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

Installment 4 of, A Walk in the Park

Tina wasn’t under surveillance, by anyone other than her x-boyfriend that is.  Still she was careful to be cryptic in her communications with Jim, just in case she was wrong about being monitored.

She was on Limited Duty until her appointment with the State’s Doctor later in the week.  She felt fine, but she had to wait for the doctor to sign-off on the paperwork. She was eager to get back into the field, but being in the office gave her access to some interesting information.

The two hikers who had the misfortune to be in the field near Hadley Ridge at the wrong time were both identified.  After exhaustive interviews and background checks they were found to be just that, two innocent nature-loving hikers, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

The FBI had called the crime lab.  They wanted to take another look at the evidence from the Park shooting incident.  Scratches found on three of the shell cases recovered from the shooters position in the Park incident were thought to have come from contamination of the rifles chamber during the shooting.  A later, more thorough examination by the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms concluded that such scratching was inconsistent with the condition of the chamber of the recovered weapon. 

Two days ago an empty .30-06 shell casing, with the same scratches on the case, was recovered by an undercover agent working at a right-wing sniper training facility in the woodlands of Georgia.  The FBI was now working a new theory in the Park shooting incident, a theory centered on two shooters.  One of whom was still alive, and apparently getting some target practice down in Georgia.

Tina was afraid for Jim.  She wanted to get a message to him, but this new information was confidential.  At first she thought her idea of the picture of two shooters was clever, then she thought it was too transparent.  She waffled back and forth between feeling it was too cryptic, and not cryptic enough.  In the end she realized it did not matter.  She had hit send, and the deed was done.  Tina rationalized that it was not the means, but the simple fact that she had tried to get warning to her new boyfriend, that made her feel better.

Her feeling better didn’t last more than a day.  Interpol finally identified the body of the Park incident sniper as one Joseph Stalac, a.k.a. Jed Smith.  A Bosnian Serb who had been recruited by international gunrunners after his talents were no longer needed at home.  He was thought to be in Canada.  His appearance in the USA was drawing some major resources from Homeland Security.  Resources that were up on Hadley Ridge checking every blade of grass, and every stone for a clue as to what was going on.  From the amount of trash, and buried human excrement they found, the FBI believed that Stalac had indeed been in the area for months, hiding, waiting for his trail to get cold.  They were still working the issue of who was this other shooter, and why was he meeting Stalac?

********

John was totally pissed when he logged into Tina’s e-mail account and read her e-mails to Jim.  He saw the pictures.  He recognized the bar, it was Flatheads, and it was a Friday.  He recognized Mike the bartender, and Mike only worked the bar at Flatheads on Friday.

As John looked at the pictures he thought he knew what they meant.  Tina wanted this new guy to join her at the bar.  She had a shooter waiting for him.  John was itching for a confrontation so he figured he’d hang out at Flatheads on Friday nights and wait for them to show up.  Weeks went bye and they never did show, but even if they had John would have been too drunk to do anything but fall down and hurt himself in a confrontation.

********

The FBI’s undercover agent working at the sniper school in Georgia spent a week secretly taking pictures of all the “Students.”  He sent the pictures to the Bureau’s Facial Recognition Lab who compared them to the security video from the Park's Visitor Center.  They got a match, and an arrest was made. 

The case was officially closed, and no one with any information was talking.  Not a word.  Not even to all the local authorities back in Washington State who had been involved in the case from the start.  The details of the case were strictly on a “Need to Know” basis, and the Fed’s didn’t think the Locals had a need.

********

As for Jim and Tina, they wondered what the answers were to this mystery, but after a few months those cares became secondary as they worried about the more important things in life.  Things like; where are we going to live, who’s church are we going to get married in, and where are we going on the honeymoon?

Where Have I Been?                                                                            

I apologize for not posting lately; the main level of my home was destroyed in hurricane Sandy.  Online time is quite limited, and my time in general is involved in the most rudimentary tasks of survival in the modern world.  My wife Helene and I … and our cat Smokie are all OK.

Bare with me … The excitement shall continue!