Category: random

The old carnival fortune-telling machine sat quietly in the corner of the antique store collecting dust. Tiny couldn’t help himself as he walked over to it to get a better look.

He was wasting some time before dinner and found the store the perfect place to help him. The old thing reminded him of the one from the movie, ‘Big,’ a childhood favorite of his.

Now Tiny, whose real name was Theodore, was anything but tiny. That was jus’ his nickname from the neighborhood.

He had always been big. In fact, he held a certain amount of pride in the fact that at one time he had been the largest baby ever born in San Diego County.

That prideful fact became shattered one day in middle-school when he asked Betty Jo Johnson to go to the Winter Ball with him. She turned him down flat, calling him fat in the process.

It had never occurred to Tiny that he was fat, so he decided then and there to use his ungainly size to his advantage. He played center all four-years on the varsity football squad, took home trophies and metals in wrestling, and couldn’t be moved once he set himself over home plate in baseball.

And though he never asked another girl out to a dance, he made certain he attended every one. Furthermore, he made certain that all the ‘wallflowers’ hugging the walls had at least one dance throughout the night.

But now, Tiny was approaching 29-years-old and his mind moved from the things that had been to the things he needed to fulfill his life. He had even begun casually dating a young woman from his work place and he hoped the relationship might blossom into something greater.

They were planning to go dancing Tuesday night. It was something he was really looking forwards to doing with Patricia as he had something special in mind.

He fished a nickel from his pant pocket and slipped in the slot. Instantly, the machine banged to life, the puppet head moving back and forth, lights flashing from one side of the glass both to the other, before a voice spoke, “Make a wish, but don’t be frivolous, don’t stammer like a fish, make it marvelous.”

Chuckling at the bad rhyme, Tiny knew in an instant what he would wish for, silly or not, “I wish to weigh-less.”

The wooden frame trembled and vibrated, the puppet’s head turned to-and-fro and the lights flashed in rapid succession before the voice rumble out: Your wish is my command, but be where you stay, because like the sand, you might blow away.”

The machine dinged loudly and small orange card drop from a slot below where Tiny had fed his nickel. On it were the same words, that as Tiny read them, felt that oddly, they were some sort of warning.

He slipped the card in his back pocket, looked at his watch and headed out the door. He stopped at Wendy’s, where he purchased a Triple, with everything, a baked potato – again with everything, two large fries, an extra-large coke and an extra-large Frost, all to go.

Since he didn’t live very far away, Tiny began working on the Frosty, finishing it before he pulled into his parking spot at his apartment complex. Feeling famished, he hurried up the walkway and in his residence.

Three bites of the burger later he felt as if he were too full to take another bite. “Must have been that Frosty that done it,” he said as he put his dinner in the refrigerator anticipating eating it for breakfast.

Being an early riser, Tiny turned in after a few minutes of the national news and slightly before night set in. As usual, he was sound asleep with in minutes of his head hitting his pillow.

“What a wild dream that was,” Tiny smiled as he rolled over to turn off his bedside alarm. That’s when he discovered what he thought to be a dream, was actually a waking nightmare.

He screamed involuntarily as he floated along his ceiling, far above the bed. His mind raced in horrified panic, trying to comprehend what was happening.

It took him a few minutes to calm down and begin to reason out his situation. He saw the orange card on his nightstand and understood instantly that the old machine misunderstood his wish to weigh less as a request to be weightless.

Though the situation remained irrational, he knew he had to find away to get to his cell phone, also on the nightstand. He also knew that there was but one person in the world he could depend on to help him in any situation – Bugg.

It took several attempts, that included putting foot through the drywall, but Tiny managed to force his body to aim in a downward trajectory, where he was able to grab his device, before he quickly shot back up towards the ceiling.

Tiny hit his speed dial and waited for his grade school friend to answer. “Hey, Bugg,” he said trying not to sound to panicked, “I’m in a real situation here at my apartment. No, no, nothing like that. But I do need your help.”

