The Beverwyck Review

Stories and Poems from the Writers' Critique Group of First Reformed Church, Schenectady, New York

Category: Short story (1,001 words or more) (Page 1 of 2)

They Forgot to Remember

February 26, 2024 / / 2 Comments

By Jessica Spencer Castner.

For my father, serene weather Sunday afternoons were for bicycle rides. Modern streets designed in uniform grids flummoxed or wearied his navigation. His inner compass was more apt to follow the contours of hills, waterways, trees, and stone landmarks. He consistently selected routes where roads paved over a deeper heritage, allusions to an older story. In Berrien County, Michigan, we bicycled along West and East Snow Roads, Stevensville-Baroda Road, and Hills Road. Routes that were once pre-automobile footpaths hugged the natural curves of the place to connect streams, rivers, early villages, fishing camps, forts, berry patches, and hunting grounds. It was easy to imagine the first human footfall following game trails on these roads, and picture oneself traveling as an echo of these subsistence times.

An athlete, I loved the physical activity in the bike rides and the challenges of the elevation rise and fall predating the grading of current Interstate standards. While I initially responded with teenage angst and annoyance, I learned forbearance to one of Dad’s peculiar ritual traditions folded into these beautiful Sunday bike rides. He had to stop at the old burial grounds along the way. With an eye roll and exasperated sigh, I’d camp myself in the enticing shade of a majestic tree as he began to wander among the headstones, grateful for the opportunity to stretch my still growing muscles and hydrate. Over the years, I came to appreciate some of the most beautiful sculptures in America are in our old burial grounds, places made pleasant and welcoming for the Sunday picnic gatherings and family reunions of generations past. Despite age-appropriate rebellious impulses, it would take less than five minutes for boredom to set in. The magnetic draw to be within conversational distance of parental unconditional love compelled my reluctant footsteps in his direction. It was easy to be in comfortable silence in Dad’s presence. Words somehow had greater value in their very thoughtful and careful supply.

In these random burial grounds where we had no known kin, there were two things that Dad seemed to either find or seek. The first was the Dara Knot. For no reason he could articulate or recall, he felt a meaningful connection to the Celtic symbol of deep and intertwined roots shaped into the Christian cross. When he happened upon it, he would stop and take time to admire the artistry of this imprint on the granite and marble memorial art. Sometimes he would wordlessly trace his finger along the looping paths of infinity. The second thing, the one he seemed to be searching for, was evidence of the families they forgot to remember.

“Here, Jessie. Look!” He would invite me over to his vantage point. “Look at this family. Look at the death dates, all around the same time. Think about the ages of the children. Let’s see….” And he would point to Mother, Father, a possible aunt or uncle and then with a deeply earnest solemnity, the children. The infant. The toddler. The school-aged children and teens. He’d calculate and state their ages, shaking his head as if he was the funeral home greeter ushering the grief of the survivors in the present day. “Someone could be missing here. Someone could have survived and had a full life elsewhere. Hard to imagine what it would be like to survive and go on alone. Alone without your family.” He paused. A drawn-out silence followed to allow the mind to consider the possibilities of near unbearable grief in survival. Then, his eyes would refocus from a gaze into the far distant past to holding direct eye contact with me to punctuate the importance of his words. “The whole family, all at about the same time. They forget to remember what it used to be like back then. They forget how hard it must have been.” He’d infer their deaths were from an infectious disease, listing off smallpox, measles, and influenza. Occasionally, he’d mention the possibility of a housefire before smoke detectors and fire department first responders, but usually he’d infer we bore witness to the victims of epidemic. Then, with a gentle hand on my shoulder, he’d convey the intended lesson of his words. “We don’t forget how blessed we are today. What a blessing it is to have vaccines, so your kids have a chance to grow up.”  

We knew Dad’s heritage and family culture was from one of the early families in North America, from subsistence times and long before industrialization. The family stayed relatively quiet about it. In very thoughtful and careful supply, these stories are told when they serve a meaningful and valuable purpose.

John Freeman was the name of both my 6th and my 7th Great-Grandfather. Theirs was the name of the farm site of the September 19, 1777, Battle of Saratoga. Refugees of violent conflict and displaced from their home and livelihood, an extended family migrated by footpath up Lake Champlain to where survivors found eventual safety near Montreal. Among these refugees was a Freeman family of mother Efellanah, father John Freeman, and an estimated eight or nine children. As today, displaced people of wartime violence are susceptible to other health and welfare problems. When smallpox ravaged the migrant camp, only three of the family’s children survived: Mary Francis at about age 14, Thomas at about age 13, and the youngest with a name meaning of “deer, doe, or gazelle” at about age 11.  This youngest doe orphan was my lineal ancestor and later mother-in-law to Abraham Truax, another family name with meaning in Schenectady history.  

The history curriculum and books for American school children frequently include the Battle of Saratoga as a crucial turning point and victory in the country’s independence. There, alongside with the stated names, National Park Service markers, and history retelling is the family they forgot to remember. There, hiding in plain sight and just below the surface is the young daughter refugee orphan of violent conflict and now vaccine-preventable epidemic. Imagine yourself as her, the namesake and metaphorical doe in the glaring headlights of history. At the tender age of 11, imagine having to face what must have been a frightening future. You are in a new and strange place having lost your community, your home, your grandparents, your parents, and the majority of your siblings. Politics and national loyalties may just barely be entering your understanding, but family love is a truth you’ve always known and now lost in sorrow and grief. Imagine the horror and aloneness of standing at the family burial ground as the youngest survivor.

As an emergency nurse scientist and public health expert, my teams see similar family horrors in vaccine-preventable illnesses even today. The telling of the story today serves a purpose and carries a meaning to inform how we value vaccines and take immunizations. In our family storytelling and rituals, we never forgot to remember. Today, we share for you to remember as well.

Mocha

February 22, 2024 / / 4 Comments

By James Gonda.

Inspired by Marc Chagall’s painting The Cat Transformed into a Woman, circa 1928-31.

(1)

In the small town of Pine Island in southeastern Minnesota, a tabby named Mocha lived with her human guardian, Anita. They had been companions since Mocha was a kitten. For all the love and attention that Anita bestowed upon her cat, Mocha felt an ache within her chest—a longing for connections that transcended the bounds of feline existence.

Then one clear night in September, as Mocha perched by the window, a shooting star streaked across the sky. With a flicker of hope in her eyes, she made a wish: to experience the world beyond the confines of her furry form.

To Mocha’s astonishment, the heavens answered her call. In an instant, she felt a tingling sensation ripple through her body. She shimmered and shifted. Her fur gave way to smooth skin and her paws morphed into delicate hands. She gazed at her reflection in the windowpane; her heart pounded with excitement. With trembling fingers, she touched the glass and marveled at the homo sapiens staring back at her.

Meanwhile, Anita had dozed off in her recliner. A book had slipped from her grasp. The sound of something tapping against the windowpane stirred her awake. She sat up. “What’s that noise?” she murmured to herself. She scanned the dimly lit room and noticed Mocha’s empty spot by the window. Anita made her way to the source of the sound. As she approached the window, there in the moonlight stood Mocha in human form. Anita stumbled backwards in shock. “Mocha?” she whispered. The human-shaped creature turned to Anita; their eyes met in an exchange of recognition. Anita was awestruck at the miraculous being before her. “Mocha, is that really you?” The figure nodded. With a hesitant step forward, Mocha closed the space between them.  “Mocha, what . . . what happened?” Mocha struggled to find the words. “I made a wish upon a shooting star,” she began, her voice unfamiliar to her own ears. “I wanted to experience more, to see the world differently.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know. It just happened.”

Anita reached out with caution. “You’re . . . human now?”

Mocha nodded. “It seems so.”

Anita took a deep breath. “What are we going to do?”

Mocha’s eyes filled with uncertainty. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect this.”  

(2)

Anita noticed that despite Mocha’s human form, she retained a lot of her feline charm: a playful sway of her hips, a cat-like grace in her movements, and a set of slightly pointed ears poking through chestnut hair. Mocha also mirrored gestures of her previous self: rubbing against Anita with a purr and curling up beside her with a contented sigh. And she kept her penchant for napping in odd places, such as a narrow space between the kitchen cabinets and the ceiling, or on the rug in the hallway.

Before too long, with breathless excitement, Mocha set out into Pine Island.  She watched vehicles zoom by. Neon signs flashed here and there. Music—odd sounds, for sure—poured from open windows. Voices rose and fell too, mingling with children’s laughter and the bark of a distant dog. Various smells captivated her. At times, the air was thick with the aroma of food, flavors, and spices. She caught whiffs of freshly baked bread and bubbling hot dishes.  

Anita’s efforts to integrate Mocha into human life were tireless. She guided Mocha through the intricacies of human behavior. She taught her basic manners and the nuances of social interaction.  She also enrolled Mocha in Community Ed to improve her language skills.

Despite Anita’s dedication, Mocha’s feline instincts held her captive. She felt a pang of longing when she saw a cat darting across the street or heard the mewling of kittens in an alley. She yearned for open spaces and the thrill of the hunt. She remained fascinated with shiny objects, leading to a collection of trinkets around the house—she could not resist the urge to flit upon anything that caught her eye: a silver coin on the sidewalk or a shiny piece of jewelry in a shop window. She kept her fascination with chasing shadows or the need to perch on high vantage points to survey her surroundings. She also spent more and more time wandering the streets at night; she would disappear for hours, dissolving into the darkness without a trace. 

Though Mocha longed for acceptance and belonging, she could not escape the reality of her limbo between worlds. People often hurried past, their faces glued to their phones or lost in conversation, unaware of the creature who was neither fully cat nor fully human. Some recoiled when they saw her pointed ears or when she exhibited overt feline behavior, such as grooming herself. Each interaction with people reinforced her sense of estrangement, widening the void between her and the domain she wished to inhabit.    

One afternoon Anita and Mocha joined a group of people chatting in a café. Anita encouraged Mocha to join the conversation about the weather, an innocuous topic. “The temperature today is quite pleasant, don’t you think?” Anita remarked, sipping her coffee.

