The Case of the Telltale Smell                                  

By D. E. Allen

The scene of the murder was so horribly gruesome.

Was this the work of just one man, or did this take a twosome?

She was a young woman, her ring said, “A wife.”

Did they fight, did they argue; it takes so much hatred, to kill with a knife.

I looked for clues to solve this gut-wrenching sin.

No prints on the weapon, just a faint whiff, of Wild Jasmine.

I knelt by her corpse, and breathed in with all my might.

My reward was only the stench of death; she had lain there all night.

We were at a complete loss, so we’d follow procedure.

To seek neighbors and ask, “Had anyone seen her?”

Knocking on doors and leaving my card,

solving this one was getting  particularly hard.

When the hundredth door opened, my routine getting old,

a raven-haired beauty, my eyes did behold.

Her smile was bright, her crimson lips so inviting.

I was suddenly nervous, my manly urges I was fighting.

When I ran out of questions, I gave her my last business card.

“If you recall anything at all Miss, please do call Scotland Yard.”

Now the interview was over, and she slowly closed her door.

That’s when I smelled something familiar; I’d smelled it before.

Wild Jasmine, so pungent, so rare… so damning!

All Dogs go to Heaven                                                                                                  
                                                   

It was a Tuesday afternoon in the dead of winter. I sat at an empty table in the dark corner of McKinley’s Pub, sipping a beer while watching this evenings players stroll in.

Old Man Peterson slowly shuffled in first.  He sat at the end of the bar next to the brick wall.  He liked it there, the boiler for the apartments above the bar was on the other side of that wall and it was always warm in the winter.  It was a nice cozy spot for Peterson to curl up and take a snooze in the hour between finishing his last beer of the evening and his being tossed out into the cold by McKinley himself. 

The far end of the bar was the perfect place for Peterson, no one else would have to smell him.  The regulars knew enough to hold their breath as they walked passed him on their way to the Men’s room.  He looked like a pile of old rags with his worn-out dirty clothing that may have been blue or maroon at one time long ago, but after years of not being washed they were trapped halfway between brown and charcoal gray.

A cold blast of air rushed passed me as the door opened and Big Mouth Charlie hurried into the bar, slamming the door behind him. “Holy crap!”  I just saw a brass monkey chasing his balls down the street. Ha-ha-ha. How ya doin’ McKinley?”

McKinley just stood behind his bar and continued cleaning glasses. A pronounced frown came to his face as he nodded hello to Charlie.  I knew McKinley was praying that more customers would soon be in his bar, or Charlie would talk his ear off in no time.

Cold air continued to announce the arrival of the remaining players for the evening. Richard, the lonely businessman who was dressed in his $1,000 pinstriped suit; closely followed by the almost pretty, twice married, and now “it’s complicated” Amanda, who last, but not least, was followed by Arnie the bogus Viet Nam Vet.

Arnie, of all the players on my stage this evening you are my favorite.  You are so full of crap. Arnie my dear boy, making up war stories, making yourself the star of every veterans magazine article you ever read.  These things don’t make you a Veteran, even if your friends at the bar half believe your tall tales.  Just like you my dear boy, many good men were rejected as 4-F by the draft board.  Arnie, you couldn’t get over it. You made up lies to fill in the void in your life.  Now you can’t stop living the lie.

McKinley cracked a smile as Arnie sat next to Big Mouth Charlie and the two of them  proceeded to talk and bullshit each other into oblivion.

Richard pulled a $50 bill from his wallet, and Amanda pulled her bar stool closer to his.  Richard bought Amanda a drink, and Amanda thanked him by placing her hand upon his upper thigh.

I looked at the clock on the wall.  There was 25 minutes left to go, and all my players were on stage playing their parts perfectly.  Oblivious to what was waiting for them.

McKinley picked up a scrap of paper and held it out to Amanda who raised her open hand to McKinley as if pushing him away at the same time she bobbed her head up and down as if to say “I know, I know.”  McKinley gave her a stern look and placed the slip of paper next to the register as Amanda leaned over and whispered in Richard’s ear. Richard smiled broadly and mouthed the word, “SURE.”

Amanda got up and went to the Ladies room.  Richard got up precisely 1 minute later and headed for the restrooms as well, but he also entered the Ladies room, not the Men’s.

