Morning Prayer

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Sunshine washes over my face

as I stand greeting morning’s rays

warming my mother, the earth

brightening skies and lifting hearts

soaring above the lofty clouds

with emblazoned lacy wings that

move with graceful exuberance,

carrying me closer and closer

to the blessed One who made it all.

 

Praise to the Lord, Halleluiah

for His gifts enrich all people

filling us with the everlasting

warmth of His dreams and hopes.

 

Sunshine washes over my face

giving me the supernatural strength

to follow the path chosen for me alone,

the golden steps of righteous living

that demand that I support my fellows

in their struggles and rejoice in triumphs

large and small, wallowing in the sunshine

of goodness streaking all over the earth.

 

Praise to the Lord, Halleluiah

For His kindness toward us all

Allowing us to err and arise from the ashes

As a phoenix soaring to the sun.

Moving On

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The Ghost Whisperer is an older television program in which the recently deceased could not go into the afterlife due to unresolved issues. The whisperer met with the deceased, figured out the issue, and then encouraged the spirit to move on.

Last night I had need of her services.

My mother died several years ago, my father last year. My dad had remarried and his wife intended to live on in the house my parents bought. Now she has decided to move.

Last week my husband and I were at the house and went through a couple of cabinets, searching for things that were meaningful.

My parents owned no antiques, no fancy jewelry, no expensive art work. They were hard-working, every day people. They shopped at thrift stores, and when they did go to the mall, bought from the clearance rack.

Anyway, last night I dreamt that when my dad’s wife sold the house, I was there when the new owners removed the old one in order to bring in the new. As I stood there, I became aware that someone had set up lounge chairs in the carport. In front of the chairs were arranged candles, books and a selection of plastic knickknacks that my mom had collected.

In my dream, my parents’ spirits were living there. My mother was distraught due to discord in the family, and so neither of them could move on.

I awoke feeling quite sad as well as powerless. I wanted to send them off, but there was nothing I could do.

This dream reminded me of how important it is to support our elders as they age. To make sure that they are at peace when they die. That we have been kind to our family members and respected their diversity of decisions and opinions.

I hope that my parents find peace and are able to reside comfortably in the afterlife. I wish them peace.

 

A Dream of Peace

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I dreamt that I traversed the sands of time
to a place mysterious and sublime.
Where gigantic trees with branches stout,
safely nestled all feathered friends about,

providing shelter from many foe,
yet allowing freedom to come and go.
Silky soft leaves whose gentle caress
becalms restless souls, soothes with fine finesse

young and old alike; no bias here
where all live in peace for many a year.
Through the sands a winding river ran
giving sustenance to both beast and man.

Surprisingly blue with not a trace
of sinister longings upon its face.
It speaks of a sweet love; it calls to me,
“Step right in,” it says, “ and I’ll set you free

from all that ails; as well sin and pain.
You have nothing to lose, but much to gain.”
With tremulous step I slowly crept
into her warm, comforting arms. I slept.

Or thought I did, for there soon appeared
hosts of angels. I panicked, a feared
of my demise. But to my surprise
they lifted me on high with joyous cries.

The night did end. My dream soon left.
The suffering world found me quite bereft
and yearning for that heavenly place
whose welcoming arms did me quick embrace.

One thing alone I brought home with me:
knowledge that all men could soar high and free
seeking truth, wisdom, righteousness, and grace.
making earth a truly heavenly place.

The Crying Woman

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It had been a long, exhausting drive through the rolling foothills of the Sierras, but as Ashley stepped through the doors of the old familiar diner, she knew it had been worth the effort. Simply opening the doors brought back memories of home. Having grown up in the town, all she thought of was escape into a big city, and took the first opportunity that presented itself.

Now she yearned for the comforts the town offered, small-town neighbors who knew everyone and everything, but not in an –in-your-face gossipy kind of way. And so she had come, hoping that things had remained the same.

The Pines Café still stood in the center of town, flanked by Guy’s Barber Shop and Lou’s Hardware. When Ashley opened the diner doors, she did so with trepidation. One look around told her that nothing had changed. Not the red plush bench seats, the chrome table tops, the neon signs in the windows, and not even the waitress who approached her table.

“Hello, Dearie,” the woman said. She was a slim woman, hatchet face, one droopy eye and gray hair tossed into a bun on the back of her head. She stood back, hands on hips, as her eyes scanned Ashley’s face, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Ashley smiled. “Yeah, I used to come in here all the time, but that was years ago. I’ve added ten years and twenty pounds since then. But you look the same.”

