The Tale of the Vampire and the Ghostwriter 

Candace McIntire drafted stories about other people who paid her for her time. Ghost writing wasn’t all she enjoyed. She wrote of witchery, vampires and werewolves that went bump in the night. She was a slender, tall woman of raven hair and deep brown eyes. Unlike the others though her face was white as snow. One evening she got a call from a mysterious sounding voice, a voice that sent a chill down her spine. 

“Ms. McIntire, I understand you are a ghost writer.” His voice sounded deep with a baritone and Spanish dialect.  

“Yes, I write about ghosts and other creatures of the night,” she replied with hesitancy and feelings of dread in her voice. 

“My name is Sebastian Rodrigues. I originally came from Madrid. I live here now. I wish for you to author my story. It is a long saga of how I came to being. I was of a normal life but was reborn years ago.” He paused. She wondered where this conversation was leading to. “Are you intrigued?” 

Why does that name sound so familiar? “I’m not sure, I charge by the hour and my rate is a minimum of $1000.” 

“Money is not an issue with me. I am, as you say, old money. I will gladly pay you what you charge, maybe even provide you a bonus afterwards, Ms. McIntire.” 

“A bonus? What kind of bonus?” She asked, her voice rose significantly sounding overly excited or greedy. 

“While I have lived many years, my time is nearing its end, and time has become more tangible now. If you can write my life story within six months and can guarantee a respectable publisher, I will gladly give you a bonus plus your rate.” 

“Cancer?” 

“No, something else is slowly draining my life force.” 

“I will need to see you and conduct interviews, plus I’ll need to have documentation. Can you provide me with your records?” 

“I have everything that you will need, Ms. McIntire.” 

“Can I come and visit your hacienda or…” 

“There is a cantina near where I live off the Sunset highway called Benito et Geraldo’s. Are you familiar?” 

It took Candace a brief moment to gather her bearings on the outskirts of Mazatlán. “I believe I have seen it a time or two.” 

“Meet me there after sunset in two days when the bats come out from their cave.” The connection abruptly ended, and the same shiver caused involuntary convulsions to jiggle her petite and slender form. 

Two nights later 

Candace strolled into the smoke-filled cantina, filled with mostly local regulars who talked amongst themselves. Suddenly, the place became deathly quiet. She stood at the entrance. A bearded man of medium height came to her. He looked middle aged, perhaps no older than sixty with a hint of salt and pepper interlocking his black hair and beard. He too appeared deathly pale to her. 

“Ms. McIntire, I am Senor Gomez, Senor Rodrigues’ go between,” he introduced himself but didn’t offer a complimentary salutation. He instead pulled an ancient looking valise up upon a table where the two men sat but appeared in a hypnotic state, neither blinking nor exchanging glances with the man, who opened the flap using brass buckles that he deliberately opened showing a folder with many files inside. 

“Where is he? Why didn’t he come in person?” she asked with suspicion in her voice. 

“He will be here at another time. He wants you to start here with these pages, reports, and other documents to get you started. If you have any questions, I will be available to answer most of them.” 

“I am not certain I like this. When will I get to interview him?” 

“When you have gone through all the documentation here and have an outline made out, you will call me. Here is my card. At that time, an interview will be granted.” 

“Granted? Are you kidding me?” 

“I assure you Ms. McIntire, Senor Rodrigues is not frivolous and understands your time is valuable. Here in my breast pocket is an envelope with one thousand American dollars that you said was the minimum amount you would accept. Consider this a good faith gesture.” He said this while pulling the envelope from his white breast suit pocket. He laid it flat on the table next to the valise. Candace reluctantly took the money and the files. 

She glared at Senor Gomez. “I am not happy with this arrangement. Tell Senor Rodrigues I want an interview within a week after I finish this.” 

“Very well, have a pleasant evening Ms. McIntire.” He stared after her. Candace did an about face and stormed out of the cantina. The conversation continued as if there had not been an interruption. 

She followed Gomez to a beachside cottage a mile or so east of the main highway. She continued to her apartment after she knew this was where Sebastian lived. 