“Peterson. Peterson!” Barked McKinley, “Time to take out the trash.” Old Man Peterson maneuvered his arthritis-riddled body off his bar stool and headed to the kitchen.  There were two bags waiting for him; one filled with garbage, and another, much smaller bag, filled with the left over and half eaten sandwiches from McKinley’s Tuesday $5 lunch special.  Peterson took out the trash, and secured the precious bag of food under his coat.  Then he walked back out into the bar to be met once again by McKinley’s stern voice, “OK, that’s it Peterson.  Finish your beer and go home.  Peterson looked McKinley in the eye and smiled an unspoken Thank You.

Richard was the first one back to the bar from the Ladies room.  He sat back down, unnoticed by Big Mouth Charlie and Arnie the Phony Vet.  Amanda emerged some minutes later and rejoined Richard at the bar.  She pointed to the register and handed McKinley a $100 bill.  McKinley went to the register, tossed the slip of paper into the trash, and returned to Amanda with a twenty, and three ones.

It was time for Peterson to go home.  His beer was empty and he had a precious cargo of food to carry home.  There would be no snooze by the warm wall of the bar for him tonight, because I shield good people from unnecessary pain whenever the plan allows.

Old Man Peterson didn’t see the handsome young couple that pushed their way past him into the bar as he was shuffling out.  No one in the bar saw them, except me.

They came to my table and sat down.  The pretty young woman looked at her watch.  “Less than one minute to go. “

The handsome young man interjected, “I only see five of them, and three of them are ours.  I was told it would be three and three. What’s up?

“Don’t worry.  You will get your three.  We don’t cheat or lie, that’s your domain.”

With a roar louder than a hundred dragons, with a blast of heat hotter than a volcano, the old apartment building boiler on the other side of the brick wall exploded, and five souls made a painful transformation from flesh to spirit.

McKinley, Richard, Arnie, Big Mouth Charlie, and Amanda found themselves standing in a surreal field of mist.  Before them they saw a man in pure white robes, and he started to speak to them.

“Rupert McKinley.  You have given half your till to the mission across the street from your bar for 30 years.  You give back at every opportunity, while others only take.  Come to me. “

The handsome, yet evil, spirit couple from the bar waited patiently, hidden in the shadows, as McKinley walked towards the Spirit in White.  The mist surrounded McKinley and he disappeared into a bright light.

“Sergeant Arnold Prinlow.”  Arnie’s ears perked up. The spirit was calling him Sergeant.  Arnie started to cry as the spirit motioned for him to come closer.

“Arnie, my dear Arnie.  You are not well.  Your mind is not whole, but your spirit is strong.  All the good work you did at the Veterans Hospital for so many years shall be rewarded.  Come and enter herein, and forever be called by the rank of Sergeant.

The spirit dried Arnie’s tears with his robe and Arnie walked on into the mist of eternal peace and joy.

The spirits eyes turned to flame. He looked at Amanda.  “Harlot! Harlot with AIDS who knowingly spread this plague to all who were weak willed!”  The Spirit clenched his fist and Amanda burst into flame, and she fell through the mist. In an instant she was gone from sight.

Big Mouth Charlie started to tremble and he jabbered senselessly as he seemed to melt into a ball of sweat.

Richard looked up.  He was still dressed in his suit, and he was carrying his briefcase.

“Do you think I don’t know what’s in the briefcase Richard?” 

Richard dropped the briefcase as if the handle was burning his hand.  The briefcase hit the mist and popped open.  The papers held within it started to float upward and spiral into a tornado of whirling paper blades.

“You loved money so much!  You have been embezzling from countless thousands of investors for decades!”  The Spirit in White thrust his fingertips at the paper tornado and it engulfed Richard in its swirling mass of sharp edges, slicing into his flesh, inflicting ten thousand cuts.  Richard screamed at the top of his lungs as he fell through the mist and plummeted into the eternal darkness below.

“AND YOU!  Your name is too bitter on my tongue to ever be spoken.”

Big Mouth Charlie was whimpering and shaking like a leaf as he crawled to the feet of the spirit.  He started to beg, “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry. The little boy grew up fine.  He is fine.  I didn’t do any permanent harm to him, he’s fine.”

“One little boy?  No. No, buy my count there were 23.  You are an abomination.  Fine! FINE you say?  You destroyed those little boys.  Each of them has grown into a monster just like you.  Just like you they are defiling little boys, destroying their lives, creating more monsters.  You will pay for all of them. Every generation of them!”

The Spirit in White motioned with a broad sweep of his arm and the evil spirits emerged from the shadows.

“Take him, he is yours.”

