It was a gorgeous sunny day, with clear azure skies, and mild temperatures in the mid seventy-degree range. It was almost perfect, unless you like rain, along with dark gloomy skies, occasional fog, humidity, and a generally depressing mood.
Jake loved the rain. He killed in the rain. Now with twenty-three days of bright sunshine in a row since the last rain, Jake was getting sort of “twitchy”. He didn’t like the feeling, as he hated the sunshine nor did he understand why anyone in his or her right mind would like bright, warm, dry, weather! The only thing that could make it any worse would be if that obnoxious song “It’s a Small World After All” was playing loudly. Jake was angry, he was furious, he seriously needed to kill someone…no really; he needed to kill someone soon.
Jake often killed for money, being a type of assassin who preferred blades to guns or bombs. He also killed for his own deviant pleasure, picking random victims always in a different city, never twice in the same city. There were a lot of cities.
The TV was tuned to the Weather Channel, the only channel Jake ever watched. Somewhere in the world, even in the good old USA it was raining. In fact, in Venice Italy it was flooding. Oh, if only he could be there, the body count would be very high, very high indeed.
Just then the local weather came on. There was a hint of a thunderstorm that afternoon between 4:00 – 6:00 PM on the west side of town. Which of course was the side opposite the fleabag motel he was staying at. But rain is rain, and death can arrive on the west side as well as any other compass direction. It was now 3:37 PM, so Jake looked out the window that faced west…not a cloud in sight. But not one to forsake an opportunity, Jake, already dressed in his usual black undertaker attire, grabbed his black trench coat and his newly sharpened K-Bar knife and drove out of the motel lot and headed west.
Twenty-five minutes later he was in the “west side” of town, a mixture of light industrial, cheap motels, and equally cheap apartments. Greasy spoon worker-bee diners dotted the streets. Foot and car traffic was sparse for the time of day, the area being more on a three-shift time element than the 8-5 workday of the office types. Jake found a parking spot near a closed, run down building with only a few other cars on the street. The crappy nondescript car he was driving fit right in. He looked at his watch, it was 4:15 PM and growing dark, as Jake grew calm. Then the rain began, heavy at first, then a deluge. Jake left the car and walked over to the alley entrance. He waited in the rain, rain that already in the space of minutes had the street gutters overflowing the curb. He could barely see, and no way in hell could anyone see him.
Splash, splash the sound of running feet sloshing through the torrent, his victim-mark-hit and all those other nouns, ran right to Jake, thinking the alley a brief refuge from the storm. Wrong, it was the end of the line pal, as Jake planted the K-Bar in the victim’s chest right to the hilt. The body actually made a plunk sound as it hit the ground. Die where you lay pal. He felt better as he drove away, the skies unfortunately were clearing, and then a rainbow came out; how ironic, no gold at the end of the rainbow, just a dead body. He left town, headed to the Pacific Northwest. It always rained in the northwest. It sounded like a plan, since he loved the rain.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. Emily Dickinson
Showing posts with label Original Story by G M Makela. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Original Story by G M Makela. Show all posts
Friday, June 26, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
The Difference One Day Makes
My second wife died on her 21st birthday. I was twenty-four and we had a daughter who was 10 months old. Sometimes, I wonder how my life would have been if that day had never happened. One day would have made all the difference.
I would have taken her to the hospital the night before when she complained of the severe headache. I had kidded her by humming the tune to “Love Story”. When we went to bed, I asked her if she wanted to have sex…she laughed, but said no way in hell! I went to work in the morning and later in the day she called and said she couldn’t feel her legs. I called my mother and asked her to take care of the baby, I would be right home. By the time I got home, she was in convulsions. I called 911, but it was too late. We went to the hospital and I spent the next four hours wondering what was going on. She died. It was a brain aneurysm.
