much like a stone skipping across a pond comes to rest eventually… though with this progression I found myself now immersed.

I couldn’t have told you at that point whether I was experiencing the things I was, or if it were only in my head… as I am sure in hind sight, that it was. A product of some inter-dimensional connection.. perhaps a captured bit of the existing consistency between our waking lives and that state beyond death. But it continued… and in doing so revealed everything I had wondered in that instant of question.

It was very much a replay of sorts, like a person might imagine their life flashing before their eyes. But it was the lives of those inhabiting this place, and the series of things which brought them to this state of existence. What is more, is that it was somehow from the perspective of the very reason they were now cast as such.

I was now a cursed psychopath, possessed by things beyond human understanding and bent on the slow and very cruel destruction of any and all in attendance at this given church.

Further, I knew instantly that I personally had no reason for such… more so that the initial individual I now vicariously perceived as, seemed to have no want or reason beyond pure and simple blood lust. Only a burning hatred of centuries if not eons in torment was discernable…. And of course the unstoppable want to exact that same measure on any living creature within grasp.

It was terrifying at first. I found a level of automation within the living… or dead display…that soon served as a strange comfort. Doing so through letting me know that it really had been someone else which perpetrated the atrocities I now was forced to experience the act of having done.

There are few words to describe the blur of it all. The pleasure I found myself having as the life seeped from the eyes of victim after victim… somehow making sure to fill the want of actually watching it disappear while the cries and pleas of others forced to watch in waiting for their turn at the business end of wrath unspeakable.

I found that the more the victim wanted of reprieve, the worse and longer were their demise.

Violent actions and words sparing no level of violation. Definitely sparing no means through which to administer sustained forms of inhuman pain. At times even while fully inside of the victims in the most detestable of sexual manners, in any and all ways a person could imagine. The screams serving only to fuel the morose pleasure indescribable within the performance of such transgressions.

Children were not spared. In fact, there seems to have been some added level of pleasure in laying upon them the most vile of monstrosities in action and display for the others, not yet lucky enough to be dead… to witness and consider in their last moments.

This continued one after the other. One grotesque form of climax and carnage smeared into the repetition of initial torments in games meant for choosing the next to be subject in such a manner.

Then finally all that was left in view, was the priest. Sitting among the evidence of present and very ungodly evils having just transpired and bearing the expression a person could never describe in the rest of eternity through the mumbled action of something similar to prayer.

Then words came from the only other place left able to produce them, being my perspective, in a guttural tone I hope never to hear again… from any perspective.

As a large gauge firearm was produced and set directly against the priests head, they became audible…rumbling from somewhere near the edge of everything imaginable; “Anything you’d like to request?”

“A chance” came the priest’s response through tears and something resembling exhaustion, “a chance to have been more like Jesus… I wish I could have been more like Jesus” he concluded in sobs.

“Consider it done” was all that was heard just as the explosion of the weapon slightly acted as precursor to the spattering of blood and fleshy matter, itself just previous to the collapse of his carcass entirely.

At that point there was a release. It was a release which connoted even more than just a completion. It seemed to signify a continuance yet realized, and was accurate in only moments as the priest then again stood up.

“You are a very lucky man, Mr. Goody Priest Guy” exclaimed the insanity which still waved the shotgun like a pointer stick. “It just so happens that I was cursed by the Devil himself…. So I choose to extend the favor and grant your wish” he hissed as the blood still spilled forth from the priests near empty head. “Rise Mr. Goody Priest Guy… and resurrect your flock, if you will…but know that I have not extended to you the power of healing them…. So as I have left them, is as you will have them from the moment you choose to reanimate their worthless existences…… and further consider Mr…. Holy Man…” he spat in disdain… “They will continue to decay at the rate as does your love for them…. So choose wisely when you choose between your guilty conscience in having failed them… and their immediate damnation for the rest of eternity. Either way…” he again spewed as if from the mouth of hell itself, “it is no ones but yours to now choose.”

“Now go” I then heard in the slightly familiar tone of the priest.. as I still seemed to stand there commanding his torment and seething hatreds unknown. “Go and don’t come back… and never speak of this or have it known, or he will find you as well… and any you may have even ever been a slight part of.”

“How possibly so?” I then managed of my own volition still not sure of which or where it was that I may be.

“He is the essence in the eternal body of death tied to creation. He is that on which the very idea of existence unravels while it forms from somewhere else. He is the reason that people age. The reason that things die. His presence in perpetuity alone is that which begets pains and sorrows. Rot and decay. Loss and any form of horror the devil himself no longer had interest in. His curse is life. His life is forever entwined in even the concept of our existence. He is that which will never be felled between human want of immortality and the wretched excuses they call living. He is that which inhabits the path toward death, unseen. Exacting the interest of his life long toll on the other side of mortal demise. He is that which sups upon the continuance of dying, destruction and the demise which is human life.”

His voice fell silent as I noticed I no longer held the firearm and the bodies only moments ago strewn around the area, were now quietly making their way down the long staircase. It would appear that I had returned to waking reality. At least as close to it as I had been at all.

They stood there around the podium in a choir like formation looking in silence as I silently looked back at them.