“Honey, you must be blind as a bat, but I appreciate the compliment.” She placed a menu on the table. “The menu’s changed a bit. New chef. He’s added salads, tofu, and veggie burgers. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Ice water would be nice.”

Ashley looked over the menu, admiring the variety of items. This used to be a burger and fries joint, catering to hungry teens looking for a place to go after school and football games. On weekends, campers came into town, tired of their burnt meals and luke-warm beer. Once she knew what she wanted, Ashley put down the menu and looked around.

The place was nearly empty. An old man hunkered over a cup of still steaming coffee, reading the paper as if his life depended on it. A middle-aged couple sat in a booth, not talking, but holding hands. There was a sad look in the eyes of the man. Made Ashley wonder if there had been bad news recently. A death or a health crisis. Maybe even both.

The waitress delivered the water. “Are you ready to order?”

“I’ll have the chef’s salad, but easy on the dressing. In fact, can I have it on the side?” Ashley smiled when she read the woman’s name tag. “Dolores? I remember you,” she said. “Aren’t you Joseph’s mom?”

“Sure am.”

“Whatever happened to him? He was a few years ahead of me in school, so we were never close friends, but I recall that he was headed off to college.”

Dolores nodded. “Let me turn in your order and freshen up the drinks, then I’ll be back. Things are kind of slow, so I can sit and talk for a bit.”

Ashley tried to picture Joseph as she last knew him. Tall, but not lanky. Mussed black hair that hung to his shoulders. Wide shoulders and a barrel chest, like a weight lifter, but not quite as bulky. She never knew whether or not he was a good student, but rumor had it that he had earned a scholarship to USC. For football. Or was it basketball?

Dolores slid into the seat across from Ashley. “Now, then, you asked about Joseph.” A sad look crossed her face as she shook her head. “He never did make it to college.”

“What happened?”

Dolores sighed. Lowered her head to her hand. “He fell in love, that’s what.”

“With a high school sweetheart?”

“Oh, no,” Dolores said with a shake of her head. “With exploring. He used to go out hiking into the hills. Usually with a friend, but sometimes on his own. Looking for relics, like arrowheads and pieces of gold.” A bell rang from the kitchen. “Let me get your meal.”

Just like Joseph, Ashley had developed an itch for exploration. Recent news stories spoke of hidden Native American villages, deep in the mountains, and Ashley, being a historian, yearned to be the first to find one. She had come prepared with camping gear and an ample supply of food. She had typographical maps, a compass, and a good pair of binoculars. What she needed was a trail head and a safe place in which to park her car.

She had done her research. She knew some of the lore, the most troubling being that of the crying woman. That’s what she needed from Dolores: more information as to where the woman had lived and what her problem was.

After taking care of recently arrived customers, Dolores returned and fell onto the bench. “My feet are killing me,” she said. “So, why are you here after all these years?”

“I want to find that Native American village. The one where the crying woman lived. Do you know anything about that?” Ashley leaned forward and smiled encouragingly.

“I’ve heard said that the village is at the base of Snowshoe Mountain.” Dolores patted the back of her head, tucking in a few loose strands of hair. “Now, about the woman, that’s a good story.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Well, it’s said that she cries at night, a low, mournful sound that echoes off the hills. That it’s especially loud when there’s a full moon and the skies are clear.”

“Interesting,” Ashley said. She pulled her map out of her backpack and spread it across the table. She found Snowshoe Mountain and pointed it out so that Dolores could see.

“Can you show me where the village is?”

“No. Not really. Joseph took off, looking for it, but came home empty-handed. He went out night after night, leaving just before dusk and coming home just after dawn. He often heard the woman crying, and tried to trace the source of the sound, but never found a thing.”

Just then the manager called out, reminding Dolores that she had a job to do, so she left, leaving the bill on the table. “Pay at the cash register on the way out,” she said.

Ashley wanted to know why Joseph gave up his search, but Dolores was busy and she needed to take off. She left a nice tip on the table, shouldered her purse and paid the bill on the way out.

Knowing that the moon would be full, or nearly full, the next few nights, Ashley took off in her Jeep. She headed down one-lane country roads which soon turned to gravel, and then dirt, until she reached the end. It was little more than an open patch of hard-packed dirt, and the most troubling thing was that no other vehicles were there. She parked in front of a gate that lead through an old barbed wire fence, settled her backpack into place, and took off.

