Moving

As I mentioned back in this post, once upon a time there was to have been a collection of some of my short stories, both reprinted and new. Since that volume is likely never to see the light of publication, I'll post a few of the stories here on my blog. This one, "Moving", was to have been in the Confederacy of Ghosts section.

It was first published in WHEN THE BLACK LOTUS BLOOMS, a hardback anthology from way back in the 1980s. I still like this story. It's pretty good. Like all good stories, it's not just about the obvious. It's also about something beneath the surface. All decent fiction has at least a little bit of the subversive about it. This tale made a few honorable mention lists in those days and I got some nice comments from some editors who read it.

When I started assembling my previously published stories for A CONFEDERACY OF HORRORS, I was actually surprised to notice that so many of my yarns were about ghosts. Especially surprising considering that I don't believe in ghosts (or anything supernatural) at all. But I sure do like writing stories about them.

Here's "Moving".

“Moving”

By James Robert Smith

Gordon Hughes wasn’t an evil man. But he was very rich, and influential, and he did not like to be stopped. In fact, he never had been stopped in any endeavor since he’d lost a fistfight as a boy. No, it wasn’t that Gordon Hughes ever went about his business with the idea that harming another or causing them pain was the main thrust of his activities. He was, though, a covetous man.

He was likely the most powerful person in all of Woodvine, Georgia. When Senator Tallmadge himself had come stumping through the county, the Hughes home was the one place he stopped to make his pitch. It was a hell of a sight, red galluses everywhere. Almost everyone thanked God that Gordon Hughes was a citizen of Woodvine, and all walked about with their chests puffed out for weeks afterward. Neither was Gordon Hughes a hated man.

But greed was part and parcel of what Mr. Hughes was. If he saw what he wanted, he bought it, as cheaply as he could. If he could not buy, then he took it, by hook or by crook. Nobody stood in his path for long.

Across the way from Hughes’ fine house was Mount Zion Church. The grounds of that church were a pretty thing. The oaks there were greater than any others in the town, all adrape with Spanish moss that hung to the earth in heavy tendrils. All about the place, and among the cemetery with its headstones, the wild azalea grew fat and full, their blossoms ripening huge, pink and white, in the spring air. Easily, it was the finest spot in the whole county.

After Senator Tallmadge’s visit, Mr. Hughes complained to his wife, Lydia that it was a damned shame that they didn’t have a better home to have showcased for Georgia’s most powerful man. Yes, Mrs. Hughes had replied, that was just too bad. But, she had added, their home was the finest in town.

And all the while she talked, Gordon Hughes stood at his big picture window and gazed across at the church and the property about it. He could see a new structure standing over there in place of the old, graying church. A new house. His hose.

That church across the way was a Baptist church. (Was there any other kind in the county?” Its members were old folk who attended services every Sunday and every Wednesday and whenever the minister said “Be here!” They were good, industrious folk. And they were black.

Again, Hughes was not truly evil. He din not hate the people whose church stood across the road from his fine home. Their minister, Reverend Coggin, was many times a guest in the Hughes home; although he entered and exited through the kitchen door, as was deemed proper in those days. And Gordon Hughes enjoyed those times when he sat by an opened window, listening to the music passing from that church to his ears. Still, the idea that he wanted the property upon which the church stood grew in his mind. He would have it.

So, he sent word to Reverend Coggin that he wanted to speak with him. Shirley Bassey, who cooked for Mr. And Mrs. Hughes, took the letter to her minister when Sunday came. He accepted the invitation, of course, and made the journey to see the county’s most important citizen on a bright winter’s morning when the air was but cool and the sun sparkled. He went into the Hughes home.

Mr. Hughes invited Reverend Coggin into his parlor. And there they sat to pass the time for a bit, while the wealthy man built up to the subject at his heart. For his part, Reverend Coggin waited, listened, made his small talk and wondered what was about. He was calm, but he was more than a little anxious, for he could think of no reason why he should be so summoned. The Klan was quite (and to his credit, Mr. Hughes had done much to shut those boys up and keep them in line), and it was not yet time for church homecoming when white folk came to visit. But he waited patiently. He was old, and experienced in dealing with Gordon Hughes, and had even known Mr. Hughes’ father.

Round and about went the conversation until, finally, Hughes made his pitch. The Reverend listened, did not become upset.

“Besides the money I will pay for the land, I will also pay, in full, the cost of moving the church. I own a large lot at the intersection of Lee and Bull. I give it to the congregation title-free. It’s but a mile down the way.” His eyes sparkled in the sunlight that gleamed through curtains and lace.

“We’re an old church,” Reverend Coggin said after waiting in thoughtful silence for a moment. “We have a lot of history attached to that place. We, as a church, have put down roots there. Our families are buried there.” He said nothing more, having completed his oblique refusal.

“I understand,” Hughes told him. “I do. That is why I’m more than happy to give the church more land than they would be giv9ng up. That is why I will be happy to pay for everything to relocate your church.” He smiled. “You will put it to the congregation?”

“Of course, Mr. Hughes.” A shake of hands, a slap on the back, and Reverend Coggin was gone from the house of Gordon Hughes, a good deal sadder and a little more afraid than he had been before he’d gone in. He knew what the congregation would say. He knew what they would say to Mr. Gordon Hughes, owner of almost everything in the county. The answer would be “no” and Mr. Hughes would become angry. Coggin hunched his old shoulders as a shiver snaked its way up his spine.

The congregation heard what the reverend had to say. They sat in the pews on a mild winter’s evening, their black faces turned up to see their preacher, to hear what he was telling them. They fell uncharacteristically silent for such a Sunday meeting, the realization sinking in. It would be futile tie refuse the white man what he wanted. It would do no good to say no to his request. But they said it anyway, and the reverend felt both proud and sad at the same time.