They didn’t move or fidget at all and they all seemed to have that dangling demeanor. They didn’t speak and neither did the priest, I noticed, once I returned to waking consciousness.

They just stood and I soon joined them standing, though some distance away once I felt I could hold my own footing. This being further inspired by the proportionately more pronounced smell of death in relation to the arrival of the flock in entirety.

I found a reluctance to leave which seemed as much a want to be with them as I made the concerted effort to force my movement toward the door. Perhaps some form of enchantment… perhaps some heightened desire through a familiarity none else would ever know. But most definitely present all the same. Accented with the beginning notes of something I will never forget as they started to sing as best they could from the tattered remains of their existence;

“God sent His son, they called Him Jesus
He came to love, heal, and forgive.
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
Our empty graves are there to prove my Savior lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.”

I found another moment of hesitation in closing the door behind me as I again entered the light of day… something wanting me to stay for another little while seemed to echo in the tone of their words.

Maybe it was a sense of loneliness that rang through even the words now faintly on the wind beyond the door?

Maybe it was a familiarity starting to form through having been their executioner if only vicariously?

Maybe it was a want to know more about the monstrosity I had embodied which was described in such broad, sweeping strokes?

“And maybe” I then thought to myself as I stopped a the top of the stairs just out of the darkness in the corridor, “Maybe I would like to sing with them a little…I could just stay for a song or two? It would be the neighborly thing to do” I thought…

“After all, I just lived in a little place down the road.”

IN
THE
MORTICIANS
MOONLIGHT

A Short Fiction
In Celebration

Of

The Fall Season

By

David A. Archer
02/15/1968

10/04/2006


Of all I have heard – stories of mortem, that is – and experienced for myself, I have come to realize it to be a façade. All that it entails as per our perception, except of course the “dead” part, is a façade. A distraction to some degree, as it were.

The reaction to it, the sorrow, the curiosity, the fascination, even the fears in various forms. It is all a detour. The glimmering object which draws your attention. I am not alluding to an after life here.

At least not in ways most recognized.

Like I said, the “dead” part is real. I guess I should be inclined to divulge just how it is that I have come to this realization and I will do so, but I am not even sure if you will be willing to believe it. It isn’t as though what I have found is so far fetched as not to be believable, only that there are very few people that are willing to have their frame of mind altered to such a degree as even considering the facets I am to present here-in.

I have experienced several personal instances with the indescribable faction called death, in a few different manifestations. The dead pets, the exposure to television and a few I have come to find are a bit more real than is most common in society.

My mother died when I was quite young.

I remember certain elements of the experience rather clearly, and then others seem rather indiscernible. As if they are really neither here nor there. Something I have come to find quite interesting in my investigative curiosity into this strange and eternal nothingness in our existence, called death.

I have also hunted various forms of wild life from a rather young age, as well as having raised live stock.I have been in a close relationship with forms of death from very early on in life, but have come to find that everyone else has as well, but in different ways and whether they know it or not.

When I began this curious endeavor, this effort to clear some things up for myself, the notion for which I guess I simply stumbled on having had a closer exposure to even the idea incarnate of death than most people. It is that I began where any logical individual would.I began to crash funerals at first. Sometimes just to watch the people, and then other times to observe more closely the remains of the personal introductions to a deeper understanding of death, as they lay there in full view of any interested. Lifeless as expected, but still seeming to have some quality about them. As if there wasn’t one of them quite ready to have been in such a situation yet. As if perhaps, they even all still had something left to say and knew to whom they wanted to say it.

Even the old, wrinkled and poorly disguised remnants of human life, now all boxed up and ready to disappear except for the occasional thought and cheap arrangement of flowers.

There was much more to it though. Something I hadn’t as of yet realized fully. It was as though they were even involved in some sort of relationship beyond what we commonly see in the most common respect, through that myriad of distractions.Soon, I found myself rather comfortable in such situations. So much so, that I began to do what I could to wait around until everyone was gone. At first just to chat with the remaining employee’s of the given institution where the ceremonies had just taken place, then to find myself stealing into closets to wait for long after all had gone home.

Not much different I imagine, than many groupies toward various entertainment genre’s.

I realized things that not many people ever consider in those brief experiences toward this curiosity. Those conversations and quiet moments.

One of which is that we all most certainly are dying from even the moment of conception. The process of aging itself, is really nothing more than an extended period in the onset of death from some perspectives.

In fact, if you go to bed with someone every night...then you are already sleeping with a dead person, you just don’t know it yet.

I began to do other research as well. Most notably to the fact that there is, as with many other trade groups, a considerable amount of people that begin, but never quite go on to become morticians.

After some observation and consideration I soon realized that it wasn’t because the trade is difficult by any means. This became readily evident to me when considering what I knew about the live stock trade and how easy it was to maintain standards during slaughter for meat products meant for consumption.

It doesn’t and didn’t seem as though it could be so different. But it is, though not so much in the ways one might expect.

When I considered it, it just seemed as though work in the line of slaughtering for food stuffs would even be more difficult given the standards which must be upheld to meet specifications for consumption.

It turns out, that it very much is… but again, not in any way that a person might begin to suspect.