At first the trail meandered through firs and the occasional small, now-dried out stream, but as time passed, it turned into a slow and steady climb marked by fallen logs and small boulders. Whenever she came to a junction, Ashley examined her map for clues, made a decision, then headed out.

It was a beautiful walk. Flowers bloomed whenever there was an open spot not covered by the canopy of trees. She passed a few meadows of undulating grass, now browned. Along the edge of one, she thought she spotted a strange formation of rocks, so stepped off the trail to investigate.

Sure enough, the rocks were arranged in a pattern, not unlike ones explorers used to mark trails. Large rock on the bottom, middle-sized next, small one on top. A tower. Ashley looked around, hoping to find more markers. She noticed places where bears most likely sharpened their claws, a reminder that she would have to be careful when nighttime came.

She heard the raucous calls of Steller’s jays and the rhythmic tap of a woodpecker at work.
Just to the right of a particularly large tree, Ashley spotted a notch, something possibly made by a hatchet, so she decided to travel in that direction for a bit to see what it revealed.

She kept her eyes peeled at shoulder height, and thankfully, found more and more markings, leading her deeper and deeper into the forest. She knew from her map that she was at the base of the foothills, above the town, but not yet into the mountains, and so a likely place for an abandoned village.

Stopping only for water and an occasional snack, Ashley proceeded with glee in her heart. She knew, just knew, that this trail would take her to a magical place. A place long ago inhabited by the natives, a place that resonated with history, spirits, and souls of those who once made it home.

Frequently checking her watch helped Ashley keep track of time. She had given herself thirty minutes to travel in this direction. If she found something that looked interesting, she would continue on. If not, she’d turn around and retrace her steps until she returned to the meadow. By then it would be approaching dusk, so she’d make camp and stay for the night.

Just as the allotted time was coming to an end, Ashley found another tower of rocks. To the left of it, almost hidden by a scree of bush, she spotted what appeared to be woven branches of a low-hanging tree. She pushed them aside and looked into the darkness. Was that a cave or simply a depression in the hills?

No matter. The spot was off the trail, partially hidden, and a remarkably good place to spend the night. Ashley slipped off her backpack and began to set up camp. She gathered sticks and branches for a fire, scooped up leaves to make a bed, took out her flashlight, matches, camp stove, pot and packaged meal. She smiled and nodded in pleasure, looking forward to rice and beans, even though freeze-dried food was never really that great. Nutritious, filling, but bland.

After eating and cleaning up her dirty dishes, Ashley tossed a rope into the branches over her head. It caught on the first try. She tied her backpack to one end and pulled it as high as she could, hoping it was out of the reach of bears and other marauders.

Time for bed. She climbed into her sleeping bag even though it was still warm outside, but the thought of snakes, bugs, or rodents crawling over her while she slept gave her the creeps.

Sometime during the night, Ashley awakened. She listened for movement outside her makeshift shelter, but heard nothing. The moon’s light pierced the entrance mat, sending sparkling dots of light over her sleeping bag.

She closed her eyes and snuggled a little deeper. A sudden cry brought her out of her comfort zone. Not the cry of a bird, but of an animal. An injured or terrified animal. An eerie. Bone-tingling sound.

Ashley sat up to try to determine location and distance.

Again she heard it. This time chills swept up her arms. Noise-maker was in trouble, but Ashley had no weapon and was not physically strong enough to fight off human or animal.
She pulled aside the mat, peered into the darkness, in order to see whatever it was, but saw only shadows of trees. Once again the being cried out, even more plaintively than before.

Unable to sit there doing nothing, Ashley slipped on her jeans and boots, pulled her sweatshirt over her head and picked up her flashlight. She pulled aside the matted branches and stepped out. There was nothing there.

When it came again, the cry seemed close at hand. Whatever was making it was clearly in distress. Ashley flipped on her flashlight and shone it around to the left and right, but there was no one there. She was scared, but not too scared to take a few steps into the darkness.

She scanned the area around her camp, moving slowly, checking the ground for footprints, clues that might lead her to the source of the sound. She found nothing. She ranged further, this time in a circle, moving with precision from right to left. Again she found no trace of passage other than her own footprints.