The Following Night 

She spent the entire night going over every document and public record Sebastian provided. She went ahead and drafted out an outline, knowing exactly what needed to be done. Candace knew the moment she read his files, his records, who he was. She had in her mind the perfect ending to this story. Now she just needed Sebastian Rodrigues to interview and complete his story. 

After the bats had left the cave, she entered the house Sebastian lived at, along the sandy beach of the resort. It was a modest cabana. A single light from a kerosine lantern showed her the starkness of the one room place. In the center of the room Sebastian was reposed on a divan of rich velvet the color of blood. 

“I thought we had an arrangement, Ms. McIntire,” he stated to her. He remained as he was, appearing death-like. 

“I’m afraid I don’t take commands very well, Senor Rodrigues.” 

“That is most unfortunate.” 

“I’m ready for the interview, sir.” 

“What was your first impression of me when I called you?” 

“I don’t know. You frightened me, I supposed.” 

“And now? How do I appear to you now, Ms. McIntire?” 

“You are older than I imagined, much older. You mentioned you have a short time left, tell me why if it is not cancer?” 

“I need not explain my condition to you. You are correct though; I am old. Did you read my records?” 

“They could’ve easily been altered—” 

“But they were not. I am as old as is recorded. The paper those records were written on should have been your first clue, Ms. McIntire. My first life as a human ended in 1793 in France during the reign of terror. A young girl cursed me. Her name was Fleur. She was imprisoned as I was. My crime was my opposition to this madman, Rospierre, and his reign of terror. She, well as you can imagine, what her crime was. The guillotine was not her death, but the bright morning sun. How I escaped a similar fate, I do not remember. When I awoke though, I was on a ship destined for the Americas. I eventually wound up here.” 

“So, you are a vampire,” Candace concluded. 

“No, actually I am a vampire slayer. It is both blessing and curse.” 

“Well, now that I know for certain, this will be much more blessed. Do you remember Maria?” 

Sebastian turned his head in her direction. The sunken eyes, the bald head and the pointed ears made her gasp in horror. “Yes, yes, I do remember Maria. She was my first here in Mexico. Why?” 

“Because she was my mother until the village where we lived learned the truth.” 

“If you are her daughter…” 

“Yes, I too am cursed,” Candace replied as she lunged toward him in one motion so fast that it would appear like a flash of white light went across the room. He never saw it coming and cried out in agony as she sank her pearl-white fangs into his throat and sucked the undead blood from him, reducing Sebastian to a withering dried mound of dust.

A Natural Gift

My stepdaughter Emely has many gifts that I am immensely proud of her for having. The latest is her gift for making automobiles look remarkable as you my loyal readers can plainly see from the image above. She is going through an auto body class at one of the local community colleges here in Spokane. At this point she learned wrapping. 

Before she took this class I never even heard of wrapping a car, yet I guess, so long as the original finish on the car one is going to wrap, is clean—no marks, rust or dings—then one can opt for doing this kind of work. 

I had a minor booboo happen to me last week and I asked her about this method. While it was nothing more serious than trading paint, she explained to me that any imperfection on the original finish was a none issue because the vinyl used in wrapping would peel away, exposing the original finish and creating more problems down the road. 

Though she didn’t say so in so many words, I’m hopeful she’ll volunteer to make my car her next project when that time occurs and she’s been train in that next phase of auto body repair. In the meantime, the person who got his Dodge Challenger wrapped in that neon green that Nicolas swore glows in the dark, is very satisfied with the result. As I am as well.

Change of Seasons

I don’t know how you my loyal readers feel about our seasons, but I kind of enjoy the changes that each season brings to me. Winter’s snow and bare trees make way for blossoms and greenery of spring. Heat of summer steadily makes way to autumn splendor of golden rod and rust. Then first blasts of winter in the form of storms that blow cold gusts into my face and watching virgin snow fall gently to the ground covering everything in white. 