People that went on to be Morticians, were very much selected to do so… but yet again, not for any reason that I even could personally have begun to consider at that point.

I had a hunch and I followed it. And as morbid as it may seem, I am really glad that I did.

I began to pursue my morose curiosity with the mystery around the bustling trade of undertaking.

Why did it seem so lucrative? Why was it that obviously only a select few were chosen to fill said roles?

It was just death, after all.

Less than a century ago such rituals were still carried out in the house hold by family members.

What could possibly have changed in that short amount of time?

I began to become more aggressive with my investigative techniques. This mostly because of the secrecy and closed knit community I found the trade to be comprised of.

I had gone as far as a death groupie could go in that direction. So I stepped up my game a little, knowing I might even find dangers beyond what I was prepared to deal with should I have gotten caught.

I soon found myself doing such distasteful things as peeping in windows and the occasional, rather sloppy “second story” job in addition to staying late a poking around, in the effort to bring myself closer to my burning curiosity… usually laying quite frigid and motionless on a stainless steel slab in a dark room.

I will have you know that there was and is nothing perverse about this curiosity. At least not at first… but now I am not so sure as to how it would be categorized after making the realizations and discoveries I have.

In the many “near field” visitations and sessions I witnessed as per the basic autopsies and preparation of the bodies, I began to sense that there was a much deeper relationship transpiring. Not just between the mortician and the cadaver… but as I have alluded to, even between the dead bodies and all of the rest of what we know to be our living realm.

Of course, in some of my more successful ventures after having gained entry into the venues, I found the average stuff that many have already heard of such as the worm we all carry between our ears being carefully removed and transported to another, waiting young host. And even further yet found the just as mundane aspects of recently abducted bodies being “doctored up” in order to hide the evidence of any such other worldly transgressions. This all complete with the guys in dark glasses and suits making subtle exchanges in document and instruction with the waiting, dead faced morticians.

This stuff didn’t really draw my interest too much. The things I found more interesting were, as I have stated, the subtle… even delicate presence of relationships on various levels.

I found one of the more interesting aspects further enlightened as time went on and I managed to gain the confidence of a few, near retiring persons of this mortal trade.

Their stories alone could fill volumes. If, that is, I ever saw fit to divulge them in entirety.

I have found that some things are better savored alone.

I will include that in some of the more confessional type of interviews I eventually managed, I was exposed to some of the more pristine and meaningful art work I have probably ever seen.

All of it done quite tastefully… much of it in various nude forms and settings.... but the entirety of it consisted of carcasses as subject and model.

Some of them having obviously been brutally maimed, which meant that the sketch work and other art forms had taken place before any sort of reparation in the interest of the façade we all perceive.

While I began to make myself at home one evening, after everyone had left the morgue. I found a rather interesting mood complimented with the dim lighting a person can find in any professional atmosphere long after the doors have closed for the work day. It was a welcoming comfort that I noticed as I strolled through the rows of ice box handles and cadavers laid out being readied for the most special of attentions. In allot of ways, it seemed as though the only thing missing from the “mood” could have been a fresh cut vase of flowers and candle’s placed at tasteful intervals.

As I looked, and observed… purposefully changing my own perspective at times, it was evident even more so at this point that it was a love affair.

Simply put, and in no complicated terms, a love affair.

It was a love affair between the dead and all that is considered living.

It is a longing in such directions, but in no way as per our perception through the clouded interpretations of death which we hold in our everyday.

It is the sort of longing a person can see as lovers pull each other closer… never seeming to be close enough. This as they lay there motionless without even a word, much less a discernable care for anything transpiring beyond what can be seen as this relationship.

Many people think that death simply arrives and is then gone… but look closely and you can see that it still resides with them, caressing the every nuance which remains of their existence.

An intercourse most absurd as per our everyday considerations. An exchange so enthralled and involved that a person might think it was the act of death itself, and further is the only reason for such an extreme transition to transpire.

It is quite active but suspended beyond anywhere we as living creatures could fully appreciate it for what it seems truly to be. So much so that it could be argued in the direction of actually enhancing beauty. Pronouncing the supple aspects of that which is so mundane now, in life.

I can see the advertisements now; “Death! The Enhancer! Get some today!”

As strange as it seems, I think people would buy it. Especially those so wrapped in themselves that they have managed to miss the simple pleasures of life.

I tend to look now at a filled coffin as if to expect a smile at any moment. Maybe it is the majority of those that missed out in their missteps while living, that tend to hold on to that relationship a bit longer than others.

Maybe it means that there are still depths within life that humans have yet to explore? Areas of existence with supernatural plains for instance. Large bodies of energies and un-thought-of possibilities for, and within existence… even perhaps at our very finger tips. All going un-noticed behind the density of what we call cognitive, waiting to be noticed for its superior qualities we are not yet equipped to receive? Only and finally, finding it post mortem.

And maybe it means quite simply, one way or the other, that there is someone for everyone, after all. Waiting quietly and patiently in those places you never look to, expect, or see, for that fated moment when at last you meet, and embrace. Never again to know any other, than death itself.