I think about that time and about that day often, as I grow old. I wonder how my life would have been if she had been saved or never gotten ill. We would have been happy. She was the only other person in my life who loved me unconditionally, the other being my Finnish Grandmother. We would have had more children; our next daughter would have been called Sarah. Our son would have been called the same as my current son, by my third wife, a wife I would have never had, nor ever divorced. I think we would have moved to the town my in-laws lived. We would have been close. We would probably have lived in one place for the last 40 years. Our children would have graduated from the same high school their mother did. We would have had roots. It would have been a wonderful life. If only that day had not happened. Thirty-seven years later, I still cry.
Did I mention that little daughter we had? I let her mother’s parents adopt her at age seven. I have not seen nor heard from her since. Thirty seven years later, I still cry.
I would have taken her to the hospital the night before when she complained of the severe headache. I had kidded her by humming the tune to “Love Story”. When we went to bed, I asked her if she wanted to have sex…she laughed, but said no way in hell! I went to work in the morning and later in the day she called and said she couldn’t feel her legs. I called my mother and asked her to take care of the baby, I would be right home. By the time I got home, she was in convulsions. I called 911, but it was too late. We went to the hospital and I spent the next four hours wondering what was going on. She died. It was a brain aneurysm.
I think about that time and about that day often, as I grow old. I wonder how my life would have been if she had been saved or never gotten ill. We would have been happy. She was the only other person in my life who loved me unconditionally, the other being my Finnish Grandmother. We would have had more children; our next daughter would have been called Sarah. Our son would have been called the same as my current son, by my third wife, a wife I would have never had, nor ever divorced. I think we would have moved to the town my in-laws lived. We would have been close. We would probably have lived in one place for the last 40 years. Our children would have graduated from the same high school their mother did. We would have had roots. It would have been a wonderful life. If only that day had not happened. Thirty-seven years later, I still cry.
Did I mention that little daughter we had? I let her mother’s parents adopt her at age seven. I have not seen nor heard from her since. Thirty seven years later, I still cry.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Deadly Rain #2
The Eskimos or Inuit have over 30 words for snow. He had one for rain…glorious. He loved rain, falling water, moisture, drizzle, deluge, mist, fog, downpour, pouring cats & dogs, and those all those other adjectives. After 73 hours of constant rain, most people would be suicidal by now, or already dead. Grey, dark skies, thunder, lightening, wind, hail, and yet more rain would drive most people to start drinking heavily or overdose on coffee. However, he lived for the rain. He killed in the rain, other people died in the rain. Lately, he had been using the name Jake, not his real name, but it would do for now.
Thirteen years ago, “Jake” was almost killed during a rainstorm in Portland, Oregon. A place that embraced the rain. It was a necessity since it rained constantly from October till April. Rain was Portland’s idea of winter, it’s alternative to the snow and ice of the Midwest and East. Umbrellas, rain coats, and goulashes the coulter dress of the day! One dark wet night, as he came out of a bar on 2nd Ave at 2:30 AM, some asswipe, tweaker, scumbag decided that he was a mark to mug. Armed with a trusty piece of rebar, the mutt played “Wipeout” on his skull. He lived, but the event changed him. He became a hunter, sometimes for pay, more often for his personal enjoyment. Somehow, he found that street trash that beat him like a circus monkey. After he was finished carving on him with an heirloom K-Bar knife, the “victim” became one of Portland’s longest running cold cases.
That was then, this is now, and thanks god or whoever, for this wonderful, glorious rain. He had been waiting for two things, the rain and the victim to finally leave his low rent Section 8 Housing, a flea trap in 12th Ave. Waiting across the street from the “Terrace’ was no problem, street lights being in short supply, even in the so called cultural area. He was unseen, but could see the victim very well. Between the din of the rain, heavy traffic, numerous homeless bums and winos, his presence was not noticed. His favorite blade was at home. Tonight he had chosen an ice pick. Yet another fine killing instrument, that left small or no exit wounds and little if any blood, but killed as effectively as any blade in the hands of an expert killer.