He had no place to put his phone on his person as he’d gone to bed naked. Now he had to figure out how to get some clothes on before Bugg arrived.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that if he were careful and moved with deliberate slowness, he could walk on the ceiling almost as if he were walking on his carpet. This made life a little easier as he was able to reach his dresser and pull on a pair of pajama bottoms.

He learned that he could easily reach the shelf in front of his kitchen sink and that this would be a good place to set his cell phone or anything else he might need while he free floated about his apartment. He thought about the rest of the burger and the cold fries in the fridge and concluded he wasn’t hungry at the moment.

“Later,” he promised himself.

Soon a rapping sound came from his front door. He peeked through the peep-hole, happy to see Bugg’s eye looking back at him through the hole, so he opened the door.

Tiny drifted away from the door as Bugg stood there, mouth agape, speechless. Suddenly the lanky and skinny Bugg shook his head and screeched, “What the…”

“I’ll explain,” Tiny interrupted, “but for now we need to find a way for me to get my feet on the ground.”

“How can I help with that – I don’t know anything about stuff like this,” Bugg complained.

“Neither do I, but I’m learning as I go,” Tiny countered.

It didn’t take very long for the pair to devise a plan, wherein Bugg would pull the lighter-than-air Tiny down to the floor, maneuver his bulk to his recliner, then tying him down. It was only a temporary fix, but it would do for the while.

Minutes later, Bugg offered up the idea of buying a weighed-vest from the local sporting good store. Tiny agreed and asked that he also purchase several ankle weights and a pair of weighted shoes, size eight-and-a-half.

As soon as Bugg left, Tiny, who had Bugg retrieve his phone from the sink shelf tapped the speed dial button for work. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m not doing good this morning so I’m not coming into work today.”

With that out-of-the-way, Tiny had the rest of the day to figure out how to resolve his weightlessness. As he sat, tied to his chair, he grew more and more nervous the longer Bugg was gone.

In less than two-hours, Bugg returned, carrying several heavy boxes. The first thing Tiny wanted to try were the weighted-shoes.

As soon as they were on, he untied the rope holding him to the chair. Much to his surprise, while he floated to an erect position, he didn’t lose contact with the floor and bounce into the ceiling.

That happened as he took his first step in his new shoes. He slammed into the ceiling so hard that he put his head completely through the drywall material.

It was obvious that he would need a bit more weight to maintain his ability to walk across the room. “Let me put a couple of those ankle weights on.”

Tiny’s stability increased and for the first time since waking in this peculiar predicament, he took a step without leaving the floor. He stood there for several seconds unable to decided if he wanted to shout for joy or cry out of happiness.

He spent the rest of the day working on actions that he usually took for granted, using the toilet, bathing and even getting dressed. While the weighted shoes and ankle weights worked to hold him down, they didn’t necessarily make easy getting rudimentary activities completed.

After struggling all day Monday with his weightlessness, he decided to brave it and go to work. Besides, it was Tuesday and he had date with Patricia.

All day long Tiny carried on as if things were normal with him. He did everything he could to maintain his routine and since he felt lighter-than-air he discovered he had gotten more work done than ever before.

Patricia and he sat outside at a nearby picnic table and ate lunch together, talking and laughing. “I haven’t been dancing in a long time,” she told him.

After work, Tiny raced home to begin the process of getting ready for that night’s date. Though somewhat nervous, he managed to get washed and dressed in record time and even had time to relax for an hour before he was to pick up Patricia.

It was a wonderful evening. Tiny had danced better than he’d ever danced in his life, with the evening being made better by the fact he was doing so with the woman he loved.

All to soon the night ended, and at midnight he pulled his car to the side of the curb in front of her home. And like a gentleman he walked her to the door to see her in safely.

However this time he had a surprise as they stood facing one another on her porch steps. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small box, before getting down on one knee.

Patricia immediately began crying. At first Tiny thought they were tears of happiness, but soon he realized they were tears of anguish.