HIDE

THE

CRYING MOON

A Short Fiction

In Celebration

Of

The Fall Season

By

David A. Archer

02/15/1968

10/06/2006

Some people thought it should be legalized under the freedom of religion statutes.

Others realized that even with that, it was still far too easy to "volunteer" someone that had nothing to do with the specific "religious beliefs" which were sought to be legalized. This part concerned some people if only because of the permanence involved with such "volunteering."

Being a human sacrifice was quite the heavy decision, even more so when it was being decided for a person through the manipulation of those around them in their daily lives. Which was becoming easier to accomplish in the more recent social directions of society.

I guess that was the one stipulation which really de-railed the movement to legitimize it all as an organized religion. They just couldn't seem to contain themselves within the areas allotted for their own interests. "The grass is always greener" type of weakness in their organization, soon found it to be less than organized by any means, and very much now within the distinct possibility of removal entirely… and very much through their own efforts. Many of such efforts being perpetrated and perpetuated in the growing panic and fear mounting within their own ranks.

There were some people, just as many opposed as for I guess, that thought it should not ever gain a status of legal recognition. Much for the same reasons, but for slightly different reasoning within those reasons.

It just wouldn't be as much fun if it were legal. It wouldn't hold the same levels of excitement in perpetrating such unspeakable acts in violation of any and all standing moral values, if it were a legal religion that is.

Even those in general society were against it becoming legal, much for the same reasons. How could it remain a substantial point of interest and excitement in their lives, if a person didn't have to worry about someone stealing them away in the night to find themselves waking into a reality of unspeakable helplessness and horrors? A substantial percentage of the populous were even "saving themselves" sexually in accordance with this movement… some in hopes of being chosen, and others in the want of someone telling them when it was alright to engage in such activities.

How could it remain an exciting potential direction of their own lives in the distant chance of ever being inducted into such an organization, if it were made to be a legally recognized structure of faith?

"It would just ruin the whole thing" was very much the reasoning.

Beyond those speculations, within the rank and file of the unspoken cult was of course the suspicion of some sort of infiltration through the efforts to legalize. But anyone with any sort of time within the cult itself, knew that suspicions were very much a welcomed part of it. Suspicions of any sort, including those of some risk in falling to authority figures. Fear fueled it. Fear of any kind, from anywhere including those thinking themselves as safely members within it.

Suspicion could be said to be a substantial part of the unseen movement, itself… if not the point in many ways… a grand celebration of and in the extremes of suspicious thought and even paranoia.

A psychological game of "limbo," if you will.

Just how much could one perpetrate and then weather in the recompense to their conscience?

Besides that, and again within the more senior areas of the cult itself, was the knowledge from experience that there was no such attempt toward infiltration in said manner as making the social belief structure legal. It was already without bounds as far as anyone could discern. Without bounds, that is, only as far as is and was the human psyche itself, especially when it is gripped with unspeakable fear.

Those more seasoned veterans of this movement knew that it would be a greater detriment for such legalization, than if it were possible for any involved in such a cult, to be caught and silenced.

Those within the existing governmental structures knew such to be a detriment as well. As was already being displayed within the hierarchy of the cult members, through the "developments" being types of "regression" which were manifesting through out. This very much from the generational aspects of people actually being born and raised within the standards of the cult, as a normal part of their conditioned existence.

The government didn't really fear this movement taking anything over to begin with. Such progressions in regression were a safety factor enough.

In so many words, they were just too damn dumb to ever be a real threat. Especially those which had been born into, and grew within the confines of the cult, itself. They knew nothing else beyond the protected barriers of their daily lives… and it made for great fun when it was they would transcend those boundaries without even the insight as to what a boundary was, then further without any insight into the dangers which were in store for their persons.

Most of them didn't even know that people don't really like to be spirited away in the night to become some game of human sacrifice to the utterly ignorant.

For them to even begin a movement to take anything of substance over, they would very much have to expose themselves to dangers many of them weren't even equipped to conceive of, much less deal with. Especially in the distant chance that they managed to gain control of any substantial governing powers.

To remove the barriers in which they were tolerated to some degree, meant their own demise in unspeakable ways that even many of them could not begin to imagine. They had no means with which to embrace the idea that perhaps they weren't all that liked… it didn't even begin to occur to any of them.

To disrupt their place within the social eco-cycle in which they were tolerated, was to bring upon themselves far more than they could "hire out" to deal with it.

I guess another place where they really stumbled and fell, was in the amplified and misused reasoning through which many of their fearful justifications told them they were needed. This being in looking toward the general population level.

There were just too many people in many areas within society.

Such was their reasoning anyhow… and really, why not be of a higher order in which the responsibility was bestowed to trim that population? It was better to be the oppressor than the oppressed, right? And it was a social service after all… they were giving back to the community through removing people from it.

It sounded good enough when said with the silver tongue of celebrity, perhaps even political popularity.

"Giving back to society…" It does have a ring to it, doesn't it?

The sexual games were very much sought after. A commodity no less, in many social circles. Which in all reasoning was a great inspiration for the ladies to save themselves. To be chosen a participant in such displays and ceremonies was well worth the risk of death in many of their minds.

To be "taken" in such an utterly helpless way seems to have been the gift one might get for "the girl who has it all." Even and especially with the danger factors.