Of course, the symbolism of the changes doesn’t go unnoticed on me either. Children and adolescents bound and play in their springtime youth, summertime brings young adults into marriage and future growth. Autumn shows maturity as we slowly and surely gracefully age and mellow, followed finally by the finiteness of winter and our own mortality that awaits all of us. To that end, springtime renews itself with fresh life. 

As I have told many of you and perhaps fittingly so, if we didn’t at least appreciate the changes in seasons, we certainly wouldn’t be living here where the seasons are appropriate. Many of you have chosen to live south of here, where winters are not as apparent with cold, snow and ice. Some may well live in places where winter isn’t a factor at all, but then you are faced with severe weather like hurricanes and tornadoes. 

I think that is a trade off of sorts. After all, we have to endure those nasty winters to have the pleasantness of those other seasons to have that equilibrium you in the south must cope with. I truly don’t know how climate change will affect future weather long after you and I are gone. I just hope the changing seasons aren’t so drastic, it makes life unbearable. 

At First You Remember, Now You Don’t 

I don’t know if I got dementia, or just getting at that stage in life where I’m becoming more forgetful and getting those memory lapses seemingly more often. I read an article about the seven early warnings of dementia. 

Needless to say, I was shocked and perhaps not as surprised to realize we all are in that stage, whether in our sixties, older or younger, that these signs of dementia symptoms may well be what defines old age.  

As an example, I always had trouble communicating my thoughts, but lately it has become more apparent. I’m sure you, my loyal readers have faced the same issue—talking to someone and trying to come up with that certain perfect word or phrase, but just isn’t coming up. 

I used to be able to see a fellow co-worker and right off the bat, state their name without blinking an eye. Anyway, I have struggled remembering people’s names or seeing that familiar person but forgetting their name and feeling inferior. 

I know that you, my loyal readers, know my history that I’m a recovering alcoholic, who suffered a serious life-changing stroke that obviously affected me physically, and perhaps mentally as well. But these latest issues have arose quite subtly but suddenly to where I’m more than a little concerned, especially considering I have lost a cousin and an aunt to Alzheimer’s. 

I know I will need to have my care provider refer me to a specialist to go through the regimen of cognitive tests to rule out Alzheimer’s, and hope that what form of dementia I may have is easily manageable. I can at least still write, and my thoughts are clear when I am writing though I continuously have to check my characters from the chapters before, so I don’t embarrass myself. 

Angels in Our Lives 

I have often considered, even back my more agnostic days that we are surrounded by angels in our lives. I know many of you my loyal readers have at one time, or another been touched by someone who somehow changed your life for the better. 

I have at least had one experience and yet, there are probably too many to count, times when someone or something interrupted the path I was headed and took a turn away from what most likely would have been my demise. 

I know these people were angels because I never saw them again. They appeared and just as quickly disappeared from my life forever. I even sometimes suspect that God might have even appeared in the form of a human to guide me away from that which would have surely ruined me. 

Then, let us not forget those memorable angels from their roles in movies: Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life, Cassiel and Damiel of Wings of Desire, Dudley in the Bishop’s Wife, Pete Sandich of Always, Gabriel in Prophesy, Joe Pendleton in Heaven Can Wait, Al the Boss in Angels in the Outfield, Azazel in Fallen, and Loki and Bartleby of Dogma. These angels for better or worst shaped the mortals who made them either understand something clearly at last or create chaos. 

I believe in the angels more now than ever because how my own path has taken me. At first, I didn’t listen to those angels who came to me in their human disguises. I denied they knew what they were saying. I now realized they were right, and I was the fool. After my stroke I became a different person not just because I realized my limited human life had changed but because those better angels had indeed rescued me from ruin. 

Fire and Rain

Every morning as I head to work, I listen to KPND out of Sandpoint, Idaho. It has the mix of classic and alternative rock that I enjoy listening to. At any rate this morning DJ, throws out a blurb of an artist’s interview and this one this morning caught my ear. 

Apparently, James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain,” dealt with suicide. I did not know that. All this time I thought it was a breakup song like Gordan Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind,” or Joan Baez’ “Diamonds and Rust.” 