Though he’d not asked her to marry him yet, Patricia said, “You’re a sweet guy and all that, but I’m jus’ not ready to be married to one man for the rest of my life.”

“Oh,” Tiny said, trying to sound brave, “I understand.” He really didn’t understand and his bravery only extended so far.

He kissed her gently on the cheek and stood by as she walked through her front door. With a sigh, he placed the small box on the ‘Welcome’ mat for her to find in the morning.

After all it held an item that he didn’t really have any use for and besides Tiny concluded, “I bought it for her.”

Hands stuffed in his pants pockets, Tiny wandered down the narrow walk way to his car. By then tears had begun slipping down his cheeks and he found himself desiring to be alone in an isolated place.

Tiny drove to the edge of town, to an open field where he could look up at the millions of stars and dream. But this early morning he didn’t want to dream, he wanted to fix his shattered heart.

Unable to sit or to lie down, Tiny stood motionless, staring up at the Milky Way, hot tears rolling down his face. He looked down at the toes of his weighted shoes as they protruded from under his pant cuffs.

He knelt and undid the ankle weights, followed by the shoes, and slipped them off. Quietly and quickly Tiny rose from the ground, disappearing into the vastness of the darkened sky.

The noise came from beneath her bed. Fearing a monster, Alice grabs her teddy bear, willing it to keep her safe.

“Mommy! ” Alice cries, but her mother doesn’t respond. She squeezes the teddy bear tighter.

Then Alice hears footsteps coming to her door. The noises from under the bed suddenly grow quiet as her mother’s drunk boyfriend enters the room.

As he approaches Alice, two large hairy hands with ragged claws, reach out, grabbing him by the ankles. Screaming, the boyfriend’s dragged beneath the bed.

Soon, from under Alice’s bed, a soft voice whispers, “You’re safe from the monster, now.”

“Are you crazy?” Mary Sargent’s daughter pleaded, “Don’t get in the car with him!”

That was February 12, 1987 – the last time anyone would see her again. Within hours she’d be reported missing as the man driving the car, with whom Mary had an abusive relationship, would return to the Reno-Sparks Indian Colony (RSIC) alone.

This same man would reportedly borrow a garden hose from his neighbor and as that neighbor watched, he would rinse out the interior of his car. Information like this led nowhere and eventually the same man would be shot to death by a RSIC police officer after he violently attacked the officer.

Mary Sargent’s story though isn’t a singular one.

In 2016, North Dakota alone had 125 cases of missing women reported to the National Crime Information Center. This statistic and others like it are known to be under-reported and may range into the many thousands.

Of these 125 reported cases, most can be connected to the oil fields. These same U.S. oil fields are generally protected by private security firms, who operate under the watchful eye of the Department of Homeland Security.

Unfortunately, few have been fully investigated with reason’s being ‘lack of funding,’ ‘under-staffing,’ ‘no evidence of foul-play,’ or ‘no body, no crime.’ The majority of women who vanish and whose remains are found, are so highly desiccated and victims of deprivation, that no identifications can be made of the person and they are then buried as ‘Jane Doe’ followed by a serial number.

In Canada, the problem is far worse, with estimates ranging from 1,000 to nearly 4,000 Indigenous women having gone missing or murdered. And again, the numbers are very low due to under-reported cases as Canada does not maintain a database for missing people, which makes it difficult to figure out the rate at which Indigenous women go missing and found murdered, or to even compare information between populations.

Although Indigenous women and girls make up only four-percent of the female population in Canada, they represented 16-percent of all female homicides in Canada between 1980 and 2012. A 2007 study by the province of Saskatchewan – the only one to have systematically reviewed its missing persons files for cases involving Indigenous women – these women were found to make up six-percent of the population, but 60-percent of their missing and murdered women cases.

As for Mary – few to no records exist, as her disappearance was and continues to be considered a ‘very low priority.’ According to Mary’s family, Bureau of Indian Affairs investigators told them two things at the time: ‘she’s an adult and because of her life-style she can disappear if she wants,’ and ‘she’s one less Indian we have to worry about.’

