The fenceline

Little Willie was working really hard and had been for the last six hours.  The huge thunder storm and subsequent down pour had knocked down the fence line on the north end of the Johnson property and Willie's father had asked him to re-dig the post holes and repair the fence.

So work Willie did.  Willie was having a problem though.  The spoon he was using to dig, kept bending.  He would get one or two scoops before he had to straighten the spoon. By lunchtime his father came out to check on his work and call him in to eat.

"Hello son," his father said as he approached. "What are you doing with the spoon?"  "I'm digging like you asked," Willie replied with a sigh.  "It's taking much longer than I'd expected though."  "But son," his father continued, "it's a spoon.  Why aren't you using the post hole digger and shovel I gave you?  You saw them, didn't you?" "Yes, father.  I saw them," the boy responded, sighing again. "It's just that they are so heavy and seem like something an adult would use.  I thought this might work better."

That evening, after dinner, Willie returned to the barn, to feed the still penned up cattle.  The cows couldn't be let out to graze until the fence was repaired.  And at the rate Willie was moving, it would be awhile.

Fat

Chandler's brother Andrew was four years younger than him, but was bigger.  And that was an understatement.  It wasn't that Chandler was small, by any means.  In fact, Chandler was enormous.  Not big, not large, not stout, not big boned, but fat, Orca fat.  And Andrew was fatter.

A thought occurred to Chandler one evening during second dinner.  Chandler's father had just finished off a second game hen and was reaching for a third serving of potatoes. Chandler felt full, but following his father's example, waited a few minutes before taking another serving.  He stopped in mid-bite and looked at his plate.  He looked up at the rest of his family, all fully immersed in this 7:00 pm dinner.  "Good Lord," he thought to himself, "the four of us easily weigh in at a cumulative 1300 lbs." He took a deep breath and sat down his fork.  Chandler never looked back.

Six months later and 100 lbs. less, Chandler ate his salad and fruit cup, while his family continued to gorge.   Chandler had been reading of a new health group, the Breath-airians, and found himself intrigued.  "All of this eating is just too much," he said to Andrew one evening.  Andrew, weighing in at 280 lbs. and still growing munched on a box of doughnuts and looked upon his brother with pity in his eyes.  "I don't know what has come over you, Chandler," he said.  "You used to love food.  Now look at you.  You're all skinny and gaunt.  Mom says you don't look healthy."  "You're wrong, Andrew," Chandler retorted. "You are all going to die from all this food.  I’m not going to let that happen to me.  I'm going for it.  I'm becoming a Breath-airian and you can't stop me."

It was a strange sight that the police found that evening, six months later.  Three people, morbidly obese, apparently all dead from heart disease and heart attack and one very skinny young man, basically starved to death.  The official report proved inconclusive and the neighbors talked about the family for years to come.

The Last Car Ride

Dan picked himself up and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and nose.  The guy was right, this was a beating he probably wouldn’t forget.  The whole situation really didn’t make any sense.  Dan was a nice guy.  He didn’t give anyone any trouble.  He paid his bills, drove the speed limit, and opened doors for other people, regardless of gender.  Yet there was a large contingent of the population that went out of their way to make his life miserable.

Dan knew exactly when it all began.  In high school, he was the regular guy.  Not extremely athletic, but not awkward either.  Not stunningly handsome, but not ugly.  Not an A student, but he never failed any class.  He played the saxophone in the school band.  He was part of the student body.  He was generally liked by people from most cliques.  Even the stoners thought he was okay.  But then the alerts began to be heard.

Dan’s dad, Clyde, came home from work one day and informed his family that he had heard of an invasion of some sort on the east coast.  He calmed their understandably panicked response by saying that he was not talking about space ships and brain control.  Apparently scientists had begun noticing a change in the air quality around larger cities.  The people in these cities began exhibiting strange behavior, but it wasn’t behavior that was socially unacceptable or destructive.  People began to commit random acts of kindness, love and gentleness.  Clyde paused for affect.  His family looked at him strangely and waited for him to continue.  “The stranger part,” Clyde continued, “is the response of those around them.  Those who were not so inclined to kindness, began retaliating with extreme hostility and violence.  Old ladies were seen beating up bikers.  Children began roaming in packs and attacking business men.  The authorities don’t know what to do.”

