That time I thought I saw a UFO

The blows came fast - BAP. bap bap. BAP. bap bap. BAP. - creating a rhythm that was hypnotic. She used the right hand to jab, the left to throw straights. bap bap (jab). BAP (straight). Occasionally a hook over two jabs. bap bapBAP.

Rita Khaner watched through the gym's window. The sound and motion; the swinging heavy bag. The violence. It mesmerized.

Suddenly the rhythm went haywire: BAP. BAP. BAPBAPBAPBAPBAPBAPBAPBAPBAPBAP

Rita reflexively stepped away from the window. Nicki Smits was going crazy on the bag now, furiously wailing away. No more structured combinations or shuffled steps, just hammer-blows from each hand, no coordination, standing there on flat feet, legs splayed, trying to cause an inanimate object to feel pain.

Nicki held her gloved left hand against the bag to keep it from swaying and used her right to deliver jackhammer punches where a person's head might be. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Not stopping

Rita squared her shoulders and entered the gym.

"Enough," Rita said.

Nicki dropped her hands. A small woman, she stood five three and went one ten dripping wet; which she was, sweat pouring from her beautiful face. Her eyes and hair were black, she had smooth and flawless skin, and her figure wrapped in a skintight Lycra bodysuit was perfectly proportioned.

She stood before Rita, heaving from exertion, with her mouth set in a hard line, lips bloodless and tight.

"Does that make you feel better?" Rita asked. Nicki tilted her chin. She expelled air and let her shoulders slump.

"Because it will take a toll. Toughen your skin. Give you lines." Rita shrugged. "Might be worth it, though. If it helps."

She handed Nicki a towel.

"He'll be here in thirty minutes."

Nicki nodded and went to the shower room.

Rita watched her as she walked away, still feeling a little uneasy about that girl.

***

Nicki was beautiful, true, but Rita was transcendent. Glorious. Stunning. She was every poets' word; every painters' sight. Tall, with an hourglass figure, she too had black hair, ah but her eyes were emerald green and they could see everything. The slightest tilt of her cupid-bow lips and you'd know immediately what she thought, and you'd desperately want her approval.

Unfortunately, because there are very few poets and painters left in the world; and none of them rich, Rita soon learned that she was also every perverts' wolf-whistle; every pornographers' flash-pot.

And there are plenty of them around. An overabundance, actually. Many quite rich.

But the years were piling up behind Nicki and she had already worked her way through the wealthiest of those degenerates; stealing little and stealing big as she came and went. Now she had enough money to back a play for the lifetime score. The one that would put her out-of-reach of those pudgy, silver-haired hard-ons forever.

Also, if worked correctly, this job would mean the end of a particularly sadistic pimp who really did deserve to die.

A fortune made and justice served in one nasty piece of confidence and double cross. Nicki had earned the right to run this game; more, she needed it to be a success.

If not for her bank account, then for her soul.

***

Nicki entered the office, dressed and coiffed to present the perfect fem-shark - royal blue pants suit with flats. One flash of color, a ruby pin, on the lapel. All business.

"Well," Rita said, "The warrior princess cleans up nicely."

The corner of Nicki's mouth flickered up briefly for a response. She crossed the floor to the kitchenette and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

"I never understood women's self-defense classes," Rita continued, tidying up papers on her sleek glass and metal-pipe desk. "No matter how strong or skilled a woman becomes, there will always be at least one man out there who can beat her ass. Sorry, but it's true."

"Well." Nicki wiped water from her lips with the back of her hand. "As long as I avoid that one man, I guess I can handle the rest."

Rita smiled. "Darlin', you can't avoid that man. He'll find you."

Nicki sat on one of the padded chairs and crossed her legs. She looked at the digital wall clock. "He's late," she said.

Rita stood up and went to the kitchenette for a drink - tomato juice. She could have asked Nicki to bring her a can, but that's not how Rita saw her assistant.

"What's the worst humiliation a woman can suffer?" Rita asked in a tone that made the question almost seem rhetorical. Indeed, Rita knew enough about Nicki's background in the sex-for-sale gutter to realize that the question may not deserve an answer for its implied cruelty.

Nicki, however, flung an arm over the back of her chair to look Rita in the eye. "Not having money," she replied.