The wealthy man was not pleased the Coggin’

S flock did not see things his way. He could not understand how they could so easily turned down his most generous offer. But he did not worry overlong about the situation, for Woodvine was his town. The people who had said no to him worked in his sawmills, his warehouses, his stores. Everyone answered to him. Everyone. He owned Woodvine. Even its sprit. It was the easiest thing in the world for him to have the church building condemned, the land it had stood upon for so long forcibly sold. He did it and he bought it all.

Although it hurt them, the people of the church bowed before the law that wielded against them. No one did anything foolish. No one tried to stand up to the city father any more than they already had. None of them did anything, and no white folk stepped forward to take their part.

Once more, Gordon Hughes had what he wanted. He was generous in his victory, and still adhered to what he had originally offered to the good people of Mount Zion Church. A mile down Bull, where it crossed Lee, Hughes signed over a parcel of land to the soon-to-be-moved church. He hired a builder from Waycross who came up, put the old building on blocks and wagons, and had tit moved carefully down to the new site. He paid for it all, and improvements. To salve his conscience.

Too, as he had promised, and as Reverend Coggin had feared, the cemetery was moved, remains and all. The church was completely uprooted. Erection of the new Hughes home began at once.

For his part, Reverend Coggin made the most of he situation. He kept quietly, even among his family, of the dealings with Mr. Hughes. He even invited the generous Gordon Hughes to the dedication of the new church, which the latter attended with smiles and good humor.

Soon after, before the completion of Gordon Hughes’ fine, new home, the old Minster passed away, and was the fist new tenant in the new cemetery. The house went up.

Almost a year after the construction began, Mr. and Mrs. Hughes were able to move into their bi house. It was much finer than their old one; they now had a ballroom (the only one within four counties!) and more space than they knew what to do with. They held a massive celebration to honor the completion of the great house. They mayors from half a dozen towns were there, and tow congressmen attended. The place was full of light, and life, and cheer. Hughes was pleased.

Winter had come ‘round again, merely chilly, as it does in the southern part of Georgia. Gordon Hughes awoke one fine, sun-filled morning, stepped out upon the wide porch that girdled his house. He strode out, onto the heart-of-pine planking, smelling the good air, watching the fog slowly lift as the sun burned it off. He looked down the way, where Bill Street veered to the west, and decided that it was good day for a stroll. In fact, he could walk down to where he had a stand of slash pines, to check the harvest. A brisk walk. It would be good.

He started off, his hard soles clacking upon the paving stones bought and sold to the town by one of his companies. The road, all dark and sandy, was empty of traffic, and the dew clung to it, holding down the dust that would later rise beneath passing wheels. Moving quickly, Gordon Hughes made good time, coming to the place where Bull Street bent like a crimped pipe. There were not many houses this far out, an d the paving stones faded to rough grasses that bled into the stands of pine that stood on every side. He went further toward Lee.

And, looking that way, he topped short.

He could have sworn. He could have bet his life that the Mount Zion Church had been moved the southwest corner of Lee and Bull. But it wasn’t there. It stood, amidst the pine and mist, on the northwest corner of the intersection. Gordon Hughes blinked. He stared. He took a a deep breath, turned about to make certain he had not somehow got headed the wrong way, and looked again. Northwest it was. In some confusion, he moved toward the church, slowly, at first.

One big front door, a year-old coat of white paint just beginning to fade, opened wide as he neared it. Gasping, he half expected to see the old figure or Reverend Coggin coming down the steps. But it was only Parley East, he new minister; he spotted Hughes, greeting him.

“Hello, Mr. Hughes! What brings you here at such an early hour?” H moved down a step.

Still, puzzled, the white man took a moment to reply. “A walk. I was just out for a walk, Reverend.”

“Well! A good day to you, then.” The black man went toward the cemetery, taking long steps to match hi long legs.

“Reverend””

The other turned back. “Yes?”

“Have we…moved your church lately?” He gazed across the opposite corner where twenty-year-old pines lifted up their green, green branches. He could smell pinesap draining into pans.

“Moved, sir?” He tried not to seem disrespectful to Woodvine’s first citizen, especially considering how good the man had been to the church.

“Yes.” Hughes was confused, gawking. “Moved.”

“Not in a year, sir. Not since before I came here.” He smiled, not knowing exactly why. “Anything else I can do?
”A year ago. Of course.” He faced back toward Woodvine. “Nothing else, Reverend. Nothing else.” With an absent wave, he headed back. He had to go to his office uptown, and look at the records there. The deed, the deed.

Sawyer Long knew just where to look to find every deed of any piece of property his employer had ever owned. He had worked for the Hughes family for almost fifty years, and his memory served him well. “Yes sir, Mr. Hughes! I can look that up for in an instant.” He went o a long row of filing cabinets, all brown and woody there in the musty room smelling of pulp. True to his promise, he plucked it free of the drawer in which it had rested for over a year. With a flourish of dust, he handed it over.

Gordon Hughes pulled the document out of its envelope and eyed it. Carefully. Yes. Yes. He had been mistaken. The lot he had given over toe Mount Zion was precisely where the church now stood.

“Anything wrong?” Gray eyebrows perked below a balding pate.

“No. Nothing wrong, really. I just seem to be losing my memory a little younger than Father did,” he admitted.

With shaking hand, he gave the deed copy back to the employee. Later, out on the street with the sun shining brightly, the avenue full of traffic, he felt better. H went home, and did not think about Mount Zion Church, or tried not to. Although he stayed away from that part o Bull Street, his dreams were sometimes filled with images of the plain, frame building. Reverend Cogging would out, smile and nod at him.