I know from personal experience about suicide. I think all of us have experienced it at one point or another, either from a relative, a friend, or an acquaintance. In my case it was an acquaintance, a close friend of my mother’s son shot himself in the head with a .22 rifle when he was sixteen in front of the Richland Police station. I was working for or was recently laid off for a security outfit out of Hanford where we were making the world safe from Soviet aggression through mutually assured deterrence, or destruction. 

I remembered how hollow it all seemed as I was asked to bring folding chairs from the Elks Lodge to his mother’s house. I felt helpless because what can you say to the mother at a time like this? I saw the anguish, guilt stricken hurt in her own eyes. Me saying “Sorry for your loss,” rang insincere to me. I hardly knew him. We met once ten years prior, and I just never got a positive impression of him, considering I was fourteen and he was six. 

Years later, I was working at a convenience store when a group of men came in. I immediately recognized them from my old Boy Scout troop that I was a part of. I asked them what was up, and the vocal one told me one of the former scouts had died and they just came back from his funeral. 

At this time, I do not recall his name. It does not matter because the fact that he died was traumatic and shocking enough, but when I asked what he passed away from, the answer was, “I guess he just didn’t want to live anymore.” After they left, I concluded that he must have committed suicide. 

I know people who become depressed and despondent to the pressures of living a life that to them appears hopelessly lost. I wish there were a positive message, but it is not that simple. Our brains are all wired differently. We all see things through a different filtered lens. According to the interview Suzanne was being controlled most ruthlessly by her parents, even going as far as having her committed. Rather than trying to get her a proper professional counselor, they apparently gave up on her. 

Used to be there was this 1-800 number that people who were suffering could call and chat without consequences. Now it has become simplified, and one only needs to call 988 if they feel this over whelming urge to end their life as Hamlet contemplated rather than endure anymore pain and heartache. 

Naomi Judd killed herself rather than continue to fight the cancer that was slowly killing her. It is not the morally right thing to do, yet as we all are aware, sometimes the quick and easy way seems more soothing than a slow and painful death that is inevitable and just as painful to watch. 

My loyal readers, if you ever have this deep despair that your life is no longer worth living and that you would be better off dead, call 988 and talk to that person on the other end. They may not have the answers you are looking for, but maybe there is a path forward and one more day of living. 

Barbarous Cannibals and Pet Eaters

Barney and Wilma watched the latest news on Fox because that’s where the real news is. It’s not fake like on those regular channels. On occasion they’ll watch “Survivor” or “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?”  But they mostly watched the real news on Fox. 

Both ate their Cheetos and diet coke from their two-liter bottles. Their bags of chips rested on top of their round bellies. Barney proudly wore his red baseball cap. Trump was emblazoned on its bill. 

“Can you believe this?” Barney exclaimed as a reporter from some midwestern town told a serious story concerning more goings on with illegal immigrants invading their town with cannibals and pet eaters. 

“I’ll believe anything because them liberals in Washington keep the borders open,” Wilma replied, her mouth full of orange chips, bits of crumbs landing on her Dacron pants. “I sure hope Trump can fire them liberals once and for all. 

“Fire them?” He asked incredulously. “I say have them all arrested and put in prison.” 

“That will work fine with me too.” A video came on showing pictures of a barbeque pit with what appeared like dead animals inside. “Are those dogs?” 

“It sure does look like it Wilma. Them cannibals are eating their neighbors pets too. Trump warned us this would happen. Letting all those foreigners into our country and eating our pets and other people too!” 

“Well, I sure do hope he gets elected again so we can deport them back to where they came from. Then we won’t have to worry about voting again in four years. Trump, he promised this will be the last election. I sure hope he’s right because this freedom business is giving me a headache. I like it better back in the olden days. Don’t you Barney?” 

“Funny, I thought we have elections back then too?” He scratched his four-day growth.  

“Oh, that’s right. I just never voted. I don’t generally believe in that stuff. It’s too complicated for my eighth-grade education.” 