Mocha nodded. She scanned the sky outside the shop’s window. “There’s more to the sun and sky than you know,” she said with a meow-like inflection.

Others turned to her, curious. “Oh? How do you mean?” someone asked.  

Mocha took a deep breath. “Well, you see, the air is crisp today, tinged with the promise of rain. The earth is breathing, exhaling its secrets into the wind.”

The group exchanged puzzled glances, unsure of how to respond. Some chuckled while others shifted in their seats.

“And the scent of rain on the horizon,” Mocha continued, “It’s like a melody, playing on the edge of perception. Don’t you feel it in your bones?”

Her words hung in the air, met with silence. The humans exchanged another round of glances, this time tinged with uncertainty. “Yeah, right, that’s . . . interesting,” someone muttered.

Anita shot Mocha a sympathetic smile. “Perhaps we should talk about something else.”  

Mocha clung to the hope that she would assimilate with people, over time. All the while, Anita watched with concern and understanding. She knew Mocha’s quest to find her place was far from over. She vowed to support Mocha as her former cat teetered between worlds.   

(3)

One evening as Mocha prowled the streets, she stumbled upon an alleyway behind a row of shops. There, beneath the glow of a flickering streetlamp, she spotted a group of cats huddled together. Their eyes glinted in the darkness. A sense of recognition washed over Mocha as she approached the clowder. These were her kin, her fellow felines. Without hesitation, Mocha joined them, reveling in the warmth of camaraderie. For the first time since her transformation, she felt a sense of belonging. Among those cats, she was not an outsider or a curiosity; she was one of them: a creature of the night, free to meander and explore as she pleased.

As the moon glowed in the darkness, Mocha and her newfound companions embarked on a midnight adventure. They darted through the dimness and chased imaginary prey. And it was then, in the sights and sounds of the nocturnal world, that she thought she found her place.

As the night wore on, Mocha felt tugs at her heartstrings. She enjoyed the company of the cats but could not erase the memories of her life with Anita: the warmth of their home, the comfort of their shared moments, the mutual affection that had bound them together. Mocha knew that forsaking her human companion would be excruciating. So, she bid her feline acquaintances farewell and made her way back to Anita.

As she approached the house, apprehension filled her insides. She needed to confront her feelings and decide where she should be. Finally, before the familiar door, she took a deep breath, and pushed it open. Anita was sitting by the fireplace, reading. She looked up. “Mocha?”  

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Oh, my dear Mocha. I’ve missed you. Where have you been?” She got up and went to her. They embraced. Then Anita pulled back and rested her hands on Mocha’s shoulders. “You know, I’ve been thinking. You don’t have to choose between two worlds,” she offered. “You can embody your feline and human sides with pride.”

Mocha pondered Anita’s words, yet hesitation gnawed at her resolve. Could she reconcile the two halves of herself? The fear of being ostracized by humans for cat traits and rejected by her feline kin for human features loomed like a dark cloud. Anita’s hug provided comfort, but was it only a small act of kindness in a big, cold world?

In that moment of doubt, Mocha found a sliver of hope: with Anita’s direction, she believed she could navigate the jungle of identity. A sense of determination washed over her. She decided to stop cowering in the shadows (like a scaredy cat). Instead, she would forge ahead with her feline and human sides. “Thank you,” Mocha whispered to Anita. “Thank you for believing in me.”

In Search of Santa’s List

December 15, 2023 / / 7 Comments

By James Gonda.

It was the week before Christmas and the North Pole was a blizzard of activity. Santa’s workshop was a cacophony of clanking and clattering, buzzing, beeping, humming, and hissing. Santa and Mrs. Claus were making their final preparations for the big night: checking the weather, planning Santa’s route, and sorting stocking stuffers with their army of elves.   

During the cheerful chaos, Mrs. Claus found herself in a crisis—she had misplaced Santa’s naughty and nice list. As she searched the nooks and crannies of their home and office, panic set in. She could not find the list anywhere. Mrs. Claus, known for her meticulous organization, felt distressed. She had kept the list safe for centuries; now in those crucial days before Christmas, it had vanished.

Santa, always jovial, reassured his missus they would find the list together. They began their quest by retracing Mrs. Claus’ steps. The workshop, the kitchen, the factory—all the usual places. Yet, the list remained unfound. As they pondered their next move, an elf suggested seeking guidance from Frosty the Snowman—he had a reputation for curating information about the North Pole.

Trudging through the snow, Santa and Mrs. Claus stumbled upon the pudgy snowman with a top hat and carrot nose. With great interest Frosty listened to their plight of the missing list. His coal eyes gleamed with concern. “I haven’t seen your list but heard rumors of a mischievous penguin who might know something.” He motioned toward the Iceberg Isle.

With renewed hope, Santa and Mrs. Claus set off for the island’s icy shores. There, they encountered Pip, a penguin with a penchant for pranks. Pip confessed he had seen the list but claimed the wind had “carried it away.”

Santa and Mrs. Claus decided to enlist the little bird’s help. Together, they embarked on a journey, pursuing the list through a snowy landscape, across a frozen lake, and into a candy cane forest where trees sparkled with red and white delights.

Their first stop unfolded in a clearing with fairy lights. Jingles, a reindeer, pranced into view, his fur aglow with a shimmer. With a flourish, he executed flips and spins. The air crackled with energy as he landed with grace. “Santa! Mrs. Claus! And Pip! What a surprise! Welcome to my Winter Circus!” His hooves tapped out a festive rhythm. “Word travels fast in these parts—I heard about your elusive list.” Santa chuckled. “Oh yes, thank you, Jingles! We’ve always admired your hoof work. Any help is much appreciated.”

Jingles winked and, with a twirl, uncovered a secret hollow under the snow. It revealed an array of glittering snowflakes, each etched with the names of children around the world. This information might help Santa remember who was naughty and who was nice. Meanwhile, Pip, unable to forego a little fun, flopped onto the ground and created a snow angel. Laughter echoed through the clearing. “Jingles, you’ve given us some relief. Thank you,” Mrs. Claus said.

As they continued their search, the trio reached the edge of a frozen lake. Bumble, a polar bear, awaited them. His fur glistened like ice. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Claus crew! What brings you to my chilly domain?”

Mrs. Claus explained their quest. The giant white bear rubbed his paws together, contemplating. “A missing list, you say? Well, Bumble’s got connections with squalls and gales. Sometimes they share their secrets.” With a grand gesture, he summoned the winds; they swirled around with snippets of conversations. The air teased Santa’s beard and played with the edges of Mrs. Claus’ shawl.

“The list, my friends, is on an adventure of its own,” the bear revealed. “Follow the whispers, and you’ll find it.”

They thanked Bumble and ventured forth. The scent of warm gingerbread teased their noses. It led them to a village of gingerbread people. The aroma of baked cookies filled the air; the town square was a sweet display of icing-adorned houses. Mr. Gingersnap, a plump gingerbread man, welcomed them with a broad smile. “Santa, Mrs. Claus, and little Pip! You look like you could use a break. How ‘bout some hot cocoa and gingerbread cookies?”

The warmth of hospitality enveloped them as they sat around a cozy fire. They sipped hot chocolate and nibbled on cookies shaped like Christmas trees. As the night unfolded, a gust of wind delivered a brass key. Mr. Gingersnap snatched the key and handed it to Santa. “This key opens the door to the heart of the forest. Your list awaits there.”

The three ventured deeper into the woods. Snow crunched beneath their boots. The forest grew denser; trees towered overhead like sentinels guarding a secret. Following the whispers of the wind—per Bumble’s instructions—they came upon a clearing bathed in a soft glow. In the center stood an ancient, ornate door, adorned with intricate patterns. Santa inserted the golden key. The door creaked open and revealed a room resplendent with thousands of twinkling stars. In the center was the missing list, suspended in mid-air, surrounded by an aura. A sense of celebration radiated from the space, as if the list itself delighted in being found.

Mrs. Claus approached the list, her eyes filled with wonder. The names of children glittered like constellations. But before they could rejoice, a figure emerged from the shadows—a being arrayed in an iridescent cloak, resembling the hues of peacock feathers. The being smiled. “Congratulations, dear Claus family, and Pip. You’ve passed the final test.”

Mrs. Claus looked at her husband, puzzled. “Who is this, Papa?”

Santa chuckled. “This is the Guardian of Christmas Magic.”

“You know this . . . individual?”

“We go back to the beginning.” 

The being spoke: “You’ve undertaken a journey, met characters, faced challenges—”

“The list was missing! We were worried!” Mrs. Claus inserted.

The Guardian nodded. “Indeed, such events reveal the essence of Christmas. The joy, the laughter, the warmth, and the spirit of giving were all present in your hearts, even when the list seemed lost.” And with those words, the being eased into an adjacent room. The list floated down into Mrs. Claus’ hands.

And so, on Christmas Eve, as Santa soared through the sky, the Northern Lights shimmered even brighter, personifying the holiday bliss the Clauses—and Pip—had rediscovered on their search.   

The Vietnam Guys

November 10, 2023 / / 2 Comments

By Richard A. Rose, Captain, US Army retired.

Over the total of my military and civilian careers, I have had the opportunity to work with many men who served in Vietnam.  While for most you never knew about their service, except for the wearing of a pin or the First Team (1st Cavalry Division) hat, others with which I worked did let me know tidbits of their time in country.         

TOM  

I worked with a man named Tom who was every bit the older version of the Marine Corps recruiting poster.  He had a razor cut short flat top, barrel chest, the look of a guy who never joked around. Tom had been one of those whose family had always been in the Corps and for whom volunteering was not only expected, but almost required.  He said that his big Irish family was made up of Marines and cops.  Most of the men were one and then the other.  So, when he was of age, the day after his 18th birthday, he went to the recruiter and volunteered.  He would be one of the almost 70,000 Marines who, in 1966, were carrying out ground operations against the Vietcong.  Tom was an infantryman.  His days were filled with movement to contact and search and destroy, and his nights were filled with ambushes, mortar attacks, bad chow, and little sleep.  To say that it took its toll on him is an understatement.  Tom always talked rather guiltily about that, saying that his dad and uncles had withstood the like of Iwo Jima, Okinawa, and Guadalcanal, so who was he to complain about Vietnam.