And that's why Rita had taken the young girl on as an apprentice. She had sharp edges.

"Almost," Rita said, returning to her desk. "But an even worse humiliation is when all the money in the world won't make a difference. Then she's really and truly fucked."

Nicki's eyes narrowed, searching for the meaning.

The phone buzzed. Rita hit a button and said, "Show him in."

Myth, illusion, and a dagger point between two ribs

Brian rolled over on the sofa and shoved his head in the crack between the seat and back rest cushions. The rough, brown fabric scuffed his cheeks, but this half-ass attempt at self-burial didn't stop the phone from ringing. It continued - a jarring, alarming sound that caused pain.

Brian extracted his face and lay flat on his back. He was a little too tall to fit perfectly on the three-seater, so his feet were propped up over the arm rest. He had to blink a few time to see them clearly, all the way down there....

Four more wailing cries from the telephone and Brian swung those feet around, cursed, and stood up shakily. He padded to the kitchen, kicking a beer can from his path, and snatched the receiver from the unit mounted on the wall.

"Brian," a weak voice said. "Brian?"

Rain started pattering against the roof and the windows. In the distance, thunder.

"Brian?" the voice asked again. "Please, Brian...." On that last, the voice broke and began to sob. Brian fell back against the wall and slide down until he was seated on the floor. The phone cord stretched taut.

"Julie," Brian croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. "Julie." Better, stronger this time. "Why did you call?"

"Oh, Brian." Julie sniffled. Brian could imagine her standing outside some rinky-dink convenience store, wiping her face while talking on the pay-phone. Customers trying not to look at her as they walked by; thinking she's damaged goods running from, or to, trouble.

They'd be right.

"I'm hanging up," Brian said, but didn't move.

"No!" Julie cried. "No, please."

"Well why did you call?"

The line cracked with static then Brian heard thunder again. He put the phone away from his ear and listened - it wasn't coming from outside, he only heard the rain falling down. Was Julie close enough to be in the same storm?

"Where are you?" he asked.

"I want to come home," she said softly.

Brian laughed. A bitter, hacking sound. "I can't help but think about all those people in hell. They want ice water too, I'm told."

Static, or maybe crying. Brian shook his head.

"Look, Julie. Are you still in Oklahoma? Well, just.... Stay there. Find something. There's nothing - believe me - there's nothing for you here."

"No, Brian, please."

"Don't fucking!" Brian checked himself. With more control, he said, "Don't you dare please me." When he heard the words aloud, he felt even more stupid. "You did this," he continued. "All you. So don't.... Just, don't. And stop crying. It won't work this time."

"...home..." Julie whispered.

"Not anymore," Brian answered.

Thunder on the line, loud enough to startle Brian. Definitely on her end; even the rain was letting up outside.

He sat on the cold kitchen floor. The only light in the house came through the windows - grey and wet, making everything around him look unreal; like shadows.

"Keep the car," Brian said with a cold, matter-of-fact voice. "I don't even care about that. I did cancel the credit card, though, so...,"

"His wife was there. And his daughter. I thought...,"

Brian cradled the phone to his shoulder and blew wind at the ceiling. He didn't want to hear this. He'd heard it before. Her ex-boyfriend, Virgil in Oklahoma, needed her - no, really really needed her. Oh, she didn't love Virgil, not anymore, not like that, but she couldn't just let him.... what? What, this time? Go to jail? Get beat up? Get killed? Always something ridiculously dramatic.

The first time it had happened almost was, should have been, what the hell had he been thinking? the last. Brian had raged furiously at Julie for even considering going to help that low-life. Looking back, he couldn't recall exactly how she got it over on him. Lots of empty promises and hollow words of love and devotion, he supposed. Also, she was very beautiful and warm.

And he loved her. HAD loved her.

No more, though. There's only so much a man can take. Yesterday when she took the car, forged his name to withdraw money from his bank account, and emptied the emergency cash from his hiding place in the closet.... He could just see her, dragging a chair down the hall so she could reach it. Hell, she probably had to stack some books on the chair to give her enough lift. Then scrambling around the hidden panel, desperately trying to gain a finger-hold before toppling off her perch.