It seems that there is nothing to excite a girls interest than the possibility of a violent, even grotesque demise after being forcibly taken sexually in ways that few hardly ever consider.

Even more, to then be able to lord over the fate of some other after have survived such an encounter.

It is rather tempting on a topical level. A person must admit that. The potential of deciding the fate of some captured, though most times secretly willing victim was quite the prize to be attained. Even more delectable was the successful result in having "volunteered" the victim.

The cries. The pleading. All the while being accompanied with the assurance that secretly… if only ever to themselves, the victim was quite willing. Further, and more importantly, that the perpetrators were well within their right to be performing such inhumane acts.

It is where they got lost in the drunkenness of and for power that many feel they mis-stepped in the want and efforts to legally establish this "right" as a religion. Such efforts were the thread which began the unraveling of it all.

They, themselves would soon be the victims of something none of them ever began to consider. This even beyond the personal knowledge of what they had agreed to in their own designs. All simply, and because they had failed to recognize even centuries old contractual agreements. Simple, un-complicated agreements which had stood since the dawn of humanity in some cases. Again, very much in the short sighted lust for many things… and most of them being trinket like in comparison to that which had been violated.

I suppose there is a comical quality about it. Particularly in the fact and disposition of their demeanor and posturing of impervious existences. The drunken lusts resulting in an over confidence which in turn allowed the cyclical nature.... of nature itself to take hold of their very existences.

They would hear nothing of it. They could never, in their positions and safety through out their recognition in society in which ever manner, being celebrity or politico… be subject to any sort of loss pertaining to their immortal and self convinced superiority. In so many words, there wasn't one of them, especially those within said contractual breach, which could see themselves as being at a loss or vulnerable, much less hear anything of it. What's more, much in the same manner as was their daily reassuring "victories" to themselves. It just wasn’t plausible.

They couldn't even see it, and it was widely known that many celebrated this fact.

Their drunken lust of power was very much their own end. It was that which worked directly and entirely against them.

Some even prayed for their total and entire control of things such as government structures… if only in the interest to finally be rid of them all through the eminent demise of such mechanisms beneath the distance of and in their reasoning. To remove even the small applied aspects of social advance from society entirely through allowing their "advance," for the purpose of provision for something so inefficient that it soon would be gone of it's own direction in lusts for perceived power.

Even further, it would remove the value of all it sought to possess through such arrogance and ignorance….not to mention lack of reasoning beyond the consumer mentality now being the basis and standard of this former exclusive belief structure.

Yes, it was far easier to "volunteer" someone these days… and more obvious was the growing reasoning within these efforts to "volunteer" someone. Those being their worth and value…

The "sunrise" was coming for these type of people so much in disregard of everything even that sustained their way of life. Some even thinking themselves great conquerors in hastening their own demise – never realizing the self inflicted damages.

Many others would have called it a "sunset."

But those were the sort usually finding themselves soon "volunteered" and counting their days from when they wake in the mornings. Not knowing even more than the ignorance now populating the ranks of those fallen to lustful greed, of what they were dealing with. It all having become so automated that they couldn’t even tell when they were ripping at the insulation that kept the blazing sun at bay.

I sat just last evening, in an old screening room left from the rubble of social demise. I watched a few reels that the more daring of this breed managed to produce for their own entertainment, now left in the haste as was much else.

The film was scratched and blurry. The screening room itself now felt and smelled like a musty old tomb covered with dust and remnants of a far off, not so long ago.

I couldn’t make out the address numbers which had been on the considerably large house in which the small screening room was contained. It really didn’t matter at this point.

What was notable, is in the fact that there are still remnants of this social order. Some even still populating the vacant destruction of old, deserted houses that seem to have been meant for kings.

It was functional social demise. So much so that it may have stood as evident that it was well past sunrise, if not near mid day for their kind. Even as they continued in their automated directions, still convinced of some success which lay just beyond some indiscernible horizon.

This in the face of the obvious contradiction to such held beliefs in the withering of the walls which kept them safely contained, as they continued to strip them away.

I have to say that the film itself was something to see. The extremes in human behavior being the focal point, obviously. The “ultimate” power and the “ultimate” lack of it playing out together.

How utterly limited it must all have felt after a while? How many ways could the same scene be played out before it became trite to even the most hideous of creatures?

What an extremely strange way to have fueled their own boredom, and further within it, their own demise.

The particular reel I found most interesting was done with some attention to production details. It played out and was put together almost in a story fashion.

It started with the happenstance meeting of the more than average, though predictable characters of victim and predator.

It progressed through the playful game of seductions in various ways, then culminated in that fateful and ever dramatic moment of ultimate betrayal…. But this was only to be a segue as the film rolled on.

The tortured and lengthy demise of the young victim was rather well rehearsed as seemed her reactions and responses in some odd way.

The sexual violations turning into throws of ecstasy... as if welcomed and even enjoyed, even being carried out in pools of considerable amounts of blood and through streaming tears. Some of said violations being extreme in every sense of the word. Regardless of pleading, even convincing remorse. Regardless of the level in compliance. And most definitely with no regard to the level of bodily fluids issued in the way of blood or tears.