The last time anybody saw Mary, she was wearing a white cotton blouse with ruffles on the shoulders, Levi 501 blue jeans and a pair of light blue and white Reebok tennis shoes. Sadly, that’s pretty much all the information the one official report holds; not her height, weight, age, distinguishing features or even a photograph.

Lastly, where ever she lays, for over three-decades, Mary has had no one to sing her funeral song. It’s time to change this.

It was a conversation I wasn’t supposed to overhear, but the man doing the talking and laughing was loud and not paying very much attention to his surroundings as he spoke to the few camp-followers he had in tow. It happened during the invocation on Sunday, the final day of the Numaga 2018 Pow Wow.

We were seated in the media-only section and had I been working as a reporter, I would quizzed Nevada Gubernatorial candidate Steve Sisolak on some of his platform positions. But I was there as a guest of the Hungry Valley Indian Reservation as an event photographer – meaning the Pow Wow participants were my main focus.

“Yeah, of course he wouldn’t be here,” Sisolak scoffed, “he only hangs out with the rich.”

He laughed, as did his four-person entourage. He was talking about his primary competitor, Adam Laxalt.

This happened during the invocation, where much of the crowd was silent and reverent. Furthermore, someone said this is a long prayer, to which Sisolak stated, “She’s long winded when she’s invited to speak at the legislature, too.”

Unable to hear the because of the ongoing interruption, he had to be ‘shushed’ twice, including once by me. Very little was said after that and the candidate and his group left the event shortly afterwards.

A few minutes later, I was introduced to Wes Duncan, who is running for Attorney General of Nevada. He was talking with a small group of people and we were discussing his opponents recent bad press.

Aaron Ford was arrested four times in Texas in the 1990s for public intoxication, stealing tires and twice for failing to appear in court. He also fell behind or ignored paying over $185-thousand dollar to the IRS between 2010 and 2014.

“I don’t hold what happened in the 90’s against him, but the unpaid taxes…” Duncan derided Ford.

“Personally, what happened in the 90’s goes towards character — which is important,” I interrupted, “but I can forgive the guy about not paying his taxes on time – after all, taxation’s theft since they’re not using that money the way the U.S. Constitution says it should be used.”

“Well,” changing the subject ever so slightly, Duncan replied, “taxes pay for services and salaries.”

Though he didn’t know it, he made my point for me about the unconstitutional misuse of our taxes, so nothing more could be said. Eventually, he and his aide-de-camp left the Pow Wow, for parts unknown.

At first, the sudden appearance of the goddess Bastet frightened the retired Professor of Egyptology. Her lithe body and cat-like head were beyond anything he’d seen in the natural world.

The old man knew Bastet to be a guide and helper to the dead, therefore he was certain that death was upon him. So he quietly set aside his tea and book, closed his eyes and announced, “I’m ready.”

However, nothing happened. After waiting a few seconds more, he opened his eyes and saw that the goddess had become distracted, having curled herself into an open and empty cardboard box.

We were practically side-by-side all the way into town on Pyramid Highway. The newer Subaru was slightly ahead and that’s how I came to seeing the nine-year-old boy in the back seat on the passenger side of the car.

Try as I might, I did my best not to look over at him, because every time he did, he’d stick his tongue out at me or mouth what appeared to be an obscenity. Fortunately, his mother, the car’s driver, was aware that her child was misbehaving as every time she spoke his head and eyes would snap forward.

Each time he suddenly grew ‘innocent’ was but a temporary respite as his mother’s attention would eventually return to the road and away from him. Then it got worse — he rolled down his window.

As we began to slow for the red-light at Disc Drive, the child stuck his right pointer finger up his left nostril and withdrew a long, yellow-green booger. He then flicked it out the window and onto my truck.

His mother, ever observant of his poor behavior, turned and began thrashing the boy with what looked to be a lone beach sandal. I could hear her screaming at him and he crying as the light turned green and I continued with the flow of traffic.