Done. He was done with her. This time for good.

When he brought the phone back to his ear, she was still talking, "...some terrible things. Oh, Brian, I'm so sorry. I never-"

"-Julie," Brian cut her off. "I'm hanging up now. No, don't say anything else. Don't come here, don't call again. Do us all a favor and stay in Oklahoma."

Brian pushed himself off the floor. He could hear her pleading voice, along with crackling static and some loud thunder claps before he set the receiver back on its hook, disconnecting the line. He stood there for a while, hand on the phone, head hung low.

After waiting a full five minutes for her to call back, he sighed and turned towards the refrigerator. He grabbed two beers and shuffled back to the couch.

***

Brian was just about to crack the top of the second beer when the doorbell rang, immediately followed by a trio of knocks.

Fuzzy from the drinking binge he'd been on, Brian stood up too fast, swooned, caught himself then chuckled. "Who's there?" he called out in a sing-song, drunken voice.

"Police," came the response.

And just like that, twenty five hours of drinking fell away and Brian became instantly, magically sober.

He opened the door to find a sharply dressed, clean-cut officer of the law on his front step. But something was wrong. This policeman did not have the typical officious, slightly pissed off appearance they used when dealing with the public. Indeed, if anything, the man on his porch looked timid. Maybe even sad, with a few tear-like drops of rainwater falling from the brim of his hat.

"Brian Muncie?" the officer asked.

"Yes?"

"May I come in?"

Brian stood aside, door opened. He turned on some lights. He normally kept a clean house, so one day of pitiful indulgence hadn't turned it upside-down, but there were enough empties around to make him feel uneasy. Judged.

"May I?" the officer indicated the padded chair that was part of the living room set. Brian nodded. He sat on the adjoining couch.

"Mr. Muncie, we received a call from the Oklahoma City police department this morning. It turns out your car was involved in a fatal traffic accident last night on Highway 35."

"I don't.... I don't have the car."

"I understand, sir. Apparently it was being driven by a Ms. Julie Nickerson?"

"Yes. She took it. What...?"

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Ms. Nickerson is dead."

Wait.... Last night? But he just hung up on her not fifteen minutes ago.

"Apparently she lost control, flipped the car.... Mr. Mucnie, are you okay?"

"No, this isn't right. She was still alive this morning. I was talking to her just now, before you came."

The policeman cleared his throat. "I'm very sorry. The body was identified by her driver's license and there was a Mister...," he checked his notes, "Virgil Templeton who also provided a positive ID."

The officer stood up and took a business card from his shirt pocket. "Here's the number for the Oklahoma Police. You can contact them for further information, and about the car. Again, I'm very sorry Mr. Muncie."

Brian reflexively took the card as it was offered, but didn't even see it. "Last night?"

"Yes sir. Pronounced dead at the scene, around eleven o' clock." The policeman moved to the door. "We didn't know it was your car until we spoke to Mr. Templeton who suggested.... Well, he said it might be yours."

"This is... not right."

"Call the number, Mr. Muncie, when you feel better. They'll need to know how you want to dispose of the car." The officer stood dumbly at the door, not wanting to leave on those words, but finding nothing else. He nodded, and then left.

The card slipped from Brian's hand.

***

Brain sat on the chair next to the phone. His beard was full, hair filthy to the point where it had begun to gather in clumps. He'd lost weight, and there was little food left in the house, but he wouldn't leave to buy more.

Because then he might miss Julie's call.

And he knew she would call again, even though he'd told her not to. She would. She would call.

Brian had been sitting next to the phone for seven days now, waiting for that call.

So he could pick up and tell her it was okay to come home.

Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't

The house was antebellum and it showed. Everything about it was tarnished, cracked, faded, to'up, shabby and old. Being imaginative and generous, one could assume that it once had glory - with its lofty three stories, extensive footprint, and silhouette of resplendent gables and towers. Not now, however. Now it was barely enough of a shamble to offer shelter from a sprinkle or a gentle breeze. There were foot-wide cracks in the outlaying bricks, the interior walls were slap-dash, the roof was devout ("holey") and all the windows were broken and dishearteningly boarded up. For safety reasons, a rational human would never choose to spend a night there.