For one long moment, I looked to see if maybe I could recognize the victim on some off chance of interaction in years ago… though not so far off time frame.

I realized that it wouldn’t matter if I had, given that which was actually transpiring within existence. Much more so than just in my personal interests.

Truth be known, I found myself momentarily even hoping that I had recognized the victim… and even hoping it to have been one of the more hospitable people I had known. My reasons at the moment made sense… why shouldn’t it be someone I had known?

None I had known were beyond having justified such actions through their own any more than were any others having willingly even assisted such in some cases. Why shouldn’t it be them? They obviously weren’t nice enough to have barred the idea of such social ploys in their own actions. Some were even drawn to those aspects which so many others fell to, as well.

In fact, I found it to be much more efficient if it would have been someone I had known. Especially in regard to the unavoidable result of such an occurrence in the manners I have described. To know it to have been someone that maybe didn’t even deserve it would have been much more comforting in regard to the coming demise of all it entailed. Indicating, if you will, said inevitable result of such an extreme in violation.

As I looked and tried to recognize some small facet of the writhing desolation now suffering from extremes no one else would ever know, I found the sudden thought in consideration of the waste it truly represented.

How boring it all must have become? To play the same desperate needs over and over and over again, in the automated fashion it had become. The ignorance it now symbolized in the face of eternal potentials and possibilities obviously forsaken.

What an embarrassing waste. Centuries of brilliance in existence reduced to desperate, pig like scenes played out in repetitions none could explain beyond the ignorance signified in such actions as if it were some ultimate exercise of power.

How loathsome. No wonder most of them trembled in fear of being found out. The embarrassment would be more than any should bear in the eyes of those eternal levels of greatness they repeatedly marred with their supposed ultimate exercise in superiority. Always seeming to be the same desperate wants and actions.

I suddenly then felt bad for the victim, but not in the ways a person might imagine a pity to manifest for and of such violations. It was more that such a person existed which would have allowed themselves… even volunteered in some instances, to be within a social disease posturing of the supernatural that really only amounted to sad emulations and bit parts of former greatness.

I knew at that moment why it still seemed that she was crying, now moments after her obvious physical death portrayed and preserved in a medium few if any would ever see again. I knew it was much because of those reasons extending from the ignorance of what true power really is… and I suspected that she had realized it in the waning seconds of her own existence.

Her tears were of a shame that transcended what had physically befallen her… but the sadness which continued to play out some pitiable sort of self absorbed display in maintaining various forms of violation, continued to display their level of ignorance as well. They did so in the fact and failure of not having sense enough to at least hide the crying moon.

ASHES

ON

BLOODY BONE

A Short Fiction

In Celebration

Of

The Fall Season

By

David A. Archer

02/15/1968

09/13/2006

I loved this time of year. With the breeze, the colors and the ever increasing hurry for the first advertisements of Christmas. It seemed like it happened sooner every year.

Even with the unspoken treatise pertaining to forbidding it until at least the day after Halloween. Someone always managed to sneak a few early advertisements into the mix.

In any other country it would seem odd to see ghosts and goblins in the same moments a person could see the likeness of elves and snowmen. But not here.

Here, we just do things a little different I guess. Even with the recent political changes.

I still couldn’t believe it as we wrapped up the day, making sure that everything remained as it was when we found it there in its most gruesome state. Except the larger physical remains which would still have to be identified, having already been taken to the morgue.

It was definitely cult like, but of a sort we hadn’t seen since the government changed hands and essentially removed any sort of organized crime…except for that of those with government affiliated uniforms of course. But that was now called enforcing the law.

This was simply hideous. Beyond anything a person could recognize as human. It made me glad that I was as close to retirement as I was. Knowing that there was no way I would be able to focus on a string of cases like this one and worry about making sure I still received my retirement. I might even just retire early.

Judging from the easily discernable evidence at the scene, it was a throw back to cult like activity which had its origins in the manipulation of law. Particularly, that in regard to manipulating law in order to procure unclaimed, and even yet to be executed estates.

It definitely had the ear marks of those old activities. My first instinct was that it had been a “copy cat” sort of perpetrator. But as we looked closer, it lost any resemblance to such an idea.

When we arrived on the scene, we found a copy of an Estate Will tacked to the wall with a bloody shard of bone which had been stripped from the larger bone of the victims shin area. Probably while the victim was still alive from the looks of it.

The Will had stated that the recipient – which was presumably the victim in this case scenario and as per consistencies from the cult like activities it resembled – would receive the balance due them in the estate at the allotted time and date, unless the mentioned recipient managed somehow to be disemboweled and mutilated, where the balance, as with all other unclaimed sums, would find its way into a sort of probate limbo. Becoming “fair game” so to speak for those with the sort of information regarding the happenings of such legalities – which could be anyone in this day and age of electronic communications.

It would seem that this particular individual’s inheritance would most definitely be “up for grabs,” even if we managed to catch the people that mutilated the sorry so and so.