Ashley trembled with fright, knowing that she was just a small woman, no match for man or beast, and so useless when it came to being a rescuer. Realizing that she would be better off safe in her camp, hidden from whatever was causing the distress, Ashley turned off her flashlight and nestled back in her bag, this time fully dressed in case sudden action was required.

She heard the sound a few more times, each cry making her tremble with fear. As the night passed, the cry continued, but thankfully, moving further and further away.

In the morning, after a breakfast of a granola bar and water, Ashley packed up her gear. Before heading out, she walked around the area, pushing aside branches, looking for any signs of a scuffle. But there was nothing.

She slid on her pack and slowly, carefully, retraced her steps. She made it to her car in time for a quick lunch of another granola bar, then drove back into town. She parked in front of the diner and went inside, hoping Dolores was on duty.

“You’re back pretty soon,” Dolores said as she handed Ashley a menu.

“Yeah. I got spooked out there. Do you have time to sit and talk?”

Dolores looked around, saw that none of the customers needed anything at the moment, and took a seat. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Joseph, when he went searching for the Native American village, did he speak of what happened when he was out in the woods?” Ashley leaned forward, arms on the table top.

Dolores nodded. “He got spooked. Said he heard what sounded like a crying woman. He searched the area, but found no evidence that anyone had been there.”

Ashley nodded. “Yeah. I heard it too.”

“After that Joseph did some research into local lore. He read old newspaper accounts of murders, domestic violence and other such misdeeds. He found references to some spooky happenings, raids by neighboring tribes, killings by soldiers intent on riding the area of native peoples, and even a random shooting of gold miners.”

“Why did he give up looking for the source of the sound?”

Dolores shook her head. “It seemed pointless. Plus I think it freaked him out.”

“Where is he now?”

Dolores passed her hand across her face as if erasing ancient memories. “He applied for jobs in the city, got hired and moved out. He’s never been back, not even for a quick visit.”

Ashley picked up the menu and gave it a quick glance. “I’ll have the tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. And a huge glass of ice water.”

“Sure,” Dolores said as she stood and pulled out her order pad. “Before he left, Joseph talked to a few of the old-timers that had lived out in the woods their entire lives. They had been hearing the sound for years. Called it the crying woman.”

Ashley nodded. That’s what she’d heard and she knew she’d never go back.

Just Another Shopping Trip

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It’s amazing how quickly things can change in unwanted and unexpected ways. Here I was, merrily walking through the mall, minding my own business, enjoying an afternoon away from the pressures of work. I stopped off and on, as casual shoppers do, to admire the goods displayed in a store’s window. If an item caught my eye, in I marched, like a soldier on a reconnaissance mission.

Any large mall is a shopaholic’s paradise. Given a huge variety of stores, a dedicated shopper like myself could find any number of things to satisfy the palate. From slinky lingerie to elegant evening wear, exotic foods to handcrafted creations imported from far away lands, expensive gadgets to popular toys, something for everyone beckoned.

I’m the gazing and grazing type, and so it takes me quite a long time to travel from one end of a mall to the other, scanning one side, then back the opposite way, doing the same thing.

One Saturday, I set off early in the morning to allow ample opportunity to paw through the selections before the competition arrived. Fresh and alert, my personal radar efficiently eliminated unwanted items with barely a glance. Determined to score sale clothing suitable for work, I bypassed craft, food, and doodad stores and zeroed in on any business selling outfits in my size. And considering that I am not a thin woman, that narrowed down the options considerably.

In and out I went, sifting through displays of colorful blouses, monochromatic slacks, multicolored sweaters, and a variety of denim wear. Occasionally something called to me as loudly as my parents did when I was but a child. These items I cradled to my breast, tightly grasped so as not to inadvertently fall when I was distracted by some other equally enticing morsel.

When my arms could hold no more, I dashed into a dressing room. Giving each item due respect, I buttoned, snapped, zipped, and then inspected. Those pieces of clothing that adequately disguised my lumps and bumps went into the purchase pile. The others found themselves abandoned on the reject rack.

After a few hours of this, sensory overload set in. My hunter’s walk slipped into a meandering shuffle, and my desire to spend money morphed into a yearning for nothing more than a seat.

That’s when it happened. When my life took an unaccustomed turn. Laden with bags, I fell into the first empty bench that appeared. Numbness overtook mind and limbs. Eyes glazed over. Heart slowed. Totally relaxed, my normally hyper-protective guard took a vacation.