Looking back in my rearview mirror, I saw, some ten or eleven car lengths behind, that the kid was still catching hell from mom, who, sick of his bad behavior, was still stopped at the light, blocking traffic. I know it’s bad form, but I laughed maniacally at the sight of his being beaten, while I drove to the nearby car wash on McCarran Blvd. to clean his nastiness from my truck.

“What the eff is that?” I mumble to myself as I continue to trudge up the game trail. I can’t help but scout around to see if there’s anybody – or perhaps, simply a body, dead — anywhere about.

Thankfully, there isn’t. And I can’t help wonder aloud, “How in the hell do you lose something like this out in the middle of nowhere?”

Puzzled, I scan the horizon in all directions back to where I’m standing. There’s absolutely nothing out in the vastness of this shadow-cast landscape, besides a few wild Mustang and a couple of Pronghorn Antelope, that says ‘man has been here.’

My mind quickly recalls the scene of the empty coke bottle, found by the hunter, after being tossed from an airplane in the 1980 movie, “The Gods Must Be Crazy,” as I look towards the wide-open blue sky above me. “Candid Camera,” also flashes into my thoughts, yet I doubt anyone would go to such extreme lengths to try a capture a person’s reaction to such a sight some 40 miles from civilization.

Besides, the desert’s too damned hot this time of year to spend a bunch of time and money hoping someone will traipse up a singular trail, one that looks and feels like so many others in the nearby canyons. So, after picking it up (its heavier than it looks) and reviewing it for any identification, I head back the half-mile or so to my truck, parked at the trail-head, with the awful knowledge that I’m going to have to explain how and where it was found, to people who are by nature, skeptical of such odd discoveries.

“Damn it,” I complain, “I never seem to find anything good — it’s always weird shit like this prosthetic leg.

 

Sleep never came easily to Manny. To combat it, he could often be found taking lonely walks at all hours of the night or morning.

Oddly, one of the more comforting places he would visit in the dark was the century-and-a-half old Hebrew Cemetery, nearby on Angel Street above the University of Nevada, Reno. There was something about the place that calmed his soul.

Other times, he could be seen wandering the sidewalks of Virginia Street. Where and when he walked, he let his body decide, allowing his mind the pleasure of following along.

One late evening as he slipped quietly between the headstones of the cemetery,  a large, ungainly figure accosted him. Without a word of warning, he picked the smaller man up and tossed him, as one would a rag-doll over the wrought-iron fencing, before disappearing into the shadows.

Shaken, but uninjured, Manny quickly got to his feet and rushed around the outside of the cemetery and re-entered, intent on challenging whoever it was that had manhandled him. Angry, he shouted, “Come and face me fairly, you cowardly son-of-a-bitch!”

A long shadow cast itself over the headstones and came to rest at Manny’s feet. He followed it with his eyes, until he saw the man-shaped thing standing slightly outside the light of the overhead street lamp.

Frightened, Manny backed out of the cemetery and retreated to his apartment hoping for safety. Over the next two nights, he refused to go out after dark and often saw the large thing, looming in the darkened distance, watching him, waiting.

After some Internet research, Manny realized what he’d encountered and now he had to devise a way to defeat it. That morning, he rushed to the grocery store and purchased two large, red apples.

Come the evening of that third night, Manny acted on his knowledge; he slipped out his bedroom window and down to the street. He knew of a vacant building being renovated on South Virginia, where a face-off could take place.

It was an elderly building, built during the early years of Reno, once used as a car dealership for the Dodge Brothers. Long abandoned, it was soon to become a restaurant and anchor location for the up-and-coming Midtown district of the ‘Biggest Little City.’

Manny applied pressure to the backdoor of the building, pushing it in to make entry. There, he found a cardboard box and set it on end, placing the two apples on it.

He waited for darkness to fall, knowing the man-thing would eventually track him down. It wasn’t a long wait.

Though very large and heavy, the figure moved both quietly and quickly through the doorway and stood before Manny, his upturned box and the apples. “Because this building has the sign of the Hebrew on it, it will not stop me,” it whispered in a gravelly voice.