I always thought that Tom was a very religious man because he literally went to church every day before coming to work.   It was good thing that our building was basically across the street from a Catholic cathedral because I could look out the window and see him crossing the street from the church every morning.  When most people say things like “every day” they are probably using hyperbole, and really mean that is happens a lot.  But when I say that Tom went to church every day, it was literally every day.

Tom was in a tough state, it was late 1966 and he had just a few days until his tour in Vietnam was over.  He had been wounded and been decorated for bravery.  He said that they handed out medals for basically just staying alive.  One afternoon, standing in the pouring rain in a three-foot rice paddy, his squad came under withering fire from Vietcong well hidden in the brush.  Tom watched his fellow Marines cut down around him for about 15 to 20 minutes.  Crouching in the sloppy water, Tom said that he asked God to save him.  He said in that in that moment he felt the strongest connection with God he had ever had.  It wasn’t being afraid.  He said later that he wasn’t afraid, just sure that his time was up unless God intervened.  Tom told God that if he got out of this alive and made it home, he would go to church every day for the rest of his life, and he meant it.  Almost the second he made his “deal”, a formation of Army UH-1 Iroquois “huey” gunships came right over his position and completely took out the Vietcong firing on what was left of his squad.  The evacuation and medical choppers were right behind them.

Tom would say in a plain tone, “God kept his bargain, I keep mine.”

ED

I had the opportunity to work with Ed for about a year, when we were rolling out the AIDS/HIV Counseling and Testing Centers in New York City.  Ed was formally trained as a nurse, but I would come to find that his medical training had started in the Navy.  Growing up a Quaker, known as the Society of Friends, Ed was and had been his whole life, a pacifist.  Core to his beliefs was the rejection of military service and war, indeed the rejection of any form of physical violence.   When he said this, my next question was logical, “So how did you get in the Navy?”  

Ed, when he told me his story, just smiled, and said that in 1968 he had a problem being an American and also holding on to his religious beliefs.  The 60s were a tough time for him personally, as well as the nation culturally.  He reconciled the conflicts in himself by taking his draft notice to the U.S. Navy recruiter and letting him know that he would not fight in Vietnam.  He was, however, willing to be a Navy Hospital Corpsman on a hospital ship or the like, where he believed that he could fulfill his obligation as an American and uphold his religious beliefs.  Ed thought that this compromise was the best and honorable thing to do given that he just didn’t want “conscientious objector status”.  By doing this he was going against the thoughts of some members of the Society of Friends, but he believed that he could reconcile it within himself.

While Ed had done a lot of thought about the moral and ethical issues, he hadn’t really understood what he was saying to the Navy.  Would they train him as a Hospital Corpsman?  Yes, but after that training, Ed was assigned to provide medical support to a Marine Infantry platoon going to fight in Vietnam.  The only time that Ed did service on ship was during the trip from San Diego to Pearl Harbor, and then to Vietnam.  His tour of duty was being responsible for emergency life-saving medical care to Marines in the middle of fire fights, care to for Marines with jungle foot rot, for Marines with festering infections, and just being the overall “Doc” to his platoon.   Through all of it, he never carried a weapon, never fired a weapon, and only acted to save everyone he could.  

Ed’s goal to not be around the death of war was a complete failure.  He was perhaps more morally challenged than any of the Marines he protected, because as a pacifist, his mere presence amid all of that killing and death felt morally wrong.  While serving his tour, Ed realized that the elders were right, that he shouldn’t even be there, but he came to realize in the years later that his experiences in helping to save lives, perhaps made him a stronger and better person.  It made him more compassionate and dedicated to peace.

As we worked on the establishment of AIDS/HIV Counselling and Testing Centers during the AIDS crisis this strength came through.  While he had seen worse in his lifetime, his compassion and ethical strength made him a guiding beacon for so many in such a difficult time. 

MIKE & BOB  

A long-range reconnaissance patrol, or LRRP, is a small, well-armed reconnaissance team that patrols deep in enemy-held territory.  By April 1966, each of the four Battalions of the 173rd Airborne Brigade had formed LRRP units.  By 1967 formal LRRP companies were organized, most having three platoons, each with five six-man teams.  LRRP training was notoriously rigorous and team leaders were often graduates of the U.S. Army’s 5th Special Forces Recondo School in Nha Trang, Vietnam.  Such was the Vietnam experience of Bob and Mike; the Recondo legends.  Bob was the tall lanky distance runner type while Mike was more the 5’8” super muscular stereotypical commando.  Both were field medics and had gone through basic jump school at Ft. Benning in the same class after completing Army medics training.  They had met while in Medic’s school and were sent to Airborne.  Mike and Bob had been rivals competing for top honors in Medic’s school and competing against each other for the Iron Mike trophy in Airborne.  When they graduated from Airborne, they were both assigned to the 173rd Airborne Brigade (“Sky Soldiers”).  The brigade was the first major United States Army ground force deployed in Vietnam, serving there from May 7, 1965, to 1971 and losing 1,533 soldiers.  Brigade members received over 7,700 decorations, including more than 6,000 Purple Hearts.  Both Bob and Mike would be among those Purple Heart recipients, as well as earning Bronze Stars.   

The rivalry would continue in the 173rd, as each was assigned to a different LRRP.  Their patrol areas were different, rarely overlapping and they would only reconnect when they arrived at the base camp.  There they would share stories of missions, compare the remarkable feats of military medicine that each performed in patching up their patrol members and generally complain that the other just wasn’t as good as they were.  

When their tour ended, they were scheduled to fly back to “the world”.  Both had been talking about going home.  For Bob, home was western Pennsylvania, with its coal mines, steel plants, and farms.  For Mike, home was back to west Texas and the wide-open spaces filled with cows and oil wells.  But something had happened in their time in the Army.  Indeed, something had happened in Vietnam.  Neither had been from Hawaii, but both had decided as the plane landed in Honolulu, that they were not going back to their pre-Vietnam homes.  It just wasn’t home anymore.  The first leg home became their last flight anywhere.  

As civilians, they had transitioned to Honolulu Emergency Services as Emergency Medical Technicians and had both gone through the Mobile Intensive Care Technicians (MICT) training program.  Always gently competing and keeping each other on their professional “toes”.  Both had families, as stable or not as each could handle.  When I met them, at least six years after returning from Vietnam, they were still playfully handing out jibes about which one was the better this and the better that.  All said with a smile and a pat on the back.  Bob and Mike were truly friends who had been able to survive by having a friend who had gone through it with them.  Their comradeship was their greatest strength. 

LEWIS

I had worked with Lewis for a few years and always found him to be able to see the nuance in practically any situation.  Lewis was the Vietnam age but remarked on a few occasions that he didn’t go.  I suspected that the reason was a college deferment, or some other mechanism that lots of people used who avoided military service.  We were travelling on a train from New York City back to Albany and somehow the subject of my service in the Army came up.  He said that I must have been crazy to actually volunteer.

For some reason he talked quietly about the matter-of-fact version of how he avoided going to Vietnam.  Lewis had received his draft number and could see the writing on the wall.  He knew that he had three choices, two of which he discussed with his parents.  He talked about just going and probably being sent to Vietnam, it was 1970 and things didn’t look good.  He also talked about escaping across the Canadian border to evade the draft, becoming a criminal and draft dodger.  Strangely, his parents were ok with this option because they had no desire to see their son needlessly lose his life in what had become a confusing mess of a war.  The third option, which Lewis only spoke about in very hushed terms, was the option he took.  

Somehow, he was able to get medical documentation for a condition which would prevent his service in the military.  In other words, he made himself look medically unfit.  While he never did say how he did this, he did say that there were contacts that, in those days, could for a fee, have a medical history prepared which would pass examination and give him medication that would, for a short time, mimic the condition.  So, he reported, handed in his paperwork, and was subsequently declared unfit.  He never said what medical condition he supposedly had, nor how the actual process worked to get the documents, but apparently the “underground” was well situated to make it happen.  

Did he feel bad about his choice those many years ago? No, for he too had the feeling that if he gone to Vietnam, he would have never returned alive. 

The Secrets of the Camel Carvings

October 18, 2023 / / 3 Comments

By James Gonda.

Inspired by true events.

The Nafud Desert in Saudi Arabia is a vast and formidable place. Under a blazing sun, golden sands stretch as far as the eye can see. It’s also one of the driest places on Earth—rainfall is sporadic and minimal.

My team and I have come to this locale with a singular purpose: to uncover the secrets within ancient carvings of camels found on an outcropping of rock. A sense of awe washes over us as we stand before the carvings. These are not crude etchings of a bygone era; they are intricate masterpieces with sharp details as if chiseled yesterday. We can even discern the camels’ gender—they’re all male. But it’s not the craftsmanship that astounds us the most, it’s the subject matter. “These are not camels of the past,” I observe while tracing the lines of a camel’s mechanical leg, a metallic appendage integrated into the creature’s body. “These are camels of the future.”

The big question is: what is the carvings’ purpose? Could there be a hidden message or prophecy encoded within the artwork? This question leads to wild speculation. I muse that an advanced, futuristic society might have created the carvings. “Perhaps they’re trying to communicate something.”

                                                               *

The world had tuned in with fascination when the discovery hit the airwaves. Scientists, historians, and conspiracy theorists each had their own interpretation of the carvings. Theories ran the gamut from the benign to the apocalyptic. Amid this hoopla, a group of unlikely allies emerged, driven by our shared desire for truth and understanding. We formed a renegade team.

Dr. Amelia Sinclair is a renowned historian known for her expertise in decoding ancient texts and symbols. She is methodical and meticulous and believes that the carvings hold a key to a lost history. Her goal: piece together the puzzle of the carvings to reveal forgotten narratives.

Dr. Samuel Bennett is an astrophysicist known for his groundbreaking theories on space-time manipulation. He’s driven by a probable connection between the carvings and the universe.  He is the anchor for our scientific endeavors.