It was Clyde’s wife that began laughing first.  “Clyde,” she guffawed, “you are so weird.  What a ridiculous story to make up.”  She slapped him on the back and chortled.  Clyde winced and rubbed his eyes.  “No, Emily, I’m serious.  The authorities are completely baffled and the violence is escalating out of hand.  Things have become dangerous around Boston, DC and New York.”  Emily merely stood up, rolled her eyes and went into the kitchen to make dinner.  Dan and his sister Beth looked at one another.

Things continued to escalate and move slowly across the country.  First it was reports of love and violence in Chicago and Baton Rouge.  It wasn’t until Houston began seeing gangs of nuns attacking children that the entire country was put under martial law.  Now, two years later, in Seattle, Dan had begun feeling the urge to take out his neighbor’s garbage and mow his law and buy Mrs. O’Flannery groceries on occasion, that his mother began acting strangely.  First it was the occasional burnt dinner.  But eventually Dan was finding cat poo in his laundry and needles in his pillowcase that he knew he was in trouble. 

Dan limped off away from the group of taunting girl scouts and tried to stay in the shadows.  This was the third time he had been beat up this week and he began to consider moving to a smaller city.  He made it home just before dark.  But it appeared that he arrived a few minutes too late.  All the windows in the house had been broken and his father lay on the front steps, his skull apparently crushed.  The police were leading Dan’s mother to the waiting police car in handcuffs, as she spouted some of the most foul and vile language Dan had ever heard.  Dan shifted into the overhang three houses down from his own, and no one saw him.  He caught a glimpse of his sister in the front window, a very disturbing smile on her face.  Dan turned away and never went back.

It was over two years later when Dan finally met his demise.  He had just finished carrying the neighbor lady’s groceries into her house when a group of girl scouts rounded the corner.  “There he is,” one shouted, and they ran him down before he could make it to the end of the block.  It could have been the street light overhead, but the last thing Dan remembered was a bright light and an incredible feeling of peace.  Two very large men in business suits with no ties helped him to his feet and led him to a waiting Mercedes-Benz.  Dan hadn’t felt this good in a long time.

Southworld (Part 5 of 7)

Richard had just sat down in the circle of those in his group, taking the hand of his wife to his left and the hand of an older gentleman to his right.  The hand to the right had a constitution similar to a fish.  Looking up to the now seated spirit guide, Sandstone by name, gender indeterminate, Richard allowed his attention to drift, giving his best effort at guessing the sexual orientation of his guide.  But it was a fruitless effort, all telltale clues to gender were absent.

Richard and his wife had been on holiday for fourteen days now, visiting all the strongest meridian points the earth had to offer.  Their final stop, Stonehenge, was the climax of their trip.  Somehow, Sandstone had made some important contacts and managed to bring the group into the center of Stonehenge, typically off limits to tourists. "Thank you for joining hands," he/she began, "everyone close your eyes and focus on the earth directly below is.  Direct your golden energy into the earth and connect with Gaia.  She is very strong here."  

Richard could just barely hear the hum, a slight "om", coming from the gentleman to his right.  As he focused his energy to the ground beneath him, he could feel a gentle vibration, almost like an embrace.  He suspected some others in his group felt it as well, for he heard several gentle, but definite intakes of breath from around the circle.  But the feeling left as quickly as it arrived and Sandstone called for everyone to stand up.  The bus ride back to the hotel was strangely quiet.  Richard's wife commented the she felt somewhat violated.

Later that evening, as Richard and his wife had finished dinner, over a glass of merlot the discussion turned a little queer.  "I'm not sure what to think of the Stonehenge incident today, Richard," his wife said.  "I know we were supposed to connect with Gaia today and feel her energy, but it just didn't seem right."  Richard paused.  He felt the energy just like his wife had felt, yet he had the same uncomfortable feeling.  Like one would feel getting undressed at the doctor's office, with the doctor watching and breathing hard.

"I know what you mean, honey.  I mean really, how can we have an assurance that Sandstone is actually leading us into what he/she claims?  There are malevolent entities out there.  We know that from our time in moving our chakra energy and channeling.  I feel like we're dabbling in areas where we are over our heads. I'm starting to feel like we need some sort of authority over us."