Weeks passed; no one noticed how Gordon Hughes went out o of his way to make wide detours around the spot where Lee crossed Bull. One day, though, he had no chose but to drive his new auto down South Street one block from where Zion Church stood. Nervously, as he approached Bull heading down South, he craned his neck to see past the houses that lay between the intersection and the church. Almost, he did not notice the church at his right, on the northwest corner of South and Bill.

The rich man’s heat thudded; he felt it pounding away at his ribs, trying to get out. He gripped the steering wheel in clenched fists. His face went pale. He sated, eyes bulging. It couldn't be. No!

“A quarter of a mile,” he breathed. The church had moved a quarter of a mile from where it had been. Hughes sighed, forgot about his errand, and sped away from the church, toward down, toward his office and deeds and faithful Sawyer Long.

Gordon Hughes blustered into the filing cabinet-lined office where the smell of paper dominated. His color had returned and his face was flushed a ruddy hue.

“Mr. Hughes!” Sawyer Long, looking every day of his sixty-eight years, could see how upset his employer was. He stood to meet him.

“Sawyer!” He grasped the old man’s hands, causing him t drop the pen he was holding.

“Yes sir! What’s wrong?” His own heart fluttered.

“You remember the parcel that I gave to Reverend Coggin’s congregation. Mount Zion. You remember, don’t you?”

“Yes sir, I remember.” He considered. “Is it on fire? Is it burning?” Long took a step toward the door, ready to sound the alarm.

“No! No! Nothing like that.”

The old man regained his composure, looked at Gordon Hughes. “What, then?”

“Do you recall weeks ago when I came in here to have a look at a copy of the deed?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Where was it located? The parcel, I mean.”

Sawyer Long was confused. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“Where was it? Where was Mount Zion Church?”

“I…I reckon it was right where it is now.” He paused, trying to understand. “On the northwest corner of South and Bull.”

Hughes stiffened at the words. In a moment, with Long standing by, waiting for the other to say something, Gordon Hughes stepped slowly out of the room, down the stairs, to the street. He went home. He stayed there for days, his wife thought that he was not feeling well, and he did not tell here what was disturbing him.

On a misty morning a week after last seeing the church, Gordon Hughes saw it again. He went out upon the wide front porch to gaze up the street and down, to assure himself that Woodbine was yet normal, and all his. First, he looked northward, to calm himself. Then he glanced to the south, to the bend in Bull Street.

And there, unmistakably, was Mount Zion Church. It stood there in the crook of the road, where old Widow Hilliard’s huge yard had been. There were less than a dozen houses standing between it and Mr. Hughes. For a long, long time he stared at it. He stared while the sun rose up over the pines, melting the clammy fog that hugged the ground. The mists were soon gone. The church was not. Gordon Hughes retreated into his fine, big home.

“Lydia! Lydia!” He shrieked his wife’s name until she came hurrying into the wide, polished foyer. In spite of what they knew they should do, Shirley, their cook, and Rae, their housekeeper, came hurrying in also. The three women stopped there, staring at Mr. Hughes, waiting for him to speak. His lips, paled to white on a whiter face, finally parted.

“What? What is it, Gordon?” Lydia moved toward him, so that she could hear his whispered words. She went close.

“The church,” he rasped. “It’s moving.”

And then he fainted.

Mrs. Hughes sent for Doctor Warner, who came as quickly as he was called. With help, Mr. Hughes had been taken to his bed, there to await his physician. Warner bent over him, poking, prodding, asking questions. He had his diagnosis.

“He needs rest, Lydia. I think that’s all that’s really wrong with him.” He whispered to her, out of earshot of Gordon and help.

“Tired? That’s all?”

“Well, maybe a bit of guilt.”

“Guilt? What do you mean?” He hands fluttered to her throat.

“Something about Mount Zion Church. Having it condemned so that he could buy up this property for the new house. You know,” he said.

“I see.”

“Well. You make sure that he gets plenty of rest and that he doesn’t overtax himself. Okay?”

“Yes. Yes, Doctor Warner. I’ll see to it.” For the remainder of the day, she watched over her husband, making certain that he had taken the medication the doctor had left. Mr. Hughes slept.

Something woke him up. His eyes snapped wide, and he was instantly alert, completely rested. It was night, dark but for the moon, and the house was quiet. In his bed, appropriately huge and soft, his wife slept soundly, the tones of her even breathing drifting through the room. Outside, he could hear strange noises; noises that made him afraid to go to the window to look out and see just what was causing them. He waited, gathering his courage. The noises came and went with the wind: footsteps in the sandy soil (many of them), wood grating against wood; toil in the cool, moonlit night.

Courage gathered, the master raised himself from his downy spot; his bare feet found his slippers at his bedside. Quickly, before his nerve could face, he shuffled to the window and flung the drapes wide.

He saw them. They came up out of the earth and out of the churchyard. From his yard, they sprang up from the grass, from between rows and rows of wild azalea. These were the ones the workers had missed. The ones with no gravestones. The ones who had been buried too deep. They joined their kin who had been, and still were, coming up from the displaced cemetery of Mount Zion Church. There was work to be done.

Annie West, dead these twenty years, tottered out of the good, black loam, and made her way from house to house. She had been nursemaid and midwife; her touch and her voice had been soothing things to salve pain and banish worry. From one ear to another, she went through the town, whispering. “Sleep,” she crooned. “Sleep. And remember that the Church of Mount Zion is where it has always been.”