“May I sit here?”

“What?” When focus returned to my eyes, I discovered a kindly looking gentleman standing before me. Silver hair neatly combed, clothing clean and pressed, he smiled in a comforting way as he pointed to the remaining third of the bench.

“Sure,” I said as I moved my purchases to the floor between my legs.

“Having fun?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Looks like it’s been a good day,” he said as he nodded toward my bags.

“I guess,” I shrugged.

“My daughter’s trying on clothes and I got tired of being her personal assistant. I told her to meet me out here.” His smile lit up his face.

“That’s nice.”

“Where do you live?”

At this point, alertness returned, reminding me to be careful. Despite the man’s polite mannerisms, something about him suddenly made me uncomfortable. Pretending that I did not hear the last question, I fiddled with my watch. “Look at the time! I’d better go. My husband is expecting me,” I lied. And blushed.

As I bent to loop my hands through the handles, the man said, “Let me help you with these.”

“No, thanks. I’ll be fine.” As I half-stood, butt in the air, head down, hands intertwined in the bags, something tugged on my purse. “Stop that!” I tried to turn, but the man grabbed hold of my hands, as if attempting to relieve me of my burden.

With a second, stronger tug, my purse flew from my grasp, over the back of the bench. I turned, screamed, leaned over, but could not grab my purse. Before I could make a move, a teenage girl, dressed in jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt, sprinted away. “Stop that girl!” I hollered.

“Is there a problem?” The man asked as if nothing untoward had happened. At that moment he let go of my hands, stood and looked about as innocently as a young child who has just raided the cookie jar.

Sputtering with rage, I had a difficult time getting out the words. “That girl stole my purse. Call for help!”
Unfortunately, by now the girl was long gone, having turned the corner into the food court. “She’s heading toward Burger King,” I said as I hefted my purchases as easily as if they contained marshmallows and hastened after the girl.

“Wait,” the man said. “I’ll phone security.” He pulled out a cell phone and proceeded to dial, all the while holding on to my left elbow with a pincher’s grasp.

“Let me go,” I hissed as I attempted to wriggle free. “Let me go or I’ll scream.”

“Calm down. I’ve got security on the line.” He then went into a long explanation as to what occurred, including appropriate sounding pauses, yeas and nays. “I’ll tell her to stay here until you arrive. Thank you, officer.” With that he snapped shut his phone. “An officer will be here shortly. I gave them a good description of the girl. It sounds as if they caught her already and will be coming by to get you.”

“Thanks,” I warily said.

“Well, I’ve got to go. I see my daughter coming. Good luck getting your purse back,” he said with an endearing smile. As he walked away, I felt relief wash over me. The man had been a big help, or so I thought.

I stood in place, anxiously awaiting the arrival of a security guard. As minutes ticked away, with no one dressed in an officer’s uniform appearing, a sense of dread washed over me. Dismayed, every ounce of strength drained away, and so I collapsed onto the bench.

That’s when realization hit me square on the forehead. Not only was my purse gone, but as my eyes scanned my bags, I noticed that a number of them looked suspiciously empty.

I had heard about those who preyed on the elderly, but I am not that old. I had gotten scam phone calls at home and been able to fend off each and every one. But this was different. With his genteel mannerisms, the man had penetrated my defensive shield. His accomplice then moved in, ripped off my purse, and dashed away. With me in a tizzy and distracted by my purloined purse, the man had removed a few of my newly purchased possessions while pretending to call for help.

Tears poured down my face and sobs shook my shoulders. Disappointment in myself quickly replaced anger at being robbed, and so when disgust and frustration moved into my heart, I grabbed what goodies remained and headed toward the security station. Nearly blinded by my tears, I stumbled through the mall, brushing against strollers, displays, and planters.

“Can I help you? Do you need assistance?”

I blinked away the newest rush of tears to see a smiling face before me. With her neatly coiffed silver hair and kindly eyes, the woman offered a helping hand. As she gently relieved me of a few of my bags, she said, “Sit here. Let me get you a cold drink.” Following her directions, I collapsed into a wrought iron chair, grateful that someone was stepping up to help.

You would have thought that something inside of me might have registered alarm. After all, my whole world literally changed minutes before. Blithely enjoying my shopping extravaganza, I had let down my guard, only to be taken advantage of by a charming older man and his accomplice. Could it happen a second time? Surely not. And so I settled into the chair and allowed my rescuer to soothe me into compliance.