“I just never gave it a thought myself considering I’m a felon and all since I robbed that liquor store when I was eighteen. Can’t own no guns neither.” 

“Don’t you have right to bare arms?” 

“Wilma, that might be true but I was in prison when they passed that law.” 

“Oh, that’s right. Is that our congresswoman Greene?” Wilma looked at her enviously. “That’s a nice dress she’s wearing. I could never wear anything like that myself. But she’s a rich, properly educated woman with college education no less.” 

“I like her. She will go far, maybe Trump will name her Speaker of the House. Then he can get his promises made into good and proper laws for us decent hard-working folks.” 

Wilma laughed, nearly choking on her coke.” 

“What’s so dab burn funny?” 

“You! You haven’t worked in ten years since that fiberglass shop closed.” 

“Well, maybe not me but somebody else who’s hard working.” 

“Did you check the mailbox and see if our disability checks came in yet?” 

“Oh, now I got to get up off this recliner. I was comfortable too!” 

“Get a bag of goobers too. I should check my blood sugar while you’re gone.” 

The Confession 

Mac remembered that day as if it was yesterday. He held it in his mind and heart for so long. He kept his secret intact with the help of rot-gut liquor such as, Irish Diamonds, Canadian Mist and Clan MacGregor. He befriended a young bartender by the name of Emily Welch. She had the same ginger color hair his used to be before it turned a light reddish gray-white tone. A good portion of his hair had thinned out considerably where the crown was a bald pate. His clean-shaven face now sported a heavy white beard. 

His Christened name given to him by his mother was John MacDougal, but his friends, the ones in this very bar, called him Mac. It was twenty years now but he still remembered that day. He looked at her pouring drinks and handing out bottles of beer to the regulars after getting off work. Twenty years to the day since it happened, Mac reminded himself. 

Emily was the antitheses of Mac. Her shoulder length red hair curled naturally framing her white face with slight blushing of her cheeks. Her infectious smile showed pearly white teeth, nearly perfect. She had an upturned nose and emerald eyes that seemed almost bewitching. Mac had the same-colored eyes. She was tall and slender and conveyed confidence every time she walked about the bar. 

Mac watched her with blurry, blood-shot eyes, in a father-like manner. He smiled after her as she opened a beer bottle for a new regular named Fred. She laughed at Fred’s attempt at a joke, maybe a compliment? Mac wasn’t listening to the conversation, so he couldn’t hazard why she laughed. Mac turned his head to the character, a fat man with heavy jowls and dark beady eyes. 

“Mac? You want one more?” Emily asked. 

Mac’s thoughts revolved around his past and he didn’t hear her. So much like Sally-Ann. But she did address him, didn’t she? “What?” 

“Oh Mac, you are incorrigible! I asked if you would like one more?” 

“Oh sure, sorry. How was your day at school?” 

Her back was to him as she replied, “It’s good, hon.” She was a pre-legal major at Gonzaga, a small college in Spokane, Washington. “I got finals next week to study for. So, you boys will have to suffer with Ray next week. I won’t have time to babysit you guys.” 

A roar of disapproval and laughter filled the bar as she turned around and placed the shot glass in front of Mac. She smiled at the group of mostly blue-collar construction workers and laborers. “Five dollars honey.” 

Mac pulled out his change and counted out the money. 

“Mac, never mind. I got you this time, okay?” Emily told him as she pulled a five-dollar bill from the tip jar and set it inside the till. 

“Thanks, Emily. I promise I’ll pay you back on payday.” 

“Of course you will honey,” she told him in a sing-song voice that amused him. 

Mac admired her figure. She reminded him so much of her mother. How long, he wondered, twenty years ago? He remembered that night when he heard what happened. That event so infuriated him, he couldn’t think. He nursed this one. It was going to be his last one. He needed to get this off his chest and he needed to be at least sober enough to tell her the truth.  

He had wanted to many times before, but his courage left him and be became angry and drunker and ended up going home instead. Not tonight, he promised himself as he moved the glass of amber potent potable. It now rested just outside his peripheral vision. This way, he reasoned, I can make it last until she calls closing time. 