I found it odd for a moment that the Will would be dictatorial in such a manner. More that it would have a stipulation instructing such directions, in such a far fetched percentage chance of occurrence. Then it occurred to me that the date on the will was from a time within society where such supposed legal documents were a type of “front lines” in a war that no one knew about. Who ever drew it up knew what they were doing, and did so with the intention of securing a better chance of their own beneficiaries actually getting the estate.

No such luck obviously. Who ever did this unspeakable crime had planned it for some period of time. That much was beyond any doubt. And, obviously were going to “get their end of it”… but only on the outside chance that who ever they were in leagues with within this revitalized function, actually won the battle yet to transpire over the estate itself. As I stated… from what I can remember those aspects of this form of “legality” can be worse than the result of intestines and body parts I just spent the day sifting through.

Unless of course they had opted to split it …no pun intended… in some behind the scenes deal.

Suddenly it was all I could do to just look at the row of trees lining the road, now amber and other shades of orange. The evening was crisp as I again recalled scooping the remains of a face into a plastic bag. Realizing there was no way even to discern the sex of the victim at that point, given the level of dismemberment and mutilation.

Who ever it was wanted to make sure they were definitely in compliance with the terms of the estate.

Some of the entrails had been strewn about, as if dragged haphazardly… then losing the attention of the perpetrators for some time until again they moved them around a bit more. Then there were other parts of the intestines weaved carefully in the ceiling fans and lamp fixtures hanging from the ceiling in each room. The skull had been broken and the brain removed – then most likely consumed.

I am glad it was a small, two story abode. At least it was limited as to where inside of it I would have to look before I could say I had been thorough.

Any of the younger guys on the job these days would probably have just written this off to some wacko. Especially with the use of the entrails in such a manner, post mortem I hoped. I might have considered the scene as produced by some nut job as well…but then I noticed a significantly unique trait which I recognized from “back in the day” when this sort of thing was just a part of litigation quite normally.

It was definitely a cult occurrence, as various other body parts had been used in a sort of ceremony. Of course the other guys didn’t know that yet. They would have to puzzle over the photographs of pots filled with eyeballs, heart meat, finger tips, the undigested contents of the stomach, some brain and even hair if I could remember right from previous and long closed cases.

Then there was bound to be the remnants discovered of the contents of said pots in some form of drinking vessels scattered through the house. Probably very near smears of any feces they could have removed from the victim’s colon and used ceremonially, even and especially around the rim of the drinking vessels.

I did notice that this particular case might have a rather good lead, being that in the self induced trance like state and in their inexperience perhaps, they had left a used condom very near the area where it had been obvious that the victim was dismembered. Which means, they were either out of practice, or were new “members” attempting the ritual acts for the first time.

Either way, it was evident the root cause was in fulfilling the stipulations of the Will posted to the wall. Just not in the manner it was meant to be legally addressed. The estate in question pertaining to this particular victim, would most surely be up for grabs I imagine.

Unless of course, one of the legal sort finds that the dismemberment and disembowelment hadn’t been done in a way which would satisfactorily fulfill the stipulation for non-remittance. Which was probably unlikely given the risk involved in pissing these kind of people off. But was still a definite option as such a finding would then place the estate in a different area of said “limbo,” making it just noticeably more difficult for the “interested parties” to “win the prize” so to speak. But nothing much more really than a re-negotiation with the other legal types which had made such findings.

Let’s face it. They went to the trouble of such a production and performance just to insure the estate would not be remitted to the individual it legally belonged to. How far of a stretch is it to consider what they would do after putting so much effort into this hideous act, if it didn’t pay off? What would they be prone to do to the sorry bastards that “ruined it” for them?

I found myself only hoping at this point that the estate had been substantial. At least billions of what was really rather valueless at this point within the recent power shift. Sure, it was just one person presumably, which had been dispatched in such a gruesome way… and when you look around it is rather easy to consider it justifiable considering how populated the world is. And further populated with some pretty questionable sorts. But it was done in such a horrific manner. The sort of exit no one should have to experience in our day and age. Unless of course the unfortunate individual deserved it…which could only be a fact if it were that the victim themselves were part of a similar cult. Because really, there isn’t anyone that “deserves” to be alive more than anyone else. There are just that many people. So much so, that I sometimes wonder why our species has even survived.

It kind of makes a person feel sorry for the sicko’s that do that sort of thing, doesn’t it? To the point of not wanting to see them suffer any more in their obvious ignorance and lack of reason for living beyond such pronounced and unnecessary efforts to procure something that others see as valuable.

Maybe the new form of government will get around to just putting them out of their misery?

Maybe the new form of government is supporting them? Needing to make itself important somehow?

At that point I realized that it was the last thing I needed to do in beginning to speculate on conspiracy possibilities. I had seen enough for the evening and would have to look at it some more first thing in the morning. Not to mention then, my concerns about retiring.

What I needed was a drink and a quiet place to collect my thoughts.

I knew from experience what I had seen this evening. I was kind of mad at them for ruining this part of the season for me this year…. But then I was kind of grateful for another excuse to not go home right away this late afternoon, nearing twilight.

I had a good excuse now to go for a long walk. A long walk and a drink at my leisure. I figured it was the least I could do for myself now thinking further about the risks and useless hassle I would soon have to undergo in keeping my retirement.