Gordon Hughes heard her as she slithered up the stairs to his room. Tearing his eyes from the sight of the hundreds-strong army in the streets, he watched as the shade floated to his wife’s ear. He listened as Annie whispered her sweet words. Lydia Hughes smiled. Gordon moaned in fear. With a contemptuous glance for Mr. Hughes, Annie was gone, a vanished shadow. There were more ears to be whispered into.

From his post, Hughes could see the army as they toiled. There were a hundred dead faces he recognized. There were more than he did not. They went wherever they were needed.

A handful of black men who had worked in the offices of some Hughes enterprise or another went into rooms, into cabinets and drawers, and they fixed paper to read as it now must. With pens and with ink, they stroked and dabbed until everything was right. Then they went back to the street, back to the church, where the real work was going on.

A hundred backs braced. Two hundred legs strained. Arms uncounted pushed and pulled, directing the mass that was Mount Zion Church, the shell of wood that held the souls, the spirit and souls, of a proud, old community. They moved it. Again. While Woodvine slept. But for Gordon Hughes.

And when the church was half a block closer to its roots, the hundreds went and they dug and lifted and heaved until the cemetery was that much closer. Still, they were not done. They returned to the abandoned site, filling in, tamping down, replanting wherever a thing had been disturbed. Then they were done. Then they returned to their beds, for now.

In the morning, Mrs. Hughes awoke to a husband struck dumb. He answered no question. There were no replies for any request directed at him. He rose, ate the breakfast that was placed before him at the table, and he brooded. He retired to his library and he thought, long and hard. After a while, he came out. “We’re moving,” he told his wife.

“What?” She gave him a look that displayed her genuine confusion.

“We are moving,” he said. “Get William Bass and tell him that we’ll need as many strong arms as he can muster. We are moving our household.” He paused. “Oh. And you and Shirley need to pack your porcelain away. We wouldn’t want you to break any of it.”

“Moving? Where?”

In reply, Gordon Hughes pointed through the window before which they were standing. “The old place,” he said. “It’s still vacant. It was good enough then; it’s good enough now.”

Lydia pleaded with him. She begged. She tried to talk some sense into him. He would not listen. Soon, William Bass and his men were trundling the heavy pieces across the dusty road to the old house. He would not stop. She called Dr. Warner.

“Gordon,” Dr. Warner greeted him where he stood on the porch of his quickly emptying home. “Just what are you doing?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious.” Nothing more. Strong men wrestled with a heavy couch. Even in the cool air, there was the smell of sweat, of hard work.

“Well, then, why are you doing this?”

“The church.” He gestured toward it. “There are no more empty lots between it and my house. I reckon they’ll put it right here the next time they take a mind to move it.”

“Who will move it, Gordon?”

“The niggers, Dr. Warner. All those dead niggers.” With that, he strode from the porch, ready to order the placement of each piece of furniture being brought to the old place. For now, he was willing to retreat. At least he would deprive them of physically moving him out. He did not relish the thought of dead hands grasping at him, shoving him out, lifting him up while his wife and everyone else slept through it all. No. At least he would deprive them of that.

The doctor went to Mrs. Hughes. “I’m sorry, Lydia. But I think that we’ll just have to humor him for now. Just sit tight. Things will be all right.” She sighed with no choice but to believe him.

Gordon Hughes and his wife went back to their old house. They went back, and Gordon waited for what he knew must come. It did not happen for a week. But it did.

When it was over, Mount Zion Church was precisely back to where it had always been: across the road from the home of Gordon and Lydia Hughes. Its grounds were gorgeous; a prettier sight could not be had in the whole of the county. Tall oaks spread their gnarly limbs high and low. Thick moss hung from every limb, and flowers bloomed there in spring on healthy branches. In the heat of the day there was plenty of shade, and the sun dappled the ground wherever it could.

Of Gordon Hughes’ fine, new home, there was no trace. No one could remember it. No one could recall it. Save for Gordon, himself.

He did not like retreating. He did not like it. Oh, he had saved himself one small indignity, but it smacked too much of losing. Eventually, he knew, he would come up with something that would even things out; he would gather a bit of revenge for himself. For he still ruled Woodvine. That had not changed. For the time, he was content to wait, and plan.

Almost a month passed before he woke one morning to discover that he had to look one block north to see Mount Zion Church. His house had been moved in the night, and, little by little, the Hughes home place was edged slowly out of town.

They Had to Pry Me Out

As everyone who reads this blog is aware, I prefer to vacation in the mountains. It's pretty obvious from the photos that I post here. However, from time to time I do head for the low country. I often have a great time in such places. My wife and I like to go canoeing and kayaking.

Salt Spring flows into a river that leads down to Lake George.

We've had some great excursions on the flatwater in swamps and rivers and in spring runs. And we do a hell of a lot of swimming and snorkeling when we end up where the water runs slow and clear. We really like heading down to the first and second magnitude springs in Florida. Some of these springs are so large that entire rivers gush right out of the earth at a single point to flow for many miles until joining up with a larger river or pouring into a lake.

Salt Spring and its limestone floor. You can stand in a couple of feet of water in one spot, then step off into a twenty foot hole. What a great place!

We generally spend hours in these types of waters filled with fish and offering endless opportunity to swim and float and snorkel. But one of them stands out for me. It's called Salt Spring in the Ocala National Forest in central Florida.

Hovering over the deepest hole in the spring. Below me were dozens of Atlantic blue crabs.

It gets its name from the fact that the water wells up through a mineral dome that makes the fresh water mildly salty. Salty enough so that the spring and the run adjacent to it are filled with animals you'd normally associate with the ocean far to the east. Since no fishing is allowed in the spring, these animals have the freedom to live out their lives without having to worry about the ultimate predator.