He focused on the inane shows on TV, mostly reality fare that insulted his intelligence. The audio was muted and that suited him fine. It showed scantily clad men and women performing stunts for their team. He looked about the other men in the tavern becoming louder and drunker. Slowly each man called it a day.  

By eleven it was just them, Mac and Emily. She busied herself cleaning the place, wiping tables and the bar, pulling out a wide blue padded mop and slowly pushing the dust to the storage room behind the bar. Mac watched her. He downed the last of his whisky and pushed the empty glass toward her. 

Emily came back out and placed the shot glass in a glass washing machine. She turned it on, and a humming sound came out from the bar. “Are you about ready to call it a night, Mac?” 

“Yeah…no I got something I need to get off my chest.” 

“Really? What’s that?” 

The door swung open and a group of five men came in. The hairs on the back of Mac’s neck stood on end. None belonged here. They appeared like strangers from another town. “Hey there sweety! How about getting us a pitcher of beer? We’re darn thirsty!” 

Emily smiled but Mac could plainly see she wasn’t pleased. “I’m sorry, last call was an hour ago. You might wanna try Swinging Doors. They’re opened late.” Mac saw the disappointment from the other four, but the boisterous and largest man in the group, the one who ordered the pitcher apparently considered her reply as a challenge. 

“Yeah, right. Come on, get us a pitcher. I’ll make it worth your trouble, later,” he laughed. His companions laughed too but not with the energy of their friend. 

Mac arose from his stool and said in a low growl, “The lady told you that we’re closed. Just go back out of here and find yourself another bar to make a fool of yourselves.” 

“Lady? Yeah, right,” the loudmouth stated with glint in his brown eyes. “She’s just another slut, like all the other sluts who work here.” He went toward Mac, then turned to Emily. “Now, are you gonna get me and my friends here a beer, or am I going to get nasty and make you?” 

“I don’t believed I stuttered the last time I informed you that we are closed,” Mac moved into the bigger man’s face. Mac saw the belligerence, smelled the alcohol, noted he had twenty years his junior and most likely had every possible advantage at his disposal. 

“I heard you old man. And you know what? I don’t much care. This bitch is gonna serve me and my friends or I’ll hurt you and her really bad. Then I’ll still get my beer and watch this place burn to the ground with you two inside.” Mac saw his black hair, a thin jagged scar that ran along his cheek, the too small t-shirt that enhanced his muscular upper torso. Mac never took his eyes off this person. 

“Come on Pete, this ain’t funny no more,” one of his friends called out.  

“Yeah Pete, let’s go to that Swinging Doors like she suggested,” another suggested to Pete. 

Mac smiled at him. “Yeah Pete, apparently your friends are smarter than you,” Mac told him as he flexed and unflexed his hands into balled up fists. 

“Mac don’t,” he heard Emily plead. “Please don’t.” 

“What is this old drunk gonna do?” Pete sneered. “He can’t beat himself out of a paper sack. I’ll chew him up and spit him out. Then I’m gonna fuck your brains out bitch! You’ll like that won’t you?” 

Mac’s breathing moved in and out deeply. His eyes became pinpointed. His nostrils flared. He waited for him to make his move. “Do what you want then. I’m ready, Pete.” 

A thunderous percussion cut the still air. A surprised exclamation came from Pete’s lips. He briefly turned and stared at Emily. Mac also turned in her direction. Pete seemingly wilted to the floor. Mac saw her expression. It reminded him of her mother’s expression the next morning that he remembered so well. He then saw the Glock in her tiny hands. He heard the other four men make their exits, cursing and crying as they left. 

“God dammit, Emily! What did you do?” Mac shouted at her. He saw her hands trembling. He briefly looked down at the still body then rushed around the bar and took the semi-automatic pistol from her and placed it on the bar. 

“I thought he was going to kill you! He threatened me. You heard him! He wanted to kill you and rape me! YOU HEARD HIM!” Her screams became hysterical. Her eyes wild and unfocused, her cheeks flushed, tears streamed down her face.  