But it was reportedly haunted. 

And that alone makes some people take a turn for the stupid.

Allow me to introduce Virgil Templeton, founding member of the Paranormal Investigators of South South East Texas or (PISSET). Not to be confused with the South South East Texas Paranormal Investigators (SSETPI), which was founded by Virgil's Ex-BFF, Shane Muncie (the prick) after the two had a irreparable falling-out over the significance of Stanley Kubrick's movie "The Shining". 

Virgil stands a moderate 5 feet, 8 inches, weighs more than he should at an even 200 pounds. Of course he wears glasses. He graduated from college but found a lucrative career unrelated to his field of study (English) by applying his computer programming hobby skills to a professional service and raked in yearly six figure salary.

This allows him to buy lots of toys; such as digital thermometers, EMF meters, thermographic and night vision cameras, handheld and static digital video cameras, digital audio recorders, and laptop computers. Whew. So armed with these toys, Virgil is single-mindedly dedicated to proving the existence of life after death and, more specifically, the existence of hell, which would perforce prove there is a heaven. And so fuck you, Shane Muncie.

Virgil, his toys, and a small but impassioned crew of ghost-hunters received permission to spend a night in the old, haunted house and they were determined to make the most of the opportunity. But without enough bodies to double, each PISSET member had to be assigned their own section to monitor. Yes, they would be connected by technology - cell phones and such - but otherwise each PISSET would be totally alone in a closed off room of a haunted house.

Enough to give you chills, no?

Virgil's toys; Virgil's party, so he took the prime location: the west-wing tower. Oh! What a story that was! So around the turn of the century, the beautiful wife of the house gave birth to an even more beautiful daughter. No problem there, until the daughter became 'of age' and the wife began suspecting the husband of infidelity and incest. So she did the rational thing and locked the daughter up in the west-wing tower; completely sealing the room behind a brick wall with only a small opening to deliver food and water. 

When the husband learned of this, he too did a rational thing: created a secret trap door in the floor of the tower so he could enter the room without the wife knowing. He considered this his "bird-in-the-cage" solution. 

Did I mention the husband was a medical doctor? And he knew how to perform abortions?

Anyway, by the time the daughter had found the ways and means to commit suicide, she was good and insane from the decades of imprisonment and abuse. Also, the Post Oak Tree in the back yard had grown massive and sprawling from being fed with her aborted fetuses, and the house's timber would never completely dry from the sopping of her tears and blood.

Pretty gruesome.

***

The room went off like the 4th of July. Lights and buzzers; lasers and alarms. Virgil came out of his chair like he'd been shot from a cannon and started slapping buttons and twisting nobs.

What the hell?

The digital readouts on the thermometers plunged and spiked like dub-music equalizers. The EMF meters showed all zeros - impossible. And the motion sensitive cameras would not stop focusing, flashing and clicking where there was nothing at all.

Holy shit!

A surge of energy coursed through the room; blowing out everything electrical, sucking all the air from Virgil's lungs and lifting the hair on his head.

And then the ghost appeared. She was at once beautiful and rancid, a vision of loveliness overlayed with the purifying shell of a corpse long dead. Or was it the other way around? A cadaver wearing the sheen of what once was its glorious, sublime humanity?

The phantasm lifted its arms and floated towards Virgil, dragging a powerful sense of rot across the room with it.

Hold me, Virgil heard the words in his head, though the horror did not move its mouth. Only its schizophrenic sets of  eyes - one set blue and vibrant, wide and wonderful; the other naught put black pits dripping slime - each flickering in and out of reality, spoke directly to Virgil using inexplicable telekinesis.

I'm so alone. Hold me.

Virgil recoiled, then found his spine. He stood erect, chest out. Adrenaline coursed through his body, but he would not take flight. Not now, not from this.

"Who are you?" Virgil said in a voice he'd hoped would sound commanding, but still came out squeaky.

The ghost drew closer, within an arm's reach now. With a force of will Virgil had never displayed before, bravery he'd never even thought he'd had, he stood fast. Feet planted firmly. Chin tilted upward. The smell of the creature flared his nostrils but he would not retreat.

"Who are you?" he asked again. "What do you want?"

Hold me. 