Child’s Play

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Easy, breezy, light and freezy
squeezy, sleazy, sometimes squeaky
Fluttery, buttery, I’m not nuttery
Cattery, splattery, but no flattery
Speedily, bleedily, just not greedily
Eerily, blearily, eyes are tearily
Quakery, shakery, give me cakery
Flakery, bakery, do not takery
Snuggle me, bungle me, don’t tungle me
Spangle me, dangle me, please jangle me
Laughy, gaffy, just plain daffy
Play with words every dayfy

All things Must End

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Dreamers navigate their way
through shadows deep and dark
searching for the light of morning,
marching across endless dry deserts

or searching towering mountain peaks
crowned by heavenly angels
whose glittery gossamer wings
flutter fleetingly in a gentle breeze

brushing the sleeper’s cheek
as lightly as mother once did,
helping to climb the ladder
of delicious dreams toward

a blushing sky, streaked
orange, pink, and baby blue
as the sun, ever so slowly,
rises to greet the morning

shirking off terrifying nightmares
of hideous monsters and demons
or relishing romantic love stories
sung by twinkling firelight

in a lover’s embrace,
broken most unwillingly only
to greet the dawn of day,
without thinking, without choosing,

unable to stop the inevitable
awakening as all must for
dreamers dreams must end.

Sorry for not Posting!

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I apologize for not giving you something new to read this week.

I’ve been a little busy.

This past weekend I attended a four-day writing conference in San Francisco. It was chock-full of writing tips from experts from all over the world. I especially enjoyed those sessions in which presenters read the first page of an author’s book and gave advice about how to improve the content, those in which plot, scene and story were discussed, and those that introduced self-publishing as a growing market.

I also had the opportunity to meet an Author Coach who will read my manuscript and plot out high and low points, plus several agents who are interested in receiving the first few pages of my book.

I promise to be back on schedule next week.

The Storm

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Thunder rocked the house while lightning danced across the sky. Stan Ellis, a slightly built fifteen year old, stood on the front porch, watching the show. Simultaneous bursts struck at a couple of trees on the nearby hills, sending puffs of smoke into the moist air. He wondered where his grandpa was. He hated to think of the old man out driving in this terrible weather.

Stan’s eyes followed the gravel drive from the front of the barn, through the wooden gate that enclosed their property, and out toward the state highway that went into Bozeman. No rusty red truck rumbling home.

A jagged bolt of lightning plunged into the field just beyond the horses’ corral. The impact sent small rocks flying and a dust cloud filled the air. The horses stabled in the barn screamed in fear. Stan knew he’d better check on the horses and make sure that all were safe in their stalls.

Pulling on his anorak, he ran down the steps and across the yard, hoping to beat the next bolt. Just as he pulled open the barn door, another hit, stronger than before. Stan held on to the door as the earth trembled, absurdly terrified that he might fall. Eyes huge, he saw a nearby fir tree burst into flame like a forgotten shish kebab on a grill.

Stan stepped into the cool semi-darkness of the barn and pulled the door closed. It slid easily on its well-greased track. After dropping the latch into place, he turned to examine the animals.

Dopey and Suzy-Mae stood in the back of their stall, brown eyes as large as platters. The stallion’s head draped over the mare’s shoulder, his nuzzle stroking her mane. Dopey snuffled in a whisper-like voice, trying to calm his frightened partner.

Big Joe’s hooves clattered against the sides of his stall, a staccato beat that seemed to match the pounding of Stan’s heart. The big horse’s snorts sounded like rifle shots, and Big Joe’s sides were covered in a foam-like lather. Stan knew he’d better wipe Big Joe down before he left the stables.

Betsy and her foal, Spotter, squealed when the ground shook from another blast. They stood at the back of their stall, with ears pulled back, seeming to be listening to the pounding rain.

At the back end of the barn, Lucifer, the most gentle of the bunch, snorted, neighed, screamed, and bucked when another round of thunder shook the barn. This would be Stan’s first target. Lucifer was his grandpa’s favorite, a horse that was bought for Stan’s mother to ride when she was young.

“Hey, boy. Lucifer boy. It’s OK, big boy,” he softly crooned as he approached the stall. Whistling the stallion’s favorite tune, “Edelweiss,” he stepped closer and closer, hands outstretched in a pleading fashion. When even with the stall door, Stan peered in over the edge. Lucifer plunged forward, crashing into the wood, nearly cracking it down the middle. “Calm down, Lucifer. Calm down, boy.”