Mac grabbed her and held her. She fell onto his thick and massive frame and held him to her. “I’ll take the blame,” he told her. “When they discover the truth, it will make sense.” 

“What truth?” She asked, bewildered. The sobs subsided. “Mac, you were going to tell me something earlier that you wanted off your chest. Please tell me what it is before the cops show up. You know one of those guys probably called 9-1-1. Please tell me.” 

Mac sighed and then released himself from her. He sat back on his stool. He hunched over and took a deep breath. “Dear Jesus, forgive me for what I’m about to confess,” he prayed looking up at the ceiling. 

“You’re really freaking me out here Mac!” 

“I know, I’m sorry. Did your mom ever show you pictures of your father?” 

The look of dismay spoke volumes to Mac. “ There was one of a young boy posing with her in front of an old car. No, I was told he died in an accident.” 

“No, that was a lie. I’m your father, Emily. But that’s only part of it.” 

“You? Is that why you come here to this place, drink yourself stupid and go home only after I’ve closed? You are something else! I don’t believe you!” 

“Emily, please, let me tell you everything. I do remember everything.” His eyes pleaded with her. Initially she blanched and turned away from him. Then she turned around and nodded. She walked slowly to a table and sat down. 

“Come here and tell me,” she told him in a whisper. 

Mac moved from his familiar perch and sat at the table in a chair across from her. “Twenty years ago, your mother and I were very much in love. She was just out of high school, and I was a philosophy major at Gonzaga. I was preparing to enter the seminary upon graduation. 

“One day, we went to a movie together and I’m not certain what followed but either she or I had to leave in the middle of the movie. But, we weren’t alone, my best friend, Chuck was there too. I’m not sure she more than likely said I left first. I don’t know at this point who; doesn’t much matter anymore anyway. I was there alone in the theater when I realized Chuck wasn’t here either. My best friend.” 

“What happened?” 

“I never saw her again that night and went home to my dorm. I called her the next morning, and she was crying hysterically as you just done after shooting that man over there.” His head swung in the direction of Pete’s dead body. 

“I went to her apartment. Her parents, upon finding out we were having a relationship, kicked her out. The diocese saw fit to find her a place. It was then she told me that she was going to have you. She then told me a man assaulted her. She was raped. She feared losing you and never went to the police to report this. 

“I was beyond angry. ‘Who did this?’ I demanded. She swore she never seen him before, but his breath smelled of white wine, a sweet, nauseating smell, she admitted. Then she handed me a rosery. She said the rapist left it behind, either as a calling card or by some accident I was never certain. But I immediately recognize it. But I was confused and not certain why that rosery was left there. Was it his?” 

“What did you do?” 

“I first went to confession. I wanted to seek counseling to do the right thing. Though she didn’t admit who it was, I suspected it was Chuck, my best friend. It’s funny how one’s paths cross at a time like this. After I sought out the priest and asked him what I could or should do. Afterward Chuck came into the chapel to unburden himself. When our eyes met, it was as if he confessed everything to me. ‘You did it, didn’t you?’ I asked him.” 

“What did he say?” 

Mac seemed not to hear her and replied, “He didn’t have time and this time of year—it was fall going into winter—sunsets were hard to come by. I invited him to go and see a sunset with me. He was reluctant at first but acquiesced and I drove him up to the top of Mount Spokane. 

“I remembered the day was sunny, but cold and as promised he got to see his last sunset. He admitted to raping your mother, my Sally Ann. I then killed him, using that damn rosery as a garotte. 

“I then disposed of his body along a closed road there at the state park. His remains were discovered that next summer, though no one knew how he got there or why he disappeared.” Mac buried his face in his hands. “Please, Lord forgive me for what I’ve done.” 

Sirens were overheard steadily nearing the bar. 

“Dad don’t worry. It was meant to be,” Emily told him as the sirens’ wails stopped and police officers burst through the door. “It was self-defense. I feared for my life and yours.” Both slowly arose from their chairs and raised their hands. 