The specter's hand reached out and touched Virgil's shoulder. In that moment, the rancid part of the creature fell away leaving only the beguiling beauty. Young, flawless. Hourglass curves under a gossamer gown. Flowing blond hair and a perfect, heart-shaped face.

I'm so alone....

***

"Jesus," Brian said. "So what did you do?"

Virgil sipped coffee, set the cup down slowly and deliberately. "I hit that," he said, smiling.

Brian slapped the tabletop with a flat palm and exclaimed, "You did not!"

Virgil nodded, grinning like a mule.

Brian looked around the coffee shop. None of the other patrons noticed or cared about the outburst. They were all busy with their phones. He leaned across the table and said using his inside voice, "Are you fucking crazy?"

"Hey look," Virgil said, getting annoyed. "She was beautiful, okay? What was I supposed to do?"

"But she was, it was...," Brian searched for the words, waving his hands around. "I don't know. Evil? Probably?"

"No, she wasn't."

"How do you know?"

"Well she didn't look evil, anyway. She smelled kind of bad, but after awhile you stop noticing that."

"Jesus." Brian sat back and watched his friend drink coffee. There was a smug, knowing look on Virgil's face that made Brian uneasy.

"Would you do something for me?" Brian asked. "Come with me and see my priest, Father Leget. He's a nice guy, and he'll know-"

"Un huh. Nope. No way." Virgil shook his head. "None of that."

"But what if she...? I mean, how did you...? Was it really.... Like...?"

"Yes, it really was. And it was great! I'm glad it happened and I'm going to..."

"Oh no. No no no, no you're not."

"Yes, I am. I've got permission to set up again this weekend."

"Virgil," Brian grabbed his forearm with a hand. "You can't."

Virgil pulled his arm away. "I can, I am, and I will! Look, Brian, it is easy for you. How many girls are you dating now? Five? More? Not me. I have to take it where I can get it."

"Oh come on! You can't possibly be that hard up!"

"Not anymore I'm not!"

Brian shook his head. Virgil drank more coffee.

"In fact." Virgil cleared his throat. "In fact, she was my first."

Brian's jaw dropped. His lips parted, his teeth separated, and his jaw unhinged. A fly could have easily buzzed right in and settled on top of his molars.

"Don't look at me like that."

"But Virgil..., Brian stammered. "You're, like, thirty something years old."

"Thirty three."

"And you never...?"

"No. Not until last Saturday. I sit before you no longer a thirty three year old virgin."

Brian rubbed a hand across his face. He expelled breath. "Virgil, buddy. I'm not sure it counts."

"It counts for me."

The highest branch on the tallest tree

Two seeds took ground fairly close to each other at the bottom of a gently sloping hill. Over the years, they grew to a point where, underground, their roots touched. Emboldened by a shared sense of togetherness, they reached for the higher, blue air in the sky.

Very soon their branches joined to form a bridge across the very same sky they both loved.

During dry times, they shared water. When the winds blew fierce, they held each other fast.

Young people came and ate food between them; cuddling together against one of their sturdy trunks after the meal, hugging and kissing. Sometimes these young people would carve their initials in the shape of a heart before they left.

The trees didn't mind. They considered those marks a love tattoo - the letters didn't matter, only the shape. The shape of a heart.

On the other side of the hill, a single seed also took root. It had no other tree close enough to touch by root or branch. Alone, this tree learned fast that every inch of growth would be a struggle. It would have to horde water; and to be careful not to blossom too soon for fear of the winds eager to use it's own foliage to rip it out by the roots.

This tree, too, craved sky - but not for any pretty blue ideal. No, this tree needed rain water and knew the best way to catch it was with a high canopy. So it grew, carefully, slowly, as tall as it could while still feeling safe.

No young lovers ever visited this tree. The grass around its trunk was sparse because, to gather more water, this tree pushed its roots out of the ground in great, ropy veins. It was not a pleasant place to sit and relax, under this tree.

Occasionally young boys would come around, kicking the wood and snapping off low branches. These boys would smack the tree's trunk with its own limbs and then, if they had a knife, carve a few profanities in the bark.

The tree didn't mind. It considered those scars an appropriate expression. "Yeah," the tree thought. "Fuck you, too."