Surprised, Manny said, “I had know idea you could speak. And the sign is only symbolic.”

“There is much I can do, that you would not know about,” the man replied.

“So why are you following me?”

“You have trespassed where you are not wanted.”

“I’ve walked around that cemetery many times, so why now?”

“I do not care for ‘why,’ only that I obey my master. You must obey, too.”

“Whose’s your master?”

“He is dead. I can no longer speak his name. I do his bidding.”

“Maybe you can explain this as we share some these apples I brought as a peace-offering.”

“I will gladly eat, but it will bring no peace.”

“And why’s that?”

“It has been so directed and I must obey.”

“What must you do.”

“Put trespassers to death.”

“Very well, but first, eat.”

Manny could feel the fear pulsing through his entire body as he handed one of the apples to the man-thing. Next, he picked up the remaining apple and took a bite of it, encouraging the other to do the same.

To his astonishment, the man-thing placed the entire fruit in his mouth and swallowed. Meanwhile, Manny quietly chewed his bite.

“You have tricked me!” the figured growled a second before crumbling to dust.

Amid the dust was the uneaten apple. On one side of it, the Hebrew letters, aleph, mem and tav were neatly carved, with a slash struck through the letter ‘aleph.’

As Manny swept up the remains, taking it to the dumpster outside, he reviewed his findings: the three letters together mean ‘truth,’ but without ‘aleph,’ the word became ‘death.’  And while he knew some Golem could speak, he could find nothing in the Torah or other related manuscripts that showed the mud figure was overly intelligent.

As Manny walked towards home, he concluded that nearby or not, he’d have to find another place to frequent besides his favorite cemetery. “Too dangerous.”

When he first entered the opening, Aaron surely knew which way was up. He also had a certainty that he could find his way back, especially after he located the stairwell leading downward.

Somehow though, between the heaviness of the air and the extreme darkness, Aaron realized he was confused. He stopped, trying to gather his senses, and to make a decision: continue down or head upward.

Finally, decision made, Aaron turned back the way he had come, and yet he felt he was still going deeper into the hole. “This is what becomes of chasing white rabbits,” he complained.

 

The clever Herr Johann Duerr had the art of the sale down to a science; wait a day after the latest attack and show up in town with the remedy. In this case, Vampire Killing Kits.

Not only did his kit come with Holy Water, a Bible, a large crucifix and smaller rosary bead set, it included a thick pre-sharpened wooden stake, and cloves of Eastern European garlic, with seeds for starting one’s own garlic patch on the kitchen window sill.  It was also portable, making it even more desirable to a potential buyer.

“Das trick ist to arrive at der highest point ov fear, und offer ein solution,” he once told a fellow door-to-door salesman, who specialized in Fuller Brushes. “In dis line ov verk, das must find ein gimmick to help sell das goots, ja?”

From town to town he moved, seeming to know where the next ‘gruesome and unholy’ death would take place. Then Herr Duerr would go about the neighborhood and ply his trade with ease.

Then came the Internet — and then came the change in sales tactics. Gone were the day’s of Herr Duerr’s knocking door-to-door; now all he needed do was take world-wide sales request’s from vampire enthusiasts and email fear-filled household’s with targeted campaigns featuring pictures, descriptions and the prices of his line of six ‘life saving’ kits, which all came with a 90-day satisfaction ‘or your money back’ guarantee.

“Tank you, Mister Bram for das help,” he’d often snicker as he counted the day’s receipts, which included names and addresses. “You haff created a myth das ist so untrue das ist laughable und zoon ein vill prove miene point.”

He knew that the fear of another attack, a young woman, dead, drained of her life-essence, would add to the value of his personalized Vampire Killing Kit. This, and the fact that he was also the cause of these fears, meant that the clever Herr Johann Duerr – a vampire by night and intrepid Internet entrepreneur by day – never once failed to meet his personal quota in over 120-years.