Mac felt cleansed for the first time in twenty years.  

Another Milestone to set Myself

September 2 I just turned another year older. I’m not depressed or upset, just the opposite actually. You see my loyal readers; I look forward to my annual day of living. Maybe it is because of my near-death experience from the stroke I had back in 2002. 

I enjoy living my second life to the fullest because, God doesn’t always gives us second chances. This time, for whatever reason, He gave me this opportunity to be what I couldn’t be for the first forty-four years of my life. 

It hasn’t been easy, and unlikely to be any easier as the years continue along a winding path that will lead me to whatever awaits me. No journey ever undertaken is supposed to be easy. Ulysses’ Odessey is what we all strive toward; a successful conclusion in the arms of your one true love. Unfortunately, that is never always the case. 

No, instead many who journey never make it to that elusive goal, utopia or what have you. It ends way too soon and tragically for many of us. One too many drinks, a wrong turn, a misunderstanding, an abusive partner who goes too far, a cancer that can’t be cured, a crisis that can’t correct itself, leads to a finality that somehow makes no sense to the surviving family members.  

One of my favorite Bible verses comes from Psalm 90:15. We’ve been overwhelmed with grief; come now and overwhelm us with gladness. Replace our years of trouble with decades of delight. 

My first forty-four years were my years of trouble. I’m now proud to say, because of how I have changed, I’m in my decades of delight. I hope you all a very wonderful year ahead as well my loyal readers. 

Road Trip

On Tuesday, I ran my normal errands around Spokane and on a whim decided to indulge myself in a little road trip. Spokane in and of itself is a maze of north and south streets that intersect with east to west boulevards. But the further north you travel the more unique these roads become in their directions and destinations. 

My destination eventually was the Wal Mart in Airway Heights. I was at the Best Buy store in North Spokane off the Newport highway, US 2. I took Hawthorn to Waikiki, through the campus of Whitworth University, a Christian college. For an August summer day, it felt more autumn-like with light rain falling, breezy and overcast. 

Waikiki is a four-lane street that meandered northerly, then I saw the road I needed to take that was converted into a round-about. Fortunately, though it has been several years, I distinctly remembered how that street was, and I continued in a westwardly path. This street for reasons I’m sure the present homeowners never predicted that their homes would be assessed at over a million dollars, though they may have mortgages of perhaps over a hundred thousand dollars when those households were built. 

There’s also a golf course along the way that the tribe that I work for bought a few years ago when Spokane Country Club sold it. Lush green fairways bordered by evergreens standing majestically about the course as I drove by admiring those hackers brave enough to endure the forces that nature wrought. 

I then saw St. Georges School, a private academy situated just south of the Little Spokane River. I continued northward to Rutter Parkway. Here is where this road is ideal for someone riding a Ninja motorcycle. It is a twisting and perilous adventure that isn’t for the untalented or the faint of heart. I kept my Charger going at a safe and sane 35 miles per hour, though I do recall times in my past when I pushed the envelope and drove up to fifteen miles faster. Now was not the time. 

Rutter Parkway eventually straightened itself out after climbing up a small drawl and coming on top of a plateau where Indian Trail Road intersect with Rutter Parkway. I stayed on Rutter, and it took me to Nine Mile Falls where Nine Mile Road—aka SR 291 meet. I took a left and to my utter surprise realized that Rutter was redone some time ago and it now had emptied south of the actual town of Nine Mile Falls. 

I headed south, passed the now closed and vacant Sundance golf course that I used to play over twenty years ago before my stroke. Houses were built in its place except where the ninth and tenth fairways used to be, now just dried up grass, like a burn scar. 

A few miles south of that was where I needed to make a right turn on Seven Mile Road. It hadn’t changed at all. I took it to the Old Trails Road which went through Riverside State Park ORV site, and I continued going south to Trails Road that I turned right on which then intersected with Hayford Road. I drove passed my casino I worked at and eventually found myself turning left into the Wal Mart parking lot.