Huge schools of mullet were all around.

When I was there a few years ago, floating above the main spring, I could look down into that limestone maw and see truly enormous Atlantic blue crabs moving about in the vegetation waving in the powerfully upwelling curent. And mullet swam all around, often leaping into the air. This was such a great place that I didn't want to leave it.

Whaddayamean, "It's time to go"??!!

Like a big kid, all I wanted to do was swim around there and explore every inch of the spring. Eventually, though, both Carole and Andy got tired and wanted to go back to our travel trailer, which was parked at Juniper Spring about twenty miles away. I kept fighting them off, though, and managed to spend about two hours more in that place--far longer than we would have remained if I'd been fair about it.

Come and get me, copper!

Finally, though, they pried me out of there. I don't know of any other place I was sadder to leave in Florida. Eventually, I'll head back to Salt Spring. I'm not sure when, but the place will definitely be a destination for us in the future.

Not Like Kerouac.

Sometimes I get the germ of an idea and I don't know what to do with it. There's something in it that makes me want to write about the idea, but not enough to make me want to call it a story or to want to turn it into a novel. So it was with this little bit of fiction. In my mind, I could see six people--strangers to one another--travelers who'd just come together in an otherwise lonely place to share a meal and a little conversation. And in my mind I saw one of them lift up his boot and say, "I reckon there's enough DNA evidence on these soles to convict me of murder."

And that's how this happened.

Not enough for a story, and no nagging call to become a novel. But here, nonetheless.

Not Like Kerouac. Not At All

By

James Robert Smith

We were a bunch of Americans in a Canadian pub just north of the US border. It was a small town, and I was thinking how weird it was that the Americans seem to gather and find one another. But I’d seen it before. We had all been sitting at separate tables nursing beers while we waited for our meals. And somehow we all just gravitated to one big table and had started jawing, talking about where we’d been and where we were headed.

There were six of us, at a table, eating shepherd’s pie, drinking beer. The only Canadian was a girl, one of The People, a Native American, an Indian, if you want to use the old term.

We all sat there together, soaking in familiar American accents: Southern, Midwestern, strictly the Bronx.

I’m a dying breed. A dying breed because my source of income is dying off. I’m a newspaperman; past middle age, approaching old age. Every day I count the blessings I have. Blessings in the form of dollars I somehow managed to accumulate in savings and a 401k that was heavily invested in government bonds. Low yield, but safe and steady.

I have to admit that between chit-chat, I was admiring the lone Canadian girl. But she was with a kid whom I almost had to like for his lean, youthful features. She was clinging to this American fellow. Despite myself, I was writing my impressions of him on an aging Corona typewriter that existed only in my head: Young, late 20s, age and experience just now beginning to line his features. ‘It’s coming, kid. It’ll make leather of your face before too much longer.’

“And what brings you here?” I finally asked the young stranger with the attractive Indian girlfriend.

The kid looked up. Then quickly he looked down at his beer. And suddenly those eyes were flicking up again, as he peered deep into my eyes, and into the faces of each of the other guests sitting at the table. And then he said it.

“I killed a guy,” he told us, having decided not to lie anymore. For a while, everyone was silent. There was shock on the faces of the others. There was horror in the eyes of the girl whose grip seemed to fade on the arm of the golden boy. “On Montana Highway 6. Back in August of 2007.” One year ago, we all thought at once.

“Who was he?” The reporter in me asked first, breaking the spell before anyone else could panic or rise from the table to flee to safer, saner quarters.

“I don’t know. I was into that whole Jack Kerouac scene. I read those silly books of his, and it seemed like a good idea. So I did the whole bit with the backpack and wandering from place to place with nowhere to go and nothing to do but move on.

“One day I was sitting at a crossroads. I needed a ride, but I wasn’t really looking all that hard for one. Walking seemed to be just barely less desirable than having to suffer through another boring conversation with another boring driver. So I was just kind of daydreaming. My pack wasn’t quite out of the road. It was sitting just barely at the curb, and I was lying up in the grass.

“And all of a sudden this big truck appears, coming around a bend in the road, going way too fast. I even rolled back a ways to make sure he wasn’t going to get me. And the driver--this trucker--actually swerved toward me. I thought for sure he was aiming for me. But it wasn’t me. He was gunning for my backpack.”

“He got it?” I asked. I noticed that the others, despite his earlier admission of a capital crime weren’t going anywhere. They were listening to the golden, fair kid.

“Damn right he did. He ran right over it. That was a nice pack. External frame. I like those best. They’re hard to find, these days, with the popularity of the internal frame. I don’t know what it is, but I always liked an aluminum frame.” He blinked, shaking his head, as if to physically rid his mind of the digression.

“So what I did was stand up and shake my fist at the guy. Hell, I wasn’t even sure he could see me. I didn’t even flip him the bird. All I was thinking was that the guy had totally trashed my backpack, and probably everything in it. I had a really nice compact canister stove in there, too. Best one I ever had.”

“What happened then,” I asked him, thinking how I might write down this particular slice of life.

“Well, apparently the guy did see me shake my fist at him. I mean…hell…what a little thing. This guy had just crushed my home and my kitchen and most of my clothes. All I did was shake my fist at him. But he saw it, for damned sure. And he hit those big brakes of his. Tires locked down. Stinking rubber everywhere.”

Everyone at the table was silent, listening. I could see that his girl had released her grip on his strong arm, and her head was no longer resting on that muscled shoulder.

“I was still just standing there, next to my crushed up backpack, and here he comes. Running. Sure as shit. The guy’s coming right at me cursing and screaming and calling me every name in the book. Hopped up on yellowjackets or something, I figure.”