I would tell the other guys about it being a cult, in the morning. Decidedly, through a mild hang over. There was really no hurry anyhow as the victim was already past the worst of it and those other interested parties were now stuck in a holding pattern. They weren’t going to be able to even begin plans for spending, for some time. And I am sure they had no plans of going anywhere.

“Besides” I thought as I began to stroll down the colorful scene of the street, “it would do the younger guys good to mill around and soak the situation in. You know what they say about mystery” I continued to myself. “It can’t do them any more harm than it already has” I concluded as I then began to hum a little tune from somewhere long ago.

“What a nice street” I found myself considering absent mindedly as I strolled and hummed. “Makes sense… in that old, sick way, it just makes sense.” I continued in thought. “I really needed to do some thinking about this early retirement option.”

The pumpkins were out and I noticed as I passed, the pronounced level of urgency in the squirrels scurrying about in the park. It was definitely closing in on winter as they clearly announced in their slight desperation to establish their winter lodgings and collect their rations for the duration.

“How similar most people are” I thought to myself again, “and how many should be even more similar” I continued as I briefly halted to take in the scene.

I then realized a deeper, almost instinctual reason why I had stopped in the area during my stroll. “Which tree do I suppose it is this time” I found myself nearly musing. “If it is a resurgence of the methods I’ve seen before…and if the victim was in fact a male” I then paused to survey more closely the arrangement of trees in this particular park, “which one do you suppose the ceremony led the cult members to” I asked myself in a removed manner. “Where… just which tree do I suppose now possibly houses the sexual organs?”

As I stood there gazing, I then found myself begin to laugh somewhat obviously as I pondered a rather abstract thought. “I would be rather upset as well if I were a squirrel....” I concurred with myself in absurd consideration, “If I were in a hurry to fill my squirrel hole with nuts… and it was already done in a manner that just would not suit the needs so urgent to the onset of winter... most assuredly I would be put out to say the least.”

I convinced myself that such possibilities would best wait as well. There was no reason for hurry. No reason what so ever.

I noticed then my breath in the air for the first time this year, and with it found myself distressed in a sort of envy at this sad display of humanity called a cult as well as the squirrels in their simple existence.

“If only my earned retirement would be so easily hidden” I then thought in time with my returning stride. “So easily procured and placed in safe keeping for my use as I duly see fit” I continued as my pace added to the coolness in the breeze, momentarily pausing in thought as to allow myself to catch the thought firmly.

“Near thirty years of service” I repeated to myself in thought a few times, “and there were still no guarantees” I then found myself again in a sort of suspended recess. “It may as well have been an entire lifetime” I half mumbled while continuing my stride, “exceptionally regarding comparison with the apparent youth of the spent life now strewn about in their own home…surely never even lending a guess toward the sum total of their existence ending up as fodder to aggravate squirrels in the park” I thought even further.

I then realized that I had always tended to avoid consideration as per the victims thoughts in the last moments of life. This I presume being quite natural given the circumstances of their demise. It would be quite harrowing for anyone to spend too much time in such directions of consideration.

For some reason, this time was different as I now began to notice.

It would be obvious that there is no longer any matter of worldly concern in the victims mind as they suffer through the torturous demise, much less any concern for receiving an estate, if even they had an opportunity to relate the suffering with a due remittance, to begin with. Of course, the concern for said estate would obviously be of interest to those perpetrating the morbid acts. Perhaps even celebrated as some secret between them with glances in anticipation, then serving to excite the sinister activity and perhaps even to heighten some sexual state of mind.

Some frantic sense of power, and the inconsolable sense of powerlessness in the extremes. It must be quite the sickening high, even while both manifest as forms of desperation.

It is hard to begin to imagine the surreal experience of being a victim to such a tremendously excessive degree. The disbelief…the torment… then relenting to an unrecognizable form of impatience in the want of permanent closure. A want, I would imagine which is most times impossible to express…making it all the more desperate and pronounced. All through impossible amounts of pain and anguish never measured. Every aspect of it serving to inspire greater interest from those carrying out the seemingly – presumably – rehearsed and meaningful acts of perversion in the most severe definitions understandable.

“What a peculiar creature we are” I then thought aloud upon another chilled exhale. “What ghastly potentials we seem to magnify and manifest amongst all of the others in our realm of existence” I persisted in thought, “as if there is some unknown need for it…something that calls certain versions of us to such levels…being high or low… to satisfy in such morose ways.”

I then stopped in my tracks with realization beyond epiphany pronounced with the grip of pain in my chest.

I barely felt the pain of my knees meeting the paved sidewalk as my mind demonstrated a tremendous want of leaving with the sensation of being lifted from the top of my skull.

“Was I dying now?” I managed in confused thought. “Why hadn’t I considered it? Was I more in meaning among this rabble and horde of creatures called humanity than even those detestable sorts chasing the estates of others? Why shouldn’t I be dying? I am sure…” I then began to stammer in my own mind, “…that in the eyes of those having violated and mutilated the youthful body now bagged as miscellaneous parts somewhere…” I again grasped for breath, “that I have truly never lived… even, quite sadly, to the degree as that of their most recent victim in the experience they acquired with demise.”