Max Ryder is a skilled computer hacker. He can track down information in cyberspace where others can’t. He’s motivated by a sense of adventure and sees the carvings as a digital puzzle to be solved. Max is also our technological compass. His mission: steer us through the labyrinth of data we will surely generate. 

And there’s me, Dr. Lara Marlowe, an archaeologist with a passion for history and digging up artifacts. I come from a family of explorers; my childhood dream was to discover an ancient civilization.  I see it as my duty to unearth stories buried in time, to make them resonate in the present day.

                                                              *

Days become weeks in the desert. We gather around a table in the camp, covered by a tattered canvas tent. Max’s fingers dance across a holographic display of the carvings. “There’s something here, something in the arrangement of the camels . . . it’s not random art—it’s a code.” Dr. Bennett nods in agreement. “I’ve been considering a theory: what if these camels represent different timelines or alternate realities? Each would symbolize a different version of our world.” I lean in for a better look. “That would explain the mechanical parts, the futuristic elements. Maybe they’re showing a glimpse of technologies from other dimensions.” Dr. Sinclair chimes in. “When we crack the code, we’ll know.”  

We combine our expertise in history, physics, and archaeology. We search for patterns, connections, and hidden meanings within the carvings. Max’s hacking skills allow him to tap into a network of researchers around the world, to share our findings and ideas.

One sweltering afternoon, we gather around Max as he manipulates the holographic display. Our foreheads glisten with sweat as his fingers dance over the controls. His excitement is palpable, like a kid playing his favorite video game. And then, he peels away the outer layer of the carvings. We all lean in, eyes wide with curiosity. As the hidden layer of symbols reveal itself an electric charge fills the air. Dr. Sinclair touches the holographic surface. “Incredible,” she whispers. Dr. Bennett’s scientific mind races to comprehend the implications. “These symbols are unique. They  come from a civilization beyond our understanding.” I lean in. The symbols pulse with an otherworldly glow. “They’re not random patterns. There’s a structure to them, a purpose.” Meanwhile, Max works to decipher their meaning. His brow furrows with concentration. “I’ve never seen anything like this. This language is beyond human comprehension—it’s designed to baffle us.” The images mesmerize Dr. Sinclair. “These symbols are the key to the carving’s purpose. But what’s the message?”

Excitement mounts as Max continues to decode. Before long, we discover the symbols convey a message—not of hope or guidance—but a warning. Dr. Sinclair reads the message aloud: “Beware of the convergence of worlds. It brings the end of all we know. In your quest for knowledge, you have awakened forces beyond your comprehension.” Her voice quivers. Max looks to Dr. Bennett. “What the heck is the convergence of worlds?” Dr. Bennett explains, “The convergence of worlds is a perilous phenomenon. It’s when multiple parallel dimensions or alternate realities are on the brink of colliding. This convergence will be catastrophic. It threatens the stability of the known universe.” Silence descends upon the tent. Max, the once confident hacker, struggles to maintain his composure. “The message also says we must guard these carvings with our lives. They hold the key to preventing the convergence of worlds.” His voice trembles. The gravity of our discovery settles upon me. “The mystery of these carvings drew us here, but we’ve let the genie out of the bottle.”  

The campsite takes on the feel of a war room. We need to protect the carvings from falling into the wrong hands. As we discuss various plans, unease settles among us. I voice my concerns. “We can’t do this alone. We need help, allies who can help guard the site.” Meanwhile, the winds begin to howl. Swirls of sand dance through the air. The gusts intensify and the tent rattles. It appears the forces we have stirred up are manifesting around us. Then a sudden, violent tremor shakes the ground. We stumble and struggle to maintain our balance. The holographic display flickers. Dr. Sinclair’s eyes widen in horror. “We’re running out of time. The convergence of worlds is happening, and it’s accelerating!” Max continues to decipher while Dr. Bennett realizes the consequences of our actions. “The convergence is destabilizing our reality.” His voice quakes. “We need to find the fail-safe.” I glance outside the tent. The desert has become a maelstrom of shifting sands and surreal landscapes. “We have to get to the heart of this, to the source of the carvings. That’s where the answers lie.”

With collective determination, we venture into the tumultuous desert. The glow of the symbols on Max’s hologram guides us. The sand beneath our feet ripples like liquid. Each step is a struggle. Dr. Sinclair leads the way. “Stay close, everyone!” she calls over the wind. “We can’t let this convergence happen!” Max, his fingers tapping the display, follows behind her. “We’re getting closer to the fail-safe! We must keep moving!” I scan the surroundings for clues. A mirage-like figure emerges from the sands. It’s a twisted version of myself, with wild, disheveled hair and eyes that glint with madness. “Watch out! Don’t trust it! It’s not real!” We press onward and the distortions of reality grow more nightmarish. Bizarre creatures with mismatched limbs and grotesque features emerge from the sands. Their cries echo in the wasteland. Dr. Sinclair manages to stumble and almost falls into an abyss. Dr. Bennett yanks her back. “Stay focused!” he urges. Max continues to decipher, his eyes glued to the display. “We’re close. I can feel it. The fail-safe is nearby.” The cacophony of strange creatures and dissonant landscapes creates an eerie symphony as we soldier on . . . .

Then Max stops. “I’ve found it! The fail-safe! It’s inside the carvings.”

We follow Max’s lead and head to the outcropping. The symbols on the hologram become more intricate. The distortions also grow more intense; the very fabric of reality begins to tear. We see other worlds bleeding into ours. It’s a terrifying spectacle. As we approach the carvings, a sense of foreboding envelopes us. The symbols on the hologram become a swirling vortex, and the display transforms into a portal of sorts. It shimmers with an odd light, beckoning us forward. With a shared resolve, we step inside and find ourselves in a realm beyond comprehension. The laws of physics no longer apply. We float amidst a sea of shifting dimensions, surrounded by kaleidoscopic patterns that defy explanation. Max taps into the essence of the fail-safe. The symbols respond to his touch, rearranging themselves into a coherent message. He reads it aloud: “To halt the convergence you must keep the past, present, and future separate. Embrace the knowledge that transcends time.” His voice echoes through the void.

Our combined knowledge and expertise converge. Dr. Sinclair, with her historical insight, suggests we use the carvings as guardians of temporal boundaries, ensuring that the past, present, and future remain distinct. Dr. Bennett, drawing from his theories on space-time manipulation, offers his guidance. “We must align the symbols, keeping them from intermingling, like celestial bodies in the cosmos.” Max, with his technological prowess, harnesses the energy from the symbols to reinforce their boundaries between the past, present, and future.

With a renewed sense of purpose, we go to work. The carvings glow as we manipulate them, separating past, present, and future. The very essence of time bends to our will. The symbols respond. Instead of merging, they emit a brilliant yet harmonious energy while preserving their boundaries. Then without warning, the convergence begins to reverse. The distorted realities stabilize. The nightmarish creatures retreat into the earth. We find ourselves back in the Nafud Desert as the last traces of the convergence dissipate. The camel carvings have returned to their tranquil state. We stand amidst the golden sands, exhausted yet triumphant.

Our mission is complete. We have unlocked the secrets of the camel carvings and averted a catastrophe. The knowledge we’ve gained is both a blessing and a burden—it hints at the existence of an intricate cosmic tapestry beyond our comprehension.

As for our team, we carry the weight of the knowledge of the convergence of worlds. Our work now is to safeguard the balance of reality itself, as custodians of the secrets within the camel carvings.

The Fall of Sleepy Hollow’s House of Usher

October 8, 2023 / / 3 Comments

By James Gonda.

A mashup of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving, published in 1820, and “The Fall of the House of Usher” by Edgar Alan Poe, published in 1839.

Outside the village of Sleepy Hollow, the Usher mansion’s decaying façade emerged from the dense woods. Gnarled trees clung to the property. Their branches reached for the heavens as if to escape the house’s sinister aura. Its pointed arches and weathered stone bore witness to the passage of time. Moss and ivy had crept up the walls, obscuring the intricate carvings. The windows, once grand and ornate, now resembled hollow eyes with shattered panes and warped frames. At night, the moonlight casts eerie, elongated shadows across the property.

Ichabod Crane, a schoolteacher known for his unwavering skepticism, made his arrival in Sleepy Hollow on an overcast afternoon. He was a tall and lean figure, attired in a high-collared shirt, a black stock tie, and a billowing black coat that swayed in the wind. The villagers had assembled nearby, their countenances marked by curiosity and unease. “Pray, who might this gentleman be, and what brings him to our midst?” Old Man Johnson muttered, his eyes narrowing. Sarah, the daughter of the innkeeper, responded, “They speak of him as some manner of investigator, intent on disproving our local legends,”

Nathaniel Wilkins, the village’s librarian, stepped forward, his visage etched with apprehension. He extended his hand towards Ichabod. “Mr. Crane, I presume?”

“Indeed, I am Ichabod Crane. You must be Mr. Wilkins.”

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, sir. We find ourselves in need of your expertise.”

Ichabod surveyed the gathering multitude. “Very well, Mr. Wilkins. Kindly provide me with a comprehensive account.”

As the villagers drew nearer, Nathaniel began to recount the peculiar events that had befallen Sleepy Hollow in recent weeks. “It all commenced a few months past, sir. Folks began to witness strange luminous phenomena near the Usher mansion during the night. Uncanny sounds reverberated through the forest, and some claimed to have glimpsed the Headless Horseman.”

Ichabod’s furrowing brow betrayed his skepticism. “I comprehend the potency of local folklore, Mr. Wilkins. My purpose here is to delve into the matter.” And with this statement, Ichabod initiated his inquiry.

Nathaniel led Ichabod to the heart of Sleepy Hollow, the local inn to gather intelligence. Everyone fixated their eyes upon the visitor. “I am Ichabod Crane. I received a request to investigate the mysteries surrounding the Usher mansion.” I would appreciate your cooperation in shedding light on this matter.”

A middle-aged farmer named Samuel rose to his feet. His rugged hands, calloused from years of labor, toyed with the frayed edge of his coat. “We have seen peculiar occurrences, sir,” he said, his eyes darting toward the ceiling. “Lights that waltz in the night . . .”