He went silent, then. The others just looked at him, afraid to speak. I was aware of their eyes suddenly on me, forcing me to make the next move for them.

“You fought?”

“Well, yes. In a manner of speaking. I don’t think he expected me to fight back. I mean, hippie kid and all that sort of thing. Probably, he figured he’d scare me or beat me up. Something like that.” He smiled, but the smile did create any warmth.

“But it was nothing like that. I’ve always had a mean streak.” He grinned at us, one and all. It was not pleasant. My impression of him as a golden boy had fled. “Basically, I beat him to death. It didn’t take long.”

“Never does,” he added. “I just picked up my pack. Couldn’t wear it anymore, but I could still carry it. Kind of like a busted up suitcase. He was lying there on the road. End of his story.”

“Are you sure you killed him?” One of the other diners had asked the question, this time. A forty-ish woman wearing clothes that didn’t suit her, trying to hold on to 30, long past the overdue date.

“Oh, he was dead all right. I bashed his skull in with my boots. These boots,” and he held one foot up. It looked like a regular boot and there was nothing there that anyone of us could see to indicate a murder.

“I reckon there’s enough DNA evidence in my soles to convict me.”

And that was when our tablemates all fled. All four of us. Me, too. I just didn’t feel like asking him any more questions. I didn’t want to know if he was pulling our legs or was on the level. I was tired, thinking of the 401k and the comfortable sum I’d managed to salt away over thirty years of newspaper work. Hell…who cared about one more murder, anyway?

I got up without saying too much more and went to my room, which was in the little hotel about 100 yards down from the diner. The others fled to their cars and vanished into the whole wide world. I never saw any of them again, and likely never will. None of them, apparently, had called the police, for I never saw anyone fitting such a description arriving on the scene to make an arrest. And I did keep an eye on the diner from the vantage point of my room. I peered out through a little space in the heavy curtains on the big plate glass window beside the door.

About two hours later, I saw the girl and the young fellow arguing. They were standing in the gravel parking lot in front of the diner. The young killer was mainly silent and his voice was never raised. But they were obviously at odds. After some time, she used an old-fashioned payphone on the side of the diner building to call someone. It didn’t take long, but another man, I’d guess her father, arrived and took her away. At least, I’ve always liked to think it was her father. He seemed to be an Indian, like her, and far too old to be a boyfriend or a brother.

For a second or two the kid looked almost like he was pleading, but the girl climbed into a pickup truck with the Indian and they drove off, leaving the kid. I watched him for a while. He put a pack on his back—it was an internal frame type, so I suppose he was right about having a hard time finding a good external frame pack. And he wandered off down the road, his thumb out as he disappeared into the distance and the woods closing in around it.

Much later, back in the States, the reporter in me decided to look things up, to check out the boy’s story. Sure enough, a trucker was killed on the stretch of road he mentioned. Timeline was right, too. No, no one was ever convicted of the killing. Could be the boy heard about it and made up the confession to shock people, or to chase off a girl he didn’t want to marry.

Who knows? I like to think he didn't do it.. But I'm betting he was telling the truth. I'm betting that little girl who had been clinging to his arm with such enthusiasm figured the same.

The Biggest Kid

When I was a very young child, I happened upon a magazine in the vast stacks of books, comics, and other printed material that my father was accumulating in preparation for opening his first used bookstore. That magazine had a garish cover featuring a monster.

At seven years of age, I was already a fan of dinosaurs and anything that smacked of the fantastic. The cover hooked me and I picked it up and began reading the text and looking at the enormous wealth of photographs from various monster movies. I was instantly addicted to this magazine. It was Famous Monsters of Filmland.


Published by a guy named James Warren, it was edited by one Forrest Ackerman who, I came to realize, was probably the biggest overgrown kid who ever lived. "Forry" (as he was affectionately know to his legions of fans) was the editor of the coolest magazine on the racks. He was packed with enthusiasm for all things fantastic, the progenitor of some of the worst puns of all time, and purveyor of the wackiest editorial style I'd ever encountered.

While he was a grown-up, he seemed to be no more adult than I was at that age. He soon became my hero. But the thing about Forry is that he wasn't just one of my heroes; he was hero to hundreds--maybe thousands--of young people who would go on to become famous in careers that took them into directing, acting, writing, painting, sculpting, special effects, movie producing, etc. If it was attached somehow to filmmaking or writing or to comics, Forry seemed to touch just about everyone involved in these endeavors.

I finally met Forrest Ackerman when I was an adult, a published author, and the father of a little boy. When my son got the chance to meet this man, he treated my little boy with the same attitude that he took with everyone who met him: respect. Andy ended up spending most of that day hanging around Forry, listening to him tell his tales, and getting an education in all things out of fantastic "Horrorwood". Forry had made another fan.

About six months later, my son accompanied me to another convention where I was selling collectibles. He walked into the dealer's room with me and saw Forry standing across the huge hall. "Look, Daddy! It's Mr. Ackerman!" And he dashed off to say hello to his new hero. I knew he was in good company and had to smile as Forrest Ackerman looked down with a grin to see my tiny boy rushing up to him to say hello. The image still brings a tear to my eye.

Well, at the age of almost 92, Forry is dying. Likely, he won't be with us much longer. A life-long atheist, he has no illusions about waking up in some never-never land when that big heart finally stops beating. I'm assured that he's resting comfortably, waiting for the end, while well wishes pour in from his contemporaries--guys like Ray Bradbury, Ray Harryhausen, Richard Matheson, William Nolan--and the folk he influenced when he was editing FM and they were all little kids on their ways to not growing up--just like Forrest Ackerman.