Stan picked up a handful of sweet hay, the stallion’s favorite, and held it gingerly toward the horse’s mouth. Still whistling, the young man slithered forward at turtle speed. Lucifer’s eyes rolled, showing white even in the gloom of the stall. Foam dripped from the horse’s mouth, and his sides heaved and rattled. Stan moved closer, still offering the treat. “Come on, boy. Easy, boy.”

When thunder sounded again, Lucifer burst through his door, shattering the wood as easily as breaking toothpicks. Stan jumped out of the way of the flailing hooves just in time to avoid being struck a deadly blow to the head.

He cowered against the back of the barn as the terrified horse raced up and down the center. Stan trembled in fear, leaning tightly against the door to Knight’s stall. The giant horse suddenly stopped running and looked around the barn with terrified eyes. Taking advantage of the temporary calm, Stan took a step into the center aisle. “Here I am, boy. Come here, Lucifer. Come to me, boy.” His hands shook, but he kept his voice soft and calm.

After shaking his head up and down a few times, Lucifer allowed Stan to approach. Sides quivering, spittle flying from his gritted teeth, Lucifer was far from relaxed. “Let me touch you, boy,” Stan crooned. He resumed whistling and watched as the horse’s eyes focused on the hay and the hand. “That’s it, boy. That’s it.”

When Lucifer took the first tentative nibble, Stan grabbed his halter. After pulling the giant head toward his chest, Stan offered the last of the hay, and then began stroking the black muzzle. The stallion slowly calmed, thanks to the passing of the storm and the persistent cooing and petting of the young man.

Once the horse’s eyes narrowed to a more normal size, Stan urged him forward. They walked from one end of the barn to the next, stopping only to turn and change directions. In time, Lucifer’s breathing took on its changed cadence. “That’s the way, boy. That’s the way.” Stan wondered where to put Lucifer now that his stall door was shattered. Not in with Big Joe. They’d fight and get each other riled up. Not with Betsy, either. Lucifer hates Spotter. He decided to put him in Knight’s stall as it was empty. Grandpa had taken his Appaloosa into Dr. Steinway’s clinic for some kind of operation, and so the stall would be available for a few days.

Stan walked Lucifer to the stall and opened the door. Agitated about entering another horse’s place, the stallion reared in protest. Stan jumped out of the way of the hooves. “Hey, boy. No problem. Knight’s gone for a few days. He won’t mind.” Lucifer instantly calmed, as if he understood every word.

“Go on, now,” Stan said. “Step in. Step in, boy.” The stallion did as told, as meekly as the lamb he normally was. “Yeah, that’s it. You okay now?” Stan picked up a soft cloth and rubbed the horse’s sides and neck. When Lucifer was quiet, Stan checked the food and water, and then quietly stepped outside. He closed the door and dropped the latch into place.

Now that the stallion was calmer than before, Stan rechecked the other horses. He spoke to them and whistled each one’s special song. Within minutes, all were relaxed, and even Big Joe was wiped down.

Stan left the barn and headed back to the house. His grandfather still was not home to prepare dinner, so he went into the kitchen to find something to eat. The refrigerator light did not come on when he opened the door. The clock on the microwave was dark, and when Stan flicked the switch for the ceiling lights, nothing happened.

He dug into the meat drawer and pulled out some sliced turkey, and then he got out the mayonnaise, some leaves of lettuce, and a slice of mozzarella cheese. He assembled a mammoth sandwich, tossed a handful of chips on his plate, and poured himself a tall glass of water. Stan carried his meal out to the front porch, sat in his usual chair, placed the glass on a nearby table, and balanced the plate on his lap. As he ate, he watched lightning bolts, far off in the distance, as they zigzagged across the darkening sky. The air had that fresh smell that always followed rain.

As night came on, Stan gave up his watch and went inside. The electricity was still out, so with nothing to do, he decided to go to bed early. He was worried about his Grandpa, wondering if he was safe, holed up somewhere in town, or stuck in mud out on the road. There was nothing he could do about it, so Stan pulled off his shoes, socks, jeans and shirt, and then climbed into bed. He stared at the dark ceiling, trying to recall if his grandfather had said anything about visiting Uncle Jack, or dropping in on his old friend, Zechariah.