Three blocks he followed the victim, drawing closer each block…well they were small blocks, the smallest in any city. Almost baby blocks, by most standards. The mark turned down the “Park Blocks”, an even more dark, desolate area. At this point, only twenty feet separated the killer and his victim. As they entered the area known as Pioneer Square, filled by the down and out, street punks, worker bees, and tourists wandering in the dark, the killer struck. Faster than many could see, and certainly faster than the victim could react, the ice pick entered and exited his left ear. The victim kept walking two or three paces, but already dead. The few citizens never even noticed the body, assuming just another derelict drunk or tweaked OD, asleep in the gutter. Jake got on a Max Train and left the area, unseen, yet strangely fulfilled. Death and rain, they just seemed to be made for each other.
Tonight’s death in the rain would be written off as gang violence, a random kill, or the homeless mugging each other for dope, statistics that helped Portland’s reputation to become the “Mini-Murder Capital” of the North West. Jake liked to do his part.
Thirteen years ago, “Jake” was almost killed during a rainstorm in Portland, Oregon. A place that embraced the rain. It was a necessity since it rained constantly from October till April. Rain was Portland’s idea of winter, it’s alternative to the snow and ice of the Midwest and East. Umbrellas, rain coats, and goulashes the coulter dress of the day! One dark wet night, as he came out of a bar on 2nd Ave at 2:30 AM, some asswipe, tweaker, scumbag decided that he was a mark to mug. Armed with a trusty piece of rebar, the mutt played “Wipeout” on his skull. He lived, but the event changed him. He became a hunter, sometimes for pay, more often for his personal enjoyment. Somehow, he found that street trash that beat him like a circus monkey. After he was finished carving on him with an heirloom K-Bar knife, the “victim” became one of Portland’s longest running cold cases.
That was then, this is now, and thanks god or whoever, for this wonderful, glorious rain. He had been waiting for two things, the rain and the victim to finally leave his low rent Section 8 Housing, a flea trap in 12th Ave. Waiting across the street from the “Terrace’ was no problem, street lights being in short supply, even in the so called cultural area. He was unseen, but could see the victim very well. Between the din of the rain, heavy traffic, numerous homeless bums and winos, his presence was not noticed. His favorite blade was at home. Tonight he had chosen an ice pick. Yet another fine killing instrument, that left small or no exit wounds and little if any blood, but killed as effectively as any blade in the hands of an expert killer.
Three blocks he followed the victim, drawing closer each block…well they were small blocks, the smallest in any city. Almost baby blocks, by most standards. The mark turned down the “Park Blocks”, an even more dark, desolate area. At this point, only twenty feet separated the killer and his victim. As they entered the area known as Pioneer Square, filled by the down and out, street punks, worker bees, and tourists wandering in the dark, the killer struck. Faster than many could see, and certainly faster than the victim could react, the ice pick entered and exited his left ear. The victim kept walking two or three paces, but already dead. The few citizens never even noticed the body, assuming just another derelict drunk or tweaked OD, asleep in the gutter. Jake got on a Max Train and left the area, unseen, yet strangely fulfilled. Death and rain, they just seemed to be made for each other.
Tonight’s death in the rain would be written off as gang violence, a random kill, or the homeless mugging each other for dope, statistics that helped Portland’s reputation to become the “Mini-Murder Capital” of the North West. Jake liked to do his part.
Monday, May 18, 2009
If I Die Before I Wake
“Time for bed”, shouted Billy’s mom. It was 8:30 PM and a normal, rainy Tuesday evening. Billy finished brushing his teeth, put on his Spider Man pajamas and came into his room, a very clean & organized room, a factor due to his mom’s fetish for neatness, not Billy’s.
Billy automatically knelt beside his bed, next to his mother. Prayers before bed was another of mom’s heartfelt nightly rituals. Tonight, he figured it was his 300,000 nightly prayer…or at least it felt that way to 4-year-old Billy.