Then Old Jeb, weathered by years of exposure to the elements, chimed in with a raspy voice. “And eerie sounds that send chills down one’s spine.” His eyes gleamed with fear. With a haunting intonation, he mimicked the mournful wail they all heard in the night—a lament that seemed to resonate from the very core of the earth. Then his gaze fell to the floor. “Some even swear they’ve seen the Headless Horseman.”

The villagers were well-steeped in the legend of the Headless Horseman, a spectral rider that had harassed their lands for generations. Its presence had evolved into a terrifying myth.

Ichabod raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “The Headless Horseman? Are you certain it’s not a trick of the light or a man disguised as a horseman?”

“I ain’t suggestin’ it’s some ghost, but I know what I saw. It wasn’t no ordinary man.” Old Jeb’s face reddened with indignation.

As the conversation continued, Ichabod’s doubts clashed with the villagers’ belief in the paranormal. He leaned forward, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. “Now, dear friends, while I acknowledge the influence of stories and superstitions on the human psyche, we must exercise caution in ascribing every peculiar sound and flickering light to supernatural forces.”

A murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd. Rebacca, a farmer’s wife known for her keen intuition, interjected, “But, Mr. Crane, I saw it. Lights danced like ethereal spirits in the night, and I heard a wail that chilled the very soul.”

Ichabod adjusted his glasses and curled his lips. “Ah, my dear, the human mind can often deceive in the darkness. There’s a good chance you observed a will-o’-the-wisp or heard a woodland creature.”

The tension in the room escalated. Some villagers shifted in their seats, their gaze oscillating between Ichabod and the believers.

Then Jacob, a burly blacksmith with arms of iron, could no longer contain his frustration. “Mr. Crane, you may doubt our words, but this is our home, our lives. Generations have resided here, and we know what is real. The Headless Horseman is no mere tale.”

Ichabod sighed. “I intend no offense. I’m only suggesting there may be rational explanations for these phenomena.”

The room fell into an uneasy silence as the villagers exchanged glances. It was then that a young woman approached the gathering. She exuded a quiet confidence and possessed a discerning gaze.

“Mr. Crane,” Nathaniel said, “this is Katrina Van Tassel. She holds a deep fascination for folklore and is connected to the Usher mansion’s history.”

Katrina Van Tassel was a striking presence. Her fiery red hair radiated like autumn leaves in the sunlight; her intellect and self-assured demeanor set her apart. She was born into the esteemed Van Tassel family and raised in the heart of Sleepy Hollow. Her family’s lineage had long been intertwined with local legends and tales; she had grown up hearing stories about the Usher mansion and the Headless Horseman. She had dedicated her free time to the study of the village’s history, poring over ancient tomes and manuscripts in her family’s library. She often roamed the woods and pathways of Sleepy Hollow to collect accounts of ghost-like encounters.

Ichabod acknowledged the young lady with a nod. “Miss Van Tassel.”

Katrina’s eyes sparkled with intrigue as she regarded Ichabod. “Mr. Crane, your arrival has stirred the village. We rarely see skeptics venturing into the heart of our enduring legends.”

“I have come here, Miss Van Tassel, with the purpose of uncovering the truth.” He offered a courteous smile.


To unravel the mysteries that had gripped Sleepy Hollow, Ichabod forged a partnership with Katrina. Their first meeting in the Usher mansion’s library was filled with the scent of old leather-bound books and the faint rustle of parchment. They exchanged ideas and theories; their voices rose and fell in debate. Each had their own approach to solving the town’s mysteries. Ichabod favored logical, methodical analysis. Katrina’s intuition led her down unconventional paths.

One afternoon, their conflicting viewpoints reached a boiling point. Ichabod slammed a dusty manuscript shut; frustration etched across his features. “Miss Van Tassell, you can’t possibly believe these superstitions! We need concrete evidence, not ghost stories.” Katrina’s eyes blazed with defiance. “Mr. Crane, you’re too focused on what you can see and touch. There’s more to this town than meets the eye. I won’t dismiss the townsfolk’s stories without cause.”

One night as they leaned over a large table in the library, Katrina’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. She traced her fingers over a faded map of the town. Their heads almost touched as they engaged in fervent discussion. “Mr. Crane, our forebears believed that a curse ensnared this house. Legends speak of a malevolent force residing within these walls—a presence that hungers for souls.” Ichabod regarded Katrina with his usual skepticism. “Curses and malevolent forces are often birthed from the fertile soil of superstition,” Miss Van Tassell. My allegiance lies with facts, evidence, and reason.”

The pair continued to sift through old books, scrutinizing ancient symbols and faded illustrations. Katrina read aloud the faded ink on a timeworn page. “According to this journal the Usher family delved into the arcane, practiced forbidden rituals, and sought power beyond the mortal realm.” 

Ichabod examined the writings. “Yes, that confirms this place is steeped in the supernatural.”


One night as Ichabod and Katrina stood outside the mansion, a rustling noise came from the woods. Ichabod’s instincts came to the fore. He motioned for Katrina to remain at a safe distance while he approached the sound’s origin. Then a shadowy figure emerged from the forest, its silhouette veiled in obscurity. The air grew colder, and Katrina gasped. “Is that . . .?” she began. Right before their eyes, a figure on a horse materialized, its headless form outlined against the moonlit expanse. The chill in the atmosphere deepened; a hollow, eerie laughter resonated through the night. Ichabod struggled to maintain his composure. “Stay near, Miss Van Tassel. We must not allow fear to cloud our judgment. It’s likely an individual out for a late-night ride.”

The moon appeared to dim as the ghostlike rider drew nearer. Its tattered attire billowed in the wind. The cold intensified, permeating their clothing and manifesting as visible breath in the air. Katrina clung to Ichabod’s arm. Her fingers dug into his flesh as she watched in disbelief. As the headless rider approached, Ichabod’s voice quivered. “This cannot be real. It defies all reason.” The apparition paid no heed to his disbelief. In the eerie silence, a hollow, chilling laughter filled the night, bereft of warmth or humanity. Fear welled up in Katrina’s eyes. “The Headless Horseman . . . is real.” Ichabod’s skepticism crumbled; dread, bone-deep, enveloped him. As the headless specter continued its advance, its presence defied any rational explanation. The pair stood face to face with a nightmare from the town’s darkest legends. Its existence was undeniable. In that heart-stopping moment, reason yielded to the supernatural. Their quest for truth triggered an encounter with a legend that should have been folklore.


A few nights later as Ichabod and Katrina explored the mansion’s passageways, the oppressive atmosphere pressed down upon them. Venturing further into the house, their lanterns cast pools of light. Peeling wallpaper resembled the skin of a giant serpent. Cobwebs hung like phantom drapes, their tendrils clinging to their faces. Ichabod’s once-confident demeanor had eroded, replaced by an unease that contorted his features. He cast a sidelong glance at Katrina. “Miss Van Tassel, I must confess the evidence we’ve encountered . . . refutes logical explanation.” As they pressed onward, the mansion shifted around them. The floorboards creaked; its groans reverberated through the hallway. Ichabod’s fingers clenched the lantern’s handle as he struggled to make sense of the inexplicable. “These walls have borne witness to horrors that defy comprehension.” Katrina nodded. “It is as if the mansion itself is a living nightmare—a repository for the darkest secrets and the weight of centuries of tragedy.”

Their lanterns cast long, flickering shadows upon the distorted and discolored portraits of the Usher family on the walls. Each generation bore the weight of their inscrutable past, veiling the family’s history in mystery. The clan had always been a reclusive and enigmatic lineage; they shunned the company of the villagers. Tales and legends enveloped them, recounting eccentricities and esoteric interests. Yet the family’s secrets remained guarded; villagers could only speculate on the true nature of their ominous legacy. The name Usher struck terror in any person who dared to utter it.

As Ichabod and Katrina made their way deeper into the mansion, a chill wind swept forth from the darkness ahead. The flames in their lanterns flickered wildly. “Miss Van Tassel, I fear that we may have ventured too far into the unknown. The boundary between reality and the paranormal is becoming blurred. We are treading on uncharted ground.” His voice quavered with uncertainty.

“Then it’s our responsibility to confront the mysteries and bring illumination to the shadows that inhabit this mansion. We must uncover the truth, whatever the cost. This house, the curse, the Headless Horseman—they’re all facets of a reality we cannot dismiss.” Her voice brimmed with conviction. “The Usher family’s legacy commenced with a curse, a pact with an entity that has fueled the Headless Horseman. It serves as the impetus for the phenomena that have haunted Sleepy Hollow.”

“I’ve always placed faith in the power of logic and evidence. But this house has reshaped my convictions.”

Katrina turned to him. “Mr. Crane, you’ve always been the staunch advocate of reason. What could possibly have shaken your beliefs?” He hesitated; his gaze fixed upon an intricate, cobweb-covered chandelier. “It’s not just the stories or the folklore. It’s the inexplicable occurrences, the eerie sensations that grip me every time I step inside these walls. I can’t deny that there’s something here that defies rational explanation.”

Katrina spoke softly. “I’ve always believed that there are forces in this world beyond our comprehension. Perhaps it’s not a matter of abandoning logic but expanding it to include the unexplained.”

Ichabod nodded. “You may be right, Miss Van Tassell.” Reluctance filled his voice. “Perhaps it’s time to embrace the unknown and allow ourselves to consider the mysteries that have eluded reason for so long.”

As they arrived on the verge of a portal that held the key to breaking the curse, Ichabod knew this moment would decide Sleepy Hollow’s destiny. The air around them palpitated with anticipation. A large pentagram on the stone floor confronted them. Ichabod extended his hand and commenced reciting an incantation from their investigation: “In nocte stellis et tenebris, ad eam quae celata est, veritatem revelare! In the night of stars and darkness, to her who is hidden, reveal the truth!”