We're all of us that he touched nothing but big, overgrown kids.

In spite of whatever faults he may have had, he has given unmeasured joy to generations of his fans who look to their imaginations. Thank you for adding to a life-time of wonder, Forry!

These three guys were actually childhood pals: Forrest Ackerman, Ray Harryhausen and Ray Bradbury. Thankfully, none of them ever really stopped being children filled with fantastic dreams.

Two of My Favorite Websites

Great websites.

These are two of my favorite websites.

First of all, there's this one, which I hit probably four or five times a week during hurricane season:

National Hurricane Center. It's run by NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration), which runs an overall great website.

Another of my favorite sites is this one:

Latest earthquakes. It's operated by the United States Geological Survey, which also has a wonderful website.

I can go to these websites and find nothing but pure information. It's science. In some cases over the past eight years, the dissemination of science has been muzzled by the stinking asswipe moron who has illegally inhabited the White House, abusing power like no one before him.

But when I go to these two websites I know that I'm going to find solid information uninfected by either politics or the mass delusion we know as religion. Here, I can peruse the world's environment without being bothered by some asshole spouting dogma. Just the facts and figures, man. Just the results of the scientific method.

They're nice websites. Check 'em out.

His Dudeness

El Duderino

Andy and I both think THE BIG LEBOWSKI is the funniest movie of all time. Andy, however, can get away with dressing up like The Dude for Halloween. Here he is, in all of his Dudeness.

I could maybe pass for Walter.

Oh, Well...

Alas!

Front of Len Foote Lodge.

A couple of weeks ago my son got laid off from work. The Republican economy and all that. So I had two days off this coming week and booked us a room at the Len Foot Lodge. The cool thing about this lodge is that you have to hike to it. A five mile hike. It sits high on a mountain in the northern section of Georgia. My wife and I had such a great time there this summer that I figured Andy would also get a kick out of staying there.

However, his employer called him this past week and re-hired him! Great news and all (especially in this W. Moron Bush-ruined economy), but that meant he would have to work the days I had our reservation. Alas! So I'm going to reschedule for another day. Not sure when, but I seriously doubt we'll make the trip this year. More than likely Andy and I will have to go there in 2009.

I'd whine more about it, but we're just happy that he's working again and can count on a regular paycheck.

Amicalola Falls, at the start of the hike to Len Foot Lodge.

Alone

Alone.

Alone in Panthertown Valley a few years ago.

I tend to go hiking and backpacking alone. I do enjoy company when I hike, but it's depressingly difficult for me to find hiking companions whose schedules are compatible to my own. So I end up heading off into the woods and mountains by myself.

But I tend to think better when other humans are far away from me. The old thoughts germinate. The ideas percolate. As soon as I can, I want to head off into the forests again without anyone around to bug the shit out of me.

I'm looking forward to it.

On (Not)Gittin' Et

I spent a number of my younger years on the coastal plains of Georgia. Frankly, because of my familiarity with the coast, I got sick of it. This is one reason that I prefer the high country when I take a vacation. But once or twice a year we head for the ocean or, preferably, Florida's first magnitude springs to spend a week or two.

So it was in March of 2006 when the three of us hauled the travel trailer to Juniper Spring in the Ocala National Forest. One of the things we did was float our canoe down the Juniper Springs Run, a small river formed by the upwelling of millions of gallons per day of crystal clear, pure spring water. Along the way, we saw a tremendous amount of wildlife. Everything from vast schools of fish, to rafts of turtles sunning themselves on exposed roots, to white-tailed deer and wild turkey grazing along the river banks.

Common turtle sunning himself.

Before we started that float trip, one of the rangers told us of a spot where we should be able to look to our right and, hopefully, see "the biggest alligator any of us has ever seen". He went on to tell us not to worry about the 'gator, that he would just be lying up on his run taking the sun beside the river, and just to look and not get out. "He's sixteen feet long", he told us. "Biggest alligator we've measured here in this area."

Wild turkey beside Juniper Run.

This was not good news to Carole, but I was anxious to spot this mammoth reptile. So when we got to the area where the ranger said we would likely see this enormous crocodilian, we kept our eyes open and and hands in the boat. However, all we saw was the muddy spot along the banks where, just as the ranger had explained, this alligator was accustomed to hauling his ass out of the water to take the sun.

Although a bit blurry, I love this photo that I took as we were gliding past this spot. Note the raccoon in the foreground, who seemed to be fishing. And the white-tailed deer on the bank beyond. This area, an established and protected wilderness, was packed with wildlife.

We looked, but no giant alligator. He was, we figured, out shopping for something to eat. We did not get out to go wading. Eventually, we hauled out canoe out where the park service came to pick us up with their handy shuttle service. People were swimming in some numbers in the huge swimming hole there.


Four weeks later, after we'd come home, a cousin of that sixteen-foot alligator killed a woman who went down to a spring near where he sunned himself. She'd gone down to snorkel, and another large 'gator was waiting there.

We were lucky.

Me and Andy at the gittin' out spot.

The Cascades

This past Sunday, after we'd walked around the acreage where we hope to build our cabin, we headed over to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Along the drive, we stopped at the EB Jeffers Park where there's a short trail leading down to a waterfall. The hike is quite easy and only takes about thirty minutes, round trip. While searching out waterfalls isn't the main reason I go hiking, it's always good to find a waterfall I've never seen. And there's something especially soothing about watching and listening to a waterfall.

The Cascades, EB Jeffers Park, Blue Ridge Parkway.

More Fun with Lilly.

Lilly hides in the dryer.

Haha! Stupid humans can't see me here.