No sooner had the Spirit in White spoken than the evil young woman morphed into a hideous creature with nails like iron claws and the teeth of a saber toothed tiger.  She pounced on Charlie and tore him into bloody shreds of flesh as together they sunk through the mist into the eternal darkness, with Charlie’s screams of agony slowly fading away into the abyss.

“That’s three for me and only two for you.”

“My you are as observant as you are evil, aren’t you?  Why not stay a moment and watch?” 

The Spirit in White slowly passed his hand over the mist and it cleared away.  Looking down into Peterson’s apartment the specters could see him opening the bag of sandwiches from the bar.  Peterson slowly peeled back the slices of stale bread, and removed the meatloaf within.  He crumbled the meatloaf into the bowl of his dog Champ.  Like Peterson, Champ was very old and afflicted with arthritis as well.

“AWE that’s so cute, but it’s still three to two!”

“Keep looking.”

The specters looked down once more and saw Old Man Peterson in bed asleep, with Champ comfortably snuggled in at his feet.

“Still three to two.”

“Not quite.”

The mist drew together once more and Old Man Peterson stood before the specters.  The Spirit in White held out his hand, and Peterson walked to him.

“So big deal, three – three.  It’s a tie.”

“Wrong again.”  The Spirit in White pointed with his finger, and there in the mist was Champ, young and filled with joy as he ran to be reunited with Peterson.

The Spirit in White smiled at the evil one and softly said, “You lost.  Now go back where you belong.”

 The evil one departed, and Peterson, Champ, and the Spirit in White all walked together into Glory.

Why I write                                                    

By D. E. Allen

A pain felt but not spoken, can crush you deep inside.

But when read aloud in public, there is nowhere it can hide.

A joyful memory is only that, it's greater when openly shared.

If not written and read it will just fade away, as if nobody cared.

I write to make others happy, I write to make them cry.

I write with haste to get it all out on paper, before the day I die.

I write to entertain you, to make you feel, and make you think.

My writing does that for most of you, yet others it drives to drink.

In closing my dear compatriots, my fellow writers, near and far.

I wish you words that flow like rivers of rhyme, good fortune and a guiding star.

Homeward Bound                                                                                                         

If we leave right now the tide table says we have an hour and a half until the morning high.

We are filled with apprehension for we know not what awaits us.

Always prepared, we pack our boots, our chest waders, the camera

And so we set out, full of hope, and homeward bound.

It has only been 24 hours, the traffic lights are still out, the stores are still closed.

There is not much to see as we enter the neighborhood.

Piles of broken Phragmites, pushed half way up the matted lawns by natures fury.

So we drive on, still hopeful, homeward bound.

Heading ever southward on the neighborhoods main road,

The scene grows steadily worse with downed wires and the roots of fifty-year-old trees

 forming the ropes and poles of natures new grass carpet tents.

We drive on slowly, picking our way through the wreckage, homeward bound.

We must stop. The road is still closed by flooding with a half mile yet to go.

“You better have waders.” Came a shout from the house beneath a downed tree.

“The water is up to here.” He pointed to his belt. “Come. Sit on my stoop to change.”

And so we did, as hope faded and stark reality settled in. Then we went on, homeward bound.

It is a heart-straining trudge in ice-cold water. A waist-deep-half-mile of North Atlantic Hell. 

My legs grow numb, my heart pounds in my chest with every step I take, and the tide is still rising.

My mind replays the news reports of so many men having heart attacks. 

Pace yourself.  Don’t die now.  She needs you.  We are homeward bound.

At 50 yards we can see the high-water mark, half way up the bay window.

I shout commandingly; “We’ll only have 20 minutes to look around, or the tide will cut us off.” 

There will be no time for precious memories, there will be no time for tears. 

But at least we are together, and homeward bound.

I unlock the door and I must put my shoulder to it to push it open.

Yesterdays prized possessions, are today’s debris that floated to the doorway, and blocks our way in.

I find a figurine that belongs in the den, in the mud of the living room, and I instinctively clean it.

The first small step, of a very long journey, homeward bound.

HOPE                                                                                                                

Hope was born under the harvest moon, as a long tailed comet was streaking across the hollow bowl of the big dipper.  The superstitious among us called it a sign, a good omen sent by the gods.  Hope was a rare jewel, born with ten fingers, ten toes, and two eyes. According to tradition we waited to see if she lived for the passing of three days before she would be examined. So many of the babies do not live that long.

I dared to thank God for His gift of Hope even though the God of Adam and of Isaac and of Abraham had gone out of fashion long ago.  There were a dozen or so of us in our small community that still believed.  We still had hope, and now we have Hope, with her ten fingers, ten toes, and two eyes. 