In time Stan’s breathing slowed to a rhythmic cadence and his worried face relaxed.
Fire! The barn’s on fire! Got to save the horses. Lucifer will be in a panic. Got to get there before he kicks through the wall. Clothes. Jeans. Found them. Where’s my shoes? There they are. Do I need a shirt? Forget it. Run to the horses. Save the horses.

He flew down the stairs into the front room, across the braided rug and out the door. Panicked neighing filled the night with eerie sounds. Stan froze at the top of the stairs. He stared into the dark, searching for the outline of the barn.

I can’t see it! Where’s the barn? Horses. Got to get to the horses. My God! What’s making that noise? Is it a panther? Can’t be. No panthers near here. Mountain lion. A lion’s in the barn. Rifle. Where’s Grandpa’s rifle?

Stan stepped back inside the house and ran to the gun case. He snapped open the door so forcefully that the glass shook. Rifle. That one. Take that one. It’s loaded. Yeah. That’s the one Grandpa always keeps loaded.

Holding the rifle across his chest, Stan rushed out of the house, down the steps, and across the yard. The barn door was closed, the latch in place. No lion’s in there. What is it, then? What’s scaring the horses?

Another blood-curdling scream tore the night apart, sending shivers down Stan’s spine. Got to get in there. Got to see what it is. Open the door, and then jump aside. That’s what I’ll do.

Stan reached out with his free hand, grabbed the latch, and lifted it up. The door burst open, sending Stan flying backwards and onto the ground. Out of the barn exploded a fire-encased figure. An unearthly looking creature, with wide, gaping maw, screaming an ear-piercing sound as it rushed toward Stan. Eyes, dark as night, stared into Stan’s soul, while writhing fingers reached toward his face.

He raised the rifle and aimed where the heart should be. His finger started to squeeze the trigger, but then froze in place. No mater how hard he tried to move that finger, it refused. The creature moved closer and closer, until its searing breath brushed across his face.

“Stan, wake up, boy. You’re having a nightmare,” a familiar voice penetrated the haze that fogged Stan’s brain. A rough hand stroked his right cheek while another squeezed his left shoulder.

Stan fought back, trying to escape the demon that held him in a vise-like grip.

“Settle, boy. It’s me, Grandpa.”

Stan opened his eyes into the dark of his own bedroom. He made out the silhouette of his grandpa, leaning over him. “Grandpa? Is it really you?”

“Yes, it’s me. You’re safe now. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you,” he said as he removed his hands from his grandson’s shoulders, and then sat on the edge of the bed. “You were dreaming. It must have been one heck of a nightmare. I’ve never seen you so scared.”

“It was terrible. The barn was on fire and the horses were calling for help. I opened the door, thinking there was a lion in there, but this thing…this thing came after me. I’ve never seen anything like it. It…it tried to kill me. I had the rifle, but I couldn’t squeeze the trigger.” He stared into the darkened room, seeing the creature once again. “Grandpa, are the horses safe?”

“Yes, they’re fine. Everything’s fine. The power’s still out, but everything else is fine. How about you, boy?”

Fully awake now, Stan reached for his grandfather’s gnarly hand. Finding it, he gave it a firm squeeze of gratitude. “I’m glad you’re here. I couldn’t remember if you were coming home or not. That was a bad storm, Grandpa. It scared Lucifer.”

“Don’t worry about it, boy. I got hung up at Becker Creek. The darn thing overflowed its banks. And then lightning hit a tree right in front of me. It burst into flame like a torch. Next thing you know, the grass caught fire and surrounded the truck. I thought I was a goner. The gas, you know? But your grandmother must have been watching over me, like she always does. The flames moved away, silently creeping back into the woods as if blown by a ghost. Her spirit has saved my life more than once. I sure owe that woman.”

“Next time you see her, give her my thanks,” Stan whispered.

“I will, boy. I will.”

“Did you see anything in the flames? You know, like an animal?”

“I was too scared to pay attention,” Grandpa said. “Even if I had, I couldn’t have done anything but sit there and watch. You calm enough now to go back to sleep?”

“Yeah,” Stan answered as he settled back on his mattress. “Would you mind staying for a bit?”

“You want me to hold off that demon?”

“Yeah. That would be real nice.”

Silence fell, wrapping both men in a blanket of comfort. Soon snores echoed off the walls: Grandpa’s deep rumbles harmonized with Stan’s staccato tenor notes. They slept.