What's that? You can see me perfectly?

I knew that.

Beauty

After America's victory last night, I felt really good today. I felt better than I've felt in eight years, to tell you the truth.

At any rate, walking around my route, I was especially enjoying the world. The Fall colors are out in glory times ten. The sky was a brilliant blue. The weather was pretty much perfect for a guy with my job.

So I took some shots along the way. I'm happy. The world, for just a little while I reckon, is better off than it was two days ago.

The little things in life. Yep.

The Dream Come True

Our eight-year nightmare is over!

Now we are indeed living the dream!

Making Good

Back in early December of 2006, we drove up to the Allegheny County to nab our Christmas tree as we try to do every year. On that occasion, we took a side trip on the Blue Ridge Parkway to Doughton Park where I looked at the rocky cliffs of Bluff Mountain plunging down to the valley far below.

Picnic under a lone pine at the top of Bluff Mountain.

These aren't the kinds of cliffs where you can fall quickly to a painful death. Instead, they're more like vast rocky ribs that hug the steep slopes of the mountain. Then, that cool December day, I promised myself to visit that spot again and go scrambling around on those tough ridges.

View of the Blue Ridge Parkway from the cliffs.

This weekend, I kept that promise to myself. After taking a look at Carole's land on Peach Bottom Mountain, we drove over to Bluff Mountain where Andy and I hiked to the top of the cliffs. While Andy waited for me, I downclimbed where I took a lot of photos and a video.

Big Daddy scrambles down the cliffs.

After enjoying the views and gawking at the amazing Fall colors, which were at their peak, I climbed back up to the top of the cliffs where Andy was waiting. It was fun. Not at all dangerous. What they call Class III scrambling. I got a scrape on my knee, and a small cut on my left arm, and an eye full of fantastic scenery.

You are crazy, old man. I'll wait up here.

I like keeping promises like that one.

Dreaming About a House

My wife owns some acreage just below the summit of a 4,200-foot mountain near the North Carolina/Virginia border. We've daydreamed for some time about being able to build a cabin there. Maybe something suitable for us to retire to when we're finished working. Or maybe just a weekend getaway.

One of the views from the property.

With a big writing payday becoming a possibility, we drove up to the place today to look it over. It has been a while since we were there and we just felt the need to walk around the property. We looked at some decent building sites. And the place reminded me more than a little of the north Georgia mountains where I spent my teenage years. This place is only one-tenth the acreage of the huge chunk of land my dad owned; and the forests are a little different, owing to the much higher elevation and the more northerly latitude. The feeling of being at peace is the real deal.

Waking up to this every morning? I could live with that.

Best of all, this land is relatively isolated and is composed mainly of cove hardwood forests. It's a nice place to be. My son and I saw a deer as we were walking through the forest. Carole missed seeing it, but we got a pretty good look. This was rare, since it's hunting season and the deer are wary just now.

Hey! Let's build here!

Carole, Andy and I climbed up to the ridge line and looked around. We sat on a high slope and wondered what it would be like to have a cabin not quite at the top, looking out on just the trees rather than the horizon. If we build near the summit, we'll have a world class view, looking across a vast distance toward Mount Rogers, the highest peak in Virginia. We'll have a lot to consider should the opportunity to begin building finally arrives.

We'll see.

No pesky humans! I like it!

What Ya Gonna Do, I Ask Ya?

I’m a Man

By James Robert Smith

I snore when I sleep.

I belch after I eat.

I fart often.

I live in a near-constant state

of rut.

My wife complains:

Stop snoring!

Don’t belch!

Why do you fart?

I have a headache.

But

tonight

she fed me chili.

Go figure.

Semi-functional moron.

A Confederacy of Loss

Some days ago I received the horrible news that Harry Fassl had died. Harry was an artist. The kind of artist who produces work that people hang on their walls. His work was striking and unique and, sometimes, genuinely unsettling. He seemed to work mainly in the field of fantasy and horror, illustrating many a genre short story.

Years ago, I was offered a deal from a small press to publish a number of my short stories. I was asked to name an artist. The first name that popped into my head was Harry's. He'd illustrated one of my stories in Mark Rainey's Deathrealm Magazine and I was a big admirer of his work. So I got in touch with Harry and he agreed to do the cover and interior illustrations.

The book was called A CONFEDERACY OF HORRORS. I had it set up in sections with stories that were tied loosely together by a vague but common theme. Such as: "A Confederacy of Blood" and "A Confederacy of Obsession" and so on. There were five sections. Harry nailed them all. He had that talent. I could not have asked for a finer collaborator. But of course I knew that when I asked him to do the project.

Interior illustrations by Harry Fassl.

As it happened, the book never saw print. The publisher turned out to be a total flake and I offered the collection to someone else, who initially accepted it and then, as they say, went silent. Since those days, I would dust the project off from time to time and send it out. It had a great introduction by Steve Bissette, and of course those priceless Harry Fassl illustrations. And now, it will likely never see print.

Maybe a similar collection of my stories will someday see the light of day, but not that one--not the one with Harry's amazing cover and fantastically effective interior illustrations. Because Harry's not here, anymore. He took ill at his father's 80th birthday celebration and had to be rushed to the hospital. He died there, apparently from influenza.

He will be missed by his family and his loved ones. He will be missed by those who knew him far better than I; who only met him in person once and who shared maybe a dozen phone calls with him. But we were all robbed. For we'll not only miss our chance to meet him again, but to see what amazing images he would definitely have concocted in his studio filled with bits and pieces of our world, images shot with imagination and intelligence.

Alas.

What was to have been the dust jacket for A CONFEDERACY OF HORRORS.