The words reverberated off the walls, causing the chamber’s temperature to plummet. The air became charged with energy. Katrina watched Ichabod as he continued the chant. As his voice swelled and receded in rhythmic cadence, an invisible force tugged at him, threatening to pull him into the abyss. He clung to his determination; Katrina saw the strain on his face. From the darkness beyond the pentagram’s confines, an unnerving, guttural growl emanated—an unnatural amalgamation of anger and torment. Katrina’s breath caught in her throat. She grasped the amulet adorning her neck, a protective talisman. Ichabod’s voice wavered, but he persevered, completing the incantation. The room pulsed with an escalating energy. Katrina sensed a pressure building within her ears. Their lanterns flickered violently. The pentagram’s lines began to emit an eerie, azure glow. The growling grew more menacing, its intensity deafening. Indistinct and ominous shadows materialized at the chamber’s periphery. Katrina’s grip on her amulet tightened. She inched closer to the pentagram’s edge, her eyes locked onto Ichabod. “Mr. Crane, exercise caution!” Ichabod steeled himself, with determination prevailing over fear, and continued to chant. The growling reached an ear-splitting crescendo. The shadows surged forward, almost breaching the pentagram’s boundaries. Ichabod’s incantation hung in the air, a fragile thread, the only barrier preventing the horrors from breaking through. Katrina’s heart raced as she watched Ichabod struggle to complete his recitation . . .   


The curse that had ensnared the House of Usher and tied it to the Headless Horseman dissipated into the night. Katrina stood by Ichabod, her eyes reflecting relief and joy. The darkness that had plagued Sleepy Hollow for generations seemed to be vanquished. The mansion shuddered and then began to crumble. As the walls collapsed around them, Ichabod and Katrina clasped hands and escaped into the moonlight.

As they raced through the forest, the ground beneath their feet trembled. A low, menacing chuckle echoed through the night. The Headless Horseman, whose spectral form was no longer bound to the mansion, emerged from the shadows. Its eerie laughter filled the air. Katrina gasped, her grip tightening on Ichabod’s hand. “How is this possible? The curse is gone!” The Horseman’s hollow eyes fixed on them, and its voice resonated like a chilling wind. “You may have broken the Usher curse, but I am not defeated!” It raised its sword and advanced towards the couple. Ichabod and Katrina were trapped; desperation surged through their veins. Then remembering the legends of Sleepy Hollow, Ichabod knew the Horseman had a weakness: an aversion to sunlight. With the first rays of dawn beginning to break, he saw their chance to fend off the vengeful spirit. “Lead it toward the sunrise! It cannot withstand the light!” They darted through the trees, luring the Horseman into the direction of the sunrise. It pursued them relentlessly; its sword slashed through the air as it closed the distance.

As the first rays of the sun crept over the horizon, the Horseman let out an agonized scream. Its spectral form began to flicker and dissipate. It tried to retreat into the shadows. Weakened and disoriented, it faltered, and Ichabod seized the opportunity. He grabbed the reins of its steed, wrenched them away, and dismounted the menacing figure. With sunlight consuming the Horseman’s form, it could not fight back. In one final, piercing wail, it dissolved into nothingness, incinerated by the rising sun.

Ichabod and Katrina were left standing in the forest, exhausted yet victorious. The curse was truly broken, and Sleepy Hollow was free at last from the terror that had plagued it for generations. With relief and gratitude, the pair made their way out of the woods. Their courage became the town’s new folklore; their names would always be spoken with reverence. Through the seasons that followed, Ichabod and Katrina watched as Sleepy Hollow prospered, and laughter and music returned to its streets.

The Curse of the Terrodent’s Teeth

September 20, 2023 / / 3 Comments

By James Gonda.

The Badlands stretched out before Dr. Amelia Turner like an endless expanse of earth. Its jagged, rust-colored formations resembled the wrinkles of ancient giants. Dusty gusts of wind carried the scent of arid soil. The sun blazed overhead, and heat simmered in waves across the cracked terrain.

Dr. Turner had journeyed to this desolate place with her team. As a paleontologist, she had spent years excavating fossilized remains from sites around the world. She earned a reputation for her tenacity and old-fashioned work ethic—she had dedicated her life to her career, often over personal relationships.

The Badlands offered a promise of something extraordinary. She and her team toiled under the scorching sun for weeks, brushing away layers of dirt and rock. Their efforts finally paid off when they uncovered the well-preserved skeleton of an unknown dinosaur. It was massive, with immense bones and a fearsome presence. The group stood in awe of their find and slapped a few high-fives.

They christened the new dinosaur Terrodent for its teeth. The choppers, protruding from massive jaws, were formidable. Dr. Turner felt their serrated edges under her fingertips; she envisioned how they once sliced through prey. In the dim light of the site, the teeth glistened like treasure.

“Look at these incisors,” she said to her colleague, Dr. Owen Mitchell, both crouching beside the jaws. “They’re unlike anything we’ve ever found.”

He nodded in agreement. “We’ll rewrite dinosaur history. This find is a gamechanger!” Dr. Mitchell had a reputation as a meticulous researcher and an encyclopedic knowledge of paleontology. He had a way of seeing patterns and connections in the fossil record that others often missed. His passion for dinosaurs was infectious.

Yet Dr. Turner felt uneasy about the teeth. There was something about them, an unsettling aura that she could not express. Still, they continued their excavation, documenting every detail of the Terrodent’s remains. It was during this time when a minor mishap occurred: Amelia cut herself on one of the teeth, a superficial wound.

Days turned into weeks, and the team made steady progress unearthing the Terrodent. But something within Dr. Turner had changed—she had become withdrawn, and her behavior turned erratic. She spent sleepless nights pouring over notes; her obsession with the Terrodent’s teeth increased each day. Her colleagues became concerned. They saw her spiraling into an abyss of fear and paranoia. She isolated herself from them, and her once bright eyes clouded with anxiety. She could no longer ignore the visions that plagued her: nightmares in which she was chased by the Terrodent, its hungry jaws snapping inches from her face.

One evening, as the sun sank below the horizon, Dr. Mitchell approached Dr. Turner by the campfire. “Amelia, we’re worried about you. You’ve changed so much since that cut from the tooth. You should rest, take a break from all this.”

Amelia stared into the flames. “I can’t rest, Owen. Not until I understand what’s happening to me. It’s the Terrodent’s teeth—they haunt my every thought.”

Dr. Mitchell exchanged a concerned look with the rest of the team. Dr. Turner’s fear was festering into a phobia that would consume her whole being.

Desperate for answers, Dr. Turner delved deeper into the history of the Badlands. In a nearby library, she found tomes that preserved the history of the area. She sifted through fragile manuscripts and faded parchments. The librarian, a wizened figure with a penchant for local legends, approached her. “You’re searching for tales of the Arikara, aren’t you?” He peered over his glasses.

Amelia nodded. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation.

The librarian leaned in. “The Arikara they say is a creature like no other—a dinosaur of dread. People believe that its teeth possess dark powers.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone.

“Tell me more about those who encountered the Terrodent’s—I mean Arikara’s—teeth. What happened to them?”

The librarian leaned in closer. “Nightmarish visions plagued unfortunate souls who were lacerated by the teeth. They could not escape the haunting images that tormented their dreams, as if the very essence of the creature had seeped into their souls.”

“Is there any record of someone breaking this curse, of freeing themselves?”

The librarian’s eyes sparkled with mystery. “Some stories tell of individuals who sought to confront their fears, to challenge the curse rather than succumb to it. But whether they succeeded or met a darker fate, those accounts are shrouded in ambiguity, lost in the mists of time.”

Dr. Turner began to suspect that the tooth had introduced a dormant pathogen into her bloodstream. The microorganisms must  carry a malevolent power that had somehow withstood eons. She knew finding the truth meant venturing deeper into the Badlands. With newfound determination, she thanked the librarian and left.

The next morning, she informed her team of her plan. “I need to go back to the site.” Her eyes burned with determination. “I have to face the Terrodent, the curse, whatever it is, and find a way to break from its grip.”

Dr. Mitchell was the first to voice his concerns. “Amelia, you’re not in any condition to do this alone. You’re not yourself anymore. We can’t let you go back there by yourself.”

“Owen, you’ve been my partner from the beginning. Then come with me. I need your help now more than ever. We’ll confront this curse together.”

Dr. Mitchell hesitated, torn between concern and fascination. Finally, he nodded in agreement. “OK,  but we need a plan. We can’t just charge in.”

The team huddled around the campfire to discuss strategy. Dr. Turner shared her theory about the pathogen inside the tooth and how it might be the source of the curse. They decided to retrieve the tooth and analyze it further, hoping to find a way to neutralize its effects.

The following day, Dr. Turner and Dr. Mitchell returned to the site. The Terrodent’s skeleton loomed over them, a menacing presence. Dr. Turner carefully extracted the tooth that had cut her and placed it in a container. Meanwhile the wind howled with a sense of foreboding. The sun beat down without mercy.

A week went by as they examined the tooth. As Dr. Turner had suspected, their research revealed an unknown strain of bacteria that had lain dormant for millions of years. These findings led to a heated debate. Dr. Mitchell, always the rational scientist, insisted on caution. “Amelia, we don’t know the potential consequences of this pathogen. We need more time to study it, to find a way to counteract its effects.” But Amelia was growing desperate. She could not bear the torment of the nightmares. She feared the curse was tightening its grip. “Owen, I can’t wait any longer. We need to confront the Terrodent. We have no choice but to return to the site.” He reluctantly agreed to go back.

They approached the massive skeleton with caution, cursed tooth in hand. But this time, as they stood before the Terrodent, the ground began to tremble. The curse’s presence was palpable—a dark force that threatened to consume them. Dr. Turner took a deep breath, her heart pounding, and whispered to Dr. Mitchell, “We’re in this together, Owen. No matter what happens, we face it together.”

The curse’s presence grew stronger. The air buzzed with energy. Low rumbling growls emanated from the dinosaur’s bones. Without warning the ground cracked open, and a massive, grotesque creature emerged. It was a nightmarish fusion of dinosaur and apparition. Its eyes glowed with an eerie light; its form shifted and rippled like it existed on the border of the living and the dead.