The faithful prayed over her crib for the three cycles of the Sun, and with the rising of the sun on the fourth day, the Elders and the Wizards of the community came to see for themselves this child with the ten fingers, ten toes, and two eyes.  They came, and they saw for themselves, that Hope was still alive. 

Hope. People from a different community, driven by jealousy, envy and covetous hearts might hate her for her name alone, for jealousy, envy and covetous hearts are the destroyers of hope.  We must shelter her from strangers.  If it is discovered by the local Warlord that a pure one has been born to us he would seek to hunt her down and killer her before she grows, before Hope can become a threat to the world’s darkness of spirit.

Here at home she will be loved and nurtured by our community of survivors.  As she grows she will learn to read from the Bible.  Her Mother and I still have one.  My forefathers refused to burn it for light or heat that first horrible winter so many generations ago.  I will teach her the difference between straw and hay.  Her mother will teach her the difference between weave and woof.  The Bible will teach her the difference between right and wrong.  The petulance wrought by mankind, to afflict mankind… will teach her about pain and suffering, about life and death.

The medicine woman, wearing an ancient white cap, came and examined the child.  Hope was found to be without spot. Glory be unto God, the mark of the petulance was not on her.  She would keep her ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes.  The Elders spoke to my wife and I.  They asked that we have many, many more children in the hope that more, like Hope, would be born into the community.  They wanted to know what magic we had that gave us this wondrous child. I showed them the Bible and said, “Hope. Hope sprang forth from the pages of this book, from the hearing of the words herein by my wife and I.” 

From that day forward at the dawning of every new day, all the people of the community gathered at Hope’s doorstep, and listened to the reading of the book.

Hope. ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes.  Perhaps she is the Savior we have been waiting for.

Sandy rolled ashore.

Lifelong treasures turned to trash.

Nature humbles us.

Installment #5 of, A Walk in the Park....

                                                                                              

Meanwhile as Ranger Jim and Tina were falling in love and planning their futures, the real action was taking place somewhere in a secret subterranean facility in the George Washington National Forest, Virginia……..

“State your name?”

“Stochnia Kobitjin.”

“Place of birth?”

“Junik, Kosovo.”

“Profession?”

“… Security Consultant.”

“Security Consultant my ass Stochnia.  You want to try that question again?”

“You call yourself Special Agent, you are Gangster, you try again.”

“Oh Stochnia, you were doing so well.  Were you consulting with Jed Smith up in the Okanogan National Forest?”

“Jeb-ed Smit’ You so funny Special Agent.  Everybody in dis country wants be clown.”

Special Agent Karlson decided to get up close and personnel with Stochnia Kobitjin. He leaned over Kobitjin and made a fist.

 EH! Eh, not in face. If you mean to say Joseph Stalac, den I know who you mean. Yes, we there together in forest for few days to talk.”

“What did you talk about? And don’t be a wise-ass.” 

“He has large quantity Semtex explosive coming to drop-off points in USA.  He wanted me to set up training for people.  American people. Your own people looking to do some Jihad on your ass. But of course I refuse to do this terrible thing.”

The intercom crackled ~~ Special Agent Karlson.  Come out here. ~~

Karlson walked back to the observation area overlooking the interrogation room.

His boss was standing there alongside of a handful of dark 3-piece suits. Men-in-Black who, true to form, were wearing sunglasses in the poorly lit room.  “Agent Karlson, these folks are going to be taking over for us.  Kobitjin will be getting some … special attention.”

Karlson looked into the sunglasses of one of the 3-piece suits. “Cut his face.  He doesn’t want his face messed up.  Cut his face.  He’ll talk.  You’ll get your list of bad-guys.”

The 3-piece suit barely moved his lips; “Thanks for the tip.”

The suits marched single file out of the observation area and into the interrogation room as Karlson’s boss led him out in the opposite direction. 

Before he left, Karlson turned his head just enough to see Kobitjin greeting the 3 –piece suits like it was old home week.  All of Karlson’s instincts told him that the Suits were going to get their list of would-be domestic terrorists, and Kobitjin was going to get a free ride home. 

 ********

2 months later.  Special Agents Quarterly Security Briefing. 

The Director of the Threat Analysis and Capabilities Section was talking about foreign agitators in the Middle-East.  In particular, those identified as having been killed in the latest round of Israeli retaliatory air strikes in Lebanon.  Number 3 on the list: Stochnia Kobitjin.

The End