Folding his hands, just like mom, he recited the prayer:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake
I pray the lord my soul to take
Lately Billy was starting to wonder about what that prayer meant. What was a soul? Why would he die during the night? What would kill him and take his soul? He kept these doubts to himself. He didn’t think his mom would like the questions, let alone provide an answer. So Billy thought in silence. He was starting to get a little worried about that prayer, maybe even a little scared.
Billy lay in bed, in the dark, wondering, worrying, and getting nervous. He had just remembered something Grandpa told him weeks ago when he broke a vase, by accident, at Grandpa’s cabin. Grandpa had told him the “Boogie Man” would come in the night to take bad little boys. Yeah, that was it, the “Boogie Man”. Maybe he came to kill you and take your soul?
The old house creaked and settled, making familiar, but still scary noises. Billy could not sleep. He imagined “Him” waiting in the dark, perhaps hiding under the bed? Or maybe in the dark closet, whose door Billy was sure, was closed only a moment before.
His soul, where exactly was it? If he could hide it, or protect it during the long dark nights, maybe he would be safe. Perhaps he would not die or have his soul taken by the ”Boogie Man”. A tissue dislodged from the headboard bookcase by an errant breeze, fluttered down and landed on Billy’s face. It felt like the caress of bony dried fingers, the fingers of “Him” coming to take his soul! Billy screamed. He screamed like his life depended on it. He screamed until his mother rushed into the room and turned the light on. The light saved him. That was the key, light! Light to drive out the darkness and the fear. Light to keep the “Boogie Man” at bay.
From that night on, wearing his Spider Man pajamas, and safe with his Spider Man Night Light illuminating the shadows, Billy was no longer afraid for his soul, of dying in the night…nor of that stupid, scary prayer.
Yes, Billy is safe….safe until the power goes out during a thunder storm, or the bulb in his Spider Man Night-Lite stops working! Good night Billy, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite!” Bed bugs?
Billy automatically knelt beside his bed, next to his mother. Prayers before bed was another of mom’s heartfelt nightly rituals. Tonight, he figured it was his 300,000 nightly prayer…or at least it felt that way to 4-year-old Billy.
Folding his hands, just like mom, he recited the prayer:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake
I pray the lord my soul to take
Lately Billy was starting to wonder about what that prayer meant. What was a soul? Why would he die during the night? What would kill him and take his soul? He kept these doubts to himself. He didn’t think his mom would like the questions, let alone provide an answer. So Billy thought in silence. He was starting to get a little worried about that prayer, maybe even a little scared.
Billy lay in bed, in the dark, wondering, worrying, and getting nervous. He had just remembered something Grandpa told him weeks ago when he broke a vase, by accident, at Grandpa’s cabin. Grandpa had told him the “Boogie Man” would come in the night to take bad little boys. Yeah, that was it, the “Boogie Man”. Maybe he came to kill you and take your soul?
The old house creaked and settled, making familiar, but still scary noises. Billy could not sleep. He imagined “Him” waiting in the dark, perhaps hiding under the bed? Or maybe in the dark closet, whose door Billy was sure, was closed only a moment before.
His soul, where exactly was it? If he could hide it, or protect it during the long dark nights, maybe he would be safe. Perhaps he would not die or have his soul taken by the ”Boogie Man”. A tissue dislodged from the headboard bookcase by an errant breeze, fluttered down and landed on Billy’s face. It felt like the caress of bony dried fingers, the fingers of “Him” coming to take his soul! Billy screamed. He screamed like his life depended on it. He screamed until his mother rushed into the room and turned the light on. The light saved him. That was the key, light! Light to drive out the darkness and the fear. Light to keep the “Boogie Man” at bay.
From that night on, wearing his Spider Man pajamas, and safe with his Spider Man Night Light illuminating the shadows, Billy was no longer afraid for his soul, of dying in the night…nor of that stupid, scary prayer.
Yes, Billy is safe….safe until the power goes out during a thunder storm, or the bulb in his Spider Man Night-Lite stops working! Good night Billy, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite!” Bed bugs?
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