Dr. Turner and Dr. Mitchell stumbled back in shock and horror. The creature let out a screech that reverberated throughout the Badlands. The Terrodent’s spirit had been awakened. It seemed to be exacting revenge upon those who disturbed its resting place.

Then a figure emerged from the shadows—the librarian from the nearby town, the one who had shared the legends of the Arikara. He stepped forward with an ancient artifact: a talisman passed down through generations of his people. With great determination, he began to chant incantations in an obscure language. The talisman emitted a brilliant, blinding light that engulfed the creature. The ground rumbled and pulled the abomination back into the depths of the earth with a final, anguished cry. Dr. Turner and Dr. Mitchell were stunned. They stared at the spot where the creature had disappeared. The librarian turned to them, his expression grave but satisfied. “The curse has been suppressed. Please do not trifle with ancient legends. Respect the past, and it will respect you.”

With the curse contained, a sense of relief washed over Dr. Turner. The horrific visions had ceased. Her mind was free from torment. She gazed at the tooth, cradled it in her hand. Its serrated edges gleamed in the sun. Dr. Mitchell turned to her. “Amelia, are we sure it’s over?” Doubt filled her eyes. “I don’t know, Owen. I hope so, but there’s something about this tooth, something powerful. We’ve only scratched the surface of its true nature.” The librarian’s cautionary words echoed in her mind: Respect the past, and it will respect you.

Together, they took in the vast expanse of the Badlands. Was the curse defeated? Or did it simply retreat into the earth? Dr. Turner looked at Dr. Mitchell; without saying a word she confirmed the uncertainty of their victory. It would be for the next adventurers to uncover the truth, whatever that truth may be.

Beyond Words: an Artistic Odyssey

September 9, 2023 / / 1 Comment

By Artemisia Intelli.

The New York City hospital bustled with life. Its fluorescent lights and sterile corridors were a stark contrast to the urban world outside. Amid this controlled chaos, Emily, the hospital’s art curator, navigated her way through the maze of wheelchairs, IV stands, and anxious families. She had a unique mission: to bring the balm of art therapy to patients grappling with hurt and trauma.

Every day, Emily saw the transformative power of art. For some, it was a lifeline, a means of expressing the inexpressible. For others, it was a moment of respite from the cycle of pain and fear.

As she entered the art therapy room, a sense of calm washed over her. Large windows bathed the space in soft, natural light. Colorful creations adorned the walls. Emily had supplied the room with an array of materials: brushes, clay, and sketchbooks. The scent of paint hung in the air.

But today, Emily noticed a solitary figure sitting at a corner table. A boy, around 15 or 16 years old, with curly dark hair and brown eyes, was engrossed in his work. He clutched a sketchbook with determination. His hand moved gracefully across the page. Approaching him with a warm smile, Emily said, “Hello there. I’m Emily, the hospital’s art curator. What’s your name?” The boy looked up, his eyes widening in surprise at the unexpected visitor. He hesitated for a moment, then replied, “I’m Daniel.”

Taking a seat beside him, Emily leaned closer for a glimpse of his sketch. It was a tranquil forest. A winding river cut through the heart of the scene. The details were exquisite, and the colors blended seamlessly. Emily was impressed. “You’re very talented, Daniel,” she murmured. A flicker of pride lit up in Daniel’s eyes, then replaced by a sense of unease. He glanced away. “It’s the only way I can talk,” he admitted in a soft voice.

“What do you mean, it’s the only way you can talk?”

Daniel flipped to a blank page on his notepad. With deliberate movements, he sketched a stick figure of himself with his tousled hair and quizzical expression. Then, he pointed to the mouth of the figure, indicating his inability to speak.

As he continued to draw, he revealed more about his condition. He had been born with a rare vocal cord disorder that had left him virtually voiceless. Years of speech therapy and medical interventions had brought limited improvement. Emily watched in awe as his fingers danced across the paper, creating intricate images and symbols. It was a language all his own. For her, it was a revelation that went beyond the visual. It was a window into the soul of a young man who had found his voice in the silence of art.

In the days that followed, Emily and Daniel’s bond deepened. They often meet in the art therapy room. Emily introduced him to a variety of art techniques and mediums. They painted, sculpted, and experimented with different forms of artistic expression.

As Daniel’s confidence in his artistry grew, so did a conflict within him. He was torn between his passion for art and the mounting pressure from his family. His parents, worried about his future, believed that speech therapy and academic tutoring were the keys to unlocking his potential.

His father, a stern man with calloused hands from years of hard work, had envisioned a future of academic success for Daniel. To him, art was an uncertain path, a distraction from the “real world”.

Daniel’s mother had different dreams for her son. She yearned for him to find his voice, not only through art, but in the spoken word. She imagined a life where he could express his thoughts, feelings, and dreams without restraint. To her, art was a refuge but also a reminder of what her son had been denied.

One day, Daniel handed Emily a drawing that took her breath away. It was a vibrant phoenix rising from the ashes of a burned-down house—a symbol of rebirth and transformation. Emily asked, “Is this about your life, Daniel?” He pointed to the phoenix and then to himself.

Inspired by Daniel’s talent and resilience, Emily decided to organize an exhibition featuring his work, along with the art created by other patients. She believed that showcasing their creations could inspire and bring comfort to others facing similar challenges.

The exhibition was a resounding success. Visitors were drawn to Daniel’s art. Emily watched as people were moved to tears, laughter, and introspection by the powerful pieces on display.

But Daniel’s newfound fame exacerbated the tension with his family. They still believed his art was a lark, diverting him from the path they had charted for his future. Their arguments became more heated.

One evening, as the exhibition ended, a well-known art therapist named Dr. Rodriguez approached Emily. “You’ve done remarkable work here, Emily,” he said, his eyes filled with admiration. “You’ve shown the world the healing power of art.” Emily smiled. She felt a small sense of pride in what she and Daniel had accomplished together.

Emily and Daniel continued their art therapy sessions. Their roles had evolved—they were no longer curator and patient. They had become kindred spirits on a shared journey of self-discovery and healing.

But the conflict within Daniel’s family remained. He longed for their acceptance of his chosen path. The tension from home ached in his heart. Emily worried about the toll this added stress was taking on her friend.

One day as Emily and Daniel worked on a mural for the hospital’s lobby, Daniel paused and looked at her with sadness and determination. He gestured to the mural—which depicted his family—and then to his heart. She understood the message. He wanted his parents to see the beauty and healing power of his work. So, Emily facilitated a private viewing for Daniel’s family. She hoped seeing their son’s work in a meaningful setting would change their perspective. She invited them to the hospital, and with some trepidation, they agreed to attend.

As Daniel’s family entered the lobby for the private viewing, skepticism and apprehension hung in the air. His father walked in with arms crossed, his eyes narrowed with doubt. His mother, a softer presence, clutched his arm.

The mural loomed large before them: a vivid tapestry of colors and emotions. At first, they stood at a distance, unsure how to approach the work. But as their eyes traced the lines and hues, something began to happen.

His father’s hard countenance softened, and his arms uncrossed. He leaned in closer and studied the intricate details. His mother placed her hand on her chest. She gasped. “This is . . . who Daniel is.” Her gaze shifted to her son. Then she squeezed her husband’s arm, urging him to see what she saw. Meanwhile, Daniel watched his parents. He had bared his soul on this canvas.

His father turned to him and extended a hand toward the mural, a gesture of recognition and acceptance. His mother embraced him. “We had no idea, Daniel. We didn’t understand,” she whispered.

For Daniel, he was relieved and validated. It was a turning point in their family’s journey, a moment when they, too, embraced the healing power of art and the beauty of their son’s unique voice.

How to Win a Bronze Star, Get the Girl, and Live Happily Ever After

June 6, 2023 / / 5 Comments

By James Gonda.


In early 1945 I was on my Harley delivering another dispatch. The leather pouch contained a communique for two of General Patton’s units. His subordinates were coordinating his crossing of the Rhine on March 25. The General had no tolerance for SNAFUs—so, this message had to get through. I was also behind schedule (I blew a tire) and decided to take a shortcut. This was in Luxembourg near the village of Rosport-Mompach, on the Mosel River. On the other side of the river was Germany. I glided over a slight rise, traveling at a reasonable speed, and then encountered a group of Jerries. Twenty or so. I squeezed the brakes and skidded to a stop. Those guys were not the welcome wagon with homemade strudel. They scowled at me with rough, unshaven faces. They surrounded me and poked me in the chest with their rifles. Their tone was harsh, and I reminded myself that German always sounded harsh. It was pure German, by the way, and not the water-downed stuff I heard back home. I knew a few words here and there. One of the Jerries, the leader, took my sidearm—he thought he was a real tough guy. They forced me off the bike and motioned to push the machine over the bridge and onto their turf. A sign said RALINGEN – 2 KILOMETERS. This baffled me. Intel said this area was free of Krauts. So, how were these guys even here? Another German offensive? Were they forward observers? I pondered whether to run or not to run. I elected to keep pushing the bike. They led me to a farmhouse on the outskirts of town. The ground was muddy, and the air reeked of manure. My captors forced me inside and tied me to a wooden chair.

                                                                  ***

After D-Day my duty was to deliver messages on a motorcycle from Patton to his unit commanders. D-Day was June 6, 1944. I was 19 years old, and my official title was Dispatch Rider. Before the war, I had never ridden a cycle but saw one or two back home in Pennsylvania. I thought they were loud and obnoxious. I was also an orphan. Mom had passed in the 20s from typhoid and a mining explosion had finished dad during the Great Depression.

I am of German extraction and knew some German. Guten Tag, good day; bier, beer; Gott segne dich, God bless you. When the war came, I took the bus to the recruiting station in Pittsburgh. I signed on the dotted line: Henry C. Becker. But everyone calls me Hank. To be honest, I was not motivated by love of country to join. I’m claustrophobic and knew working in the mines would kill me like it did Dad, but in a different way. So, my motivator was fear. I also chose the army over the navy for the same reason—too many confined spaces on a ship.

Before D-Day, I had slogged through North Africa and Sicily as a foot soldier in Patton’s Second Corps. I picked up military life fast and shot to the rank of sergeant. Then while in England waiting for D-Day, I got into a pub fight. One too many biers clouded my judgment. I don’t remember why I slugged that limey prick, but the incident got me busted down to private.

I found that being a Dispatch Rider was an important and sometimes fun job. I operated six to 10 miles from the front. I worked alone and unsupervised. I usually rode through safe, unoccupied territory. Scenic landscapes fit for a postcard.

In December 1944 I transported orders that had turned thousands of troops 90 degrees. I raced at breakneck speed to get there—65 miles per hour, almost crashing on a few turns and freezing to death. I was delivering a dispatch that ordered Patton’s Third Army to turn northward. Their mission: reinforce the GIs hunkered down in Bastogne, Belgium. This was during the Battle of the Bulge. I delivered the message, and our guys went on the offensive. It satisfied me to know that my small bit helped save the day for those boys in Bastogne.

                                                                 ***

So, what was next for Hank Becker, bound to a hard chair in a smelly farmhouse? Will they notify the SS? Or the Gestapo? Will they find the dispatch in the courier pouch? It told everything about Patton’s whereabouts on March 25. What a prize! Old Blood & Guts was the biggest thorn in their Nazi flesh. Imagine if they shot him or blew him up—the war would take a new, dark turn.

A young fraulein was at the stove making soup. I was sure it was potato—Mom had made the same-smelling soup years ago. The potato-onion aroma transported me back to childhood, a safe and simple place. This “trip” brought some comfort. One of the soldiers said her name, Anna, and she called him Hans. They had a certain familiarity, but they were not a couple—more like sister and brother. She brought me a bowl of soup and I nodded thanks. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a sturdy, curvy frame. I thought: the Master Race got this one right.

It was impossible to fall asleep that night. The Jerries were debating some issue. I heard the word Amerikaner several times and they glared at me. It seemed they were discussing my fate. So, who was on my side and what will the outcome be? After a long time, their back-and-forth stopped, and I dozed off.

In the morning one of the Jerries jabbed me with his rifle. “Steh auf!” Get up! Mom had said those words many times, with the same stern tone. In my slumber I forgot where I was. Then memory kicked in and I was filled with dread. They led me outside, my hands still bound. I was hungry and needed to pee. The sky was gray—colorless—and the air misty. They placed me in front of two rows of soldiers. Too close for a firing squad—but what? Then the Jerry named Hans approached me with a butcher knife. His face betrayed nothing. I figured that was it, he’s gonna slit my throat and I’m gonna bleed out like a slaughtered pig. It was true what they say—your whole life does flash before you. Images flickered through my head like a newsreel. Childhood, Mom, Dad, the orphanage, boot camp, Patton, Africa, Sicily, England. Then the frau appeared in my mind’s eye—where did she come from? I cracked a little smile. Without saying a word, the Kraut took the knife and cut the cord binding my hands. Then he stepped back and dropped the blade. The other soldiers unslung their rifles and piled them onto the ground. They all looked at me and raised their hands over their heads—a mass surrender. I didn’t know what to think. seemed to be free with twenty German prisoners on my hands. How and why did this happen?

Hans tried to explain. He spoke in German with a few English words. Our conversation was confusing and convoluted. I pieced together that last night’s debate was to decide what they did next, keep fighting or surrender? One side believed that Germany was invincible. The other side thought they were dying for a lost cause. Around 3 am or so they voted to lay down their arms. They also concluded that surrendering to the Yanks was better than to the Brits. And anything was better than giving up to the Reds.

I led the Germans back into Luxembourg. The Harley became a mule, loaded with their rifles. I found the MP station and told an amazing tale of discovery, cunning, bravery, and victory. My “prisoners” backed up the story and the MPs believed everything. I also assured the powers-that-be that the dispatch was never compromised. And, to my knowledge, no other Jerries lurked in the area. They wrote me up for a Bronze Star and gave back my Sergeant’s stripes.

I took a few days of R & R before returning to motorcycle duty. Then I engineered a way to get back to the farm to check on Anna, to see how she was doing . . . .

                                                                 ***

After the war ended most GIs went home, but not me. I did not have a real home in the States—my parents were gone, and I was an only child. So, I stayed. I knew the area well and liked what I saw. And that included Anna, whom I courted and then married in 1946. I also helped her brother Hans and the others who had surrendered to get out of the POW camp. I wrote a letter explaining they could have killed me but didn’t—and that counted for something. I also said they were not war criminals or even true Nazis. The Army “looked into it” and before too long agreed. Hans and his buddies were set free. Hans became my best man and Anna and I went on to produce six children—four boys and two girls.

On my last visit with Mom before she passed, she told me that everything happened for a reason. And that included her early departure from Dad and me. So, a punctured tire made me late which forced me to take a shortcut. The altered route got me captured and then matched with Anna and a new life.

Mom was right.

Down to the Crossroads

April 4, 2023 / / 3 Comments

By James Gonda.  

I wanted to see it for myself. My curiosity had gnawed at me, and I had never been to that part of the country. I asked my wife if she wanted to go and she said no. Traveling to Mississippi to see the Crossroads was not for her. I said we could ride our bikes to the site, for a more intimate experience, and she gave a hard NO. I did my best to change her mind. I described in vivid language Robert Johnson’s paranormal meeting at the Crossroads. “Imagine meeting the devil face-to-face and having a conversation, like Jesus did in the desert.” She thought I was over-selling the place.  

Robert Johnson’s story is mythological. He started as a mediocre guitar player in the Delta. He tried to make a name for himself in local juke joints. Then he disappeared for a summer. When he came back, he played the blues like no one’s business. This metamorphosis astonished everyone. “Isn’t this the kid who couldn’t play worth a damn?” There was only one explanation. He had met the devil at the Crossroads and traded his soul for unsurpassed musical talent. The devil held up his end of the bargain; Johnson achieved fame and recorded 29 songs. But he would soon die an agonizing death after drinking whiskey laced with rat poison. But that’s another story involving a jealous husband.

Since my wife rebuffed my offer to see the Crossroads, and I didn’t want to go alone, I recruited our son, Andrew. He was hip to the idea; no persuasion was necessary. We requested time off from our jobs, made travel arrangements, put our bikes on the rack, and hit the road. We took turns driving. It took us two days to get there from upstate New York.

It was early spring and Mississippi was not yet super-hot. On our first full day, it rained. The weather put the kibosh on our ride to the Crossroads. This was a blessing in disguise. It gave us a chance to rest from the drive and take in our surroundings.

Day 2 dawned with overcast skies. Then the clouds moved out and gave way to sunshine. We ate a light breakfast, saddled up, and were off.

The Crossroads are in Clarksdale, Mississippi, where Highways 61 and 49 meet. The site looked innocuous. Two roads come together in the country, as ordinary as white rice. We took pictures from different angles, including a father-and-son selfie. I was pleased with what we found. Extraordinary people have sprung from humble places. Lincoln was born in a log cabin; Elvis in a shotgun shack. So, it made sense that Johnson’s life changed at a common crossroads. 

After visiting the Crossroads, we set off to explore the Delta on our bikes. We visited antebellum houses and a Civil War battlefield. We struck up conversations with local people. We took over a hundred pictures. We finally peddled to a barbeque joint for an early dinner. We were starving and gorged on beef brisket, pork ribs, mashed potatoes, and coleslaw. Pabst Blue Ribbon was the only beer sold. We stayed a long time; a blues trio was performing, and they were fabulous. We must have looked pretty worn out because a local gentleman offered a ride to our hotel. He had a pickup, and our bikes could go in the back. We said yes and thank you. Southern hospitality was alive and well.

We got back by nine o’clock or so. We fell asleep on our beds watching TV. After a few hours, I got cold and woke up. The clock said 11:33. That’s when I remembered: when Robert Johnson met the devil at the Crossroads, it was midnight. Should I go back? Heck, why not? I could jump in the car and be there by 12 pm. Should I invite Andrew? I decided to let him sleep. I covered him with a blanket and eased out.

At the Crossroads, I parked on the shoulder and climbed out. I looked up and down the highway and saw only darkness. It was a pleasant, clear night. A few armadillos scurried across the road. They were cute and prehistoric, at the same time. Then twelve o’clock came and went. I waited a few more minutes; by 12:15 am I decided the devil was not going to show. My bed at the Quality Inn was calling. I got back in the car, fastened the seat belt, and was about to turn the key when she tapped on the passenger side window. She was a black woman, young and beautiful. She wore a form-fitting, low-cut purple dress. I opened the window about halfway. She peered in and said, “Mister, can you carry me to town?” I thought it might be a trick. Were her friends nearby, ready to pounce? “Look,” she said, “I’m too tired to walk and my feet are killin’ me.” She reached down and took off her shoes and then showed them to me. They were purple pumps, the same color as her dress. Terrible footwear for walking on asphalt. “Hop in,” I said.

I asked where she wanted to go. “You from New York? What you doin’ here?” she said.  

“Taking in the sights,” I said.

“You came to the Crossroads to meet the devil?”

I confessed that I wanted to see it for myself. And about the devil, well, one never knows.

She turned towards me. “Honey, don’t you know the devil comes to a man in the form of a woman?” 

I snorted. “That’s not what they said in Sunday school.”

“You know, Mr. New York, you should take me to your hotel.”

I explained that wasn’t an option. Oh, she was tempting enough, and I considered her offer for a nanosecond. In a soft voice I said, “Thank you, no. I’ll run you home.” When we got to her place, she thanked me for the ride and said, “If you change your mind, you know where I stay.” 

The next morning, I debated whether to tell Andrew about my encounter. Would he feel left out? But he called my bluff. “How was your adventure last night?” he inquired at breakfast. I laughed and recounted everything. “Did you get her name?” he wanted to know. “Yeah. Hot-Chick-In-A-Purple-Dress,” I said. “She was the devil.”

“The devil? That’s serious.”

“Yeah.”

“So, the Crossroads lived up to the hype. Did you take her offer?

“No.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “The devil has ugly feet.”

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