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“Turn off the light,” I demanded as I covered my face.

We had been asleep, or at least I had been, but now my brother Adam had turned on the overhead light. I demanded he turn the light off again.

When he didn’t, I removed the pillow from my face. I was frightened by what I saw — it wasn’t Adam playing with the lights — it was a tall man dressed in a skin-tight, shiny body suit.

I quickly looked over the edge my bed to Adam in the bunk below — he was still sound asleep.

“Don’t be afraid,” the man spoke.

I was too frightened to say anything so I jus’ laid there with my covers bunched up under my chin for protection.

“I’ve come to tell you that you are being misled by science and popular culture,” the man said, “And in years to come, the information you hear will be even more misleading than now.”

Slowly, I lowered the covers and raised up on my elbow to look at the man more directly. Somehow I had the feeling I need not be afraid of him because as I reasoned, had he wanted to hurt me or my brother, it would have already happened.

“What?” I asked as I tried to shake the sleep from my brain.

“You are being misled,” he repeated.

I wrinkled my forehead as I asked, “About what?”

“There is a battle occurring in the heavens and you among thousands have been witness to this battle,” he continued.

“I’ve seen this battle?” I asked.

He smiled kindly and answered, “Yes, as you’ve laid in the field and looked into the night sky.”

“Huh,” I questioned, “Are you talking about us watching the UFO’s the other night?

“Yes, Tommy,” he said, “I am.”

I was startled by the fact that he knew my name and I sat up fully in bed.

“How do you know my name?” I asked in a panicked voice.

“I know much about you and your brother,” he responded.

Fully awake now and feeling the rush of adrenaline, I asked in a demanding tone, “How’d you get the house?”

“I appeared,” he answered, then added, “I am an Angel of the Lord.”

“That’s it,” I said, “I’m getting Dad!”

As I made my threat, there was sudden burst of light. I jumped back from it and covered my eyes.

When I finally looked at the man, he had grown taller than I remembered and behind him were wings, finer than an eagles, that spread from one side of the room to the other. I laid still against the wall, next to my mattress, transfixed by the sight of this human-looking creature and his shimmering wing span.

“What’s your name?” I asked in a half-whisper.

“It is a name you cannot pronounce,” he answered.

I felt my head nod up and down, accepting on face value what he told me.

“I’m here to tell you that the lights you’ve been watching are not UFO’s or alien spacecraft,” he started, “They are Heavenly host and fallen ones doing battle as we have been doing since the start of what you know as time.”

“Are you saying angels and devils?” I asked.

“Yes, to put it simply,” he answered, “I have been instructed to tell you that in times to come, you’ll see the coming of UFOs and aliens. They’ll bring with them what they call technology and science. It will offer amazing opportunities for the human race.”

“Technology and science,” I repeated.

“Yes,” he said, “For instance Tommy, in the bible’s book of Revelations it reads: “Man will seek death and not find it.”

“I don’t get it,” I responded.

“One day, aliens will offer longevity among other things,” he explained, “That longevity will come with a terrible price, costing the man who accepts it his soul.”

“How?” I asked.

“You have heard of the mark of the Beast, no doubt,” he responded.

“666,” I said.

“Yes,” he nodded, “One day aliens will offer a piece of technology that will give the man who accepts it a life span as long as Noah’s life.”

“This’ll come from the Beast?” I asked

“It will,” he said, “Think about the story of Adam and Eve and how Eve was tempted by a serpent. That serpent is still here and I am part of an army sent to do battle with him.”

Puzzled by this I asked, “You mean to tell me, humans are going to become advanced after being visited by snakes?”

“No,” the visitor answered calmly, “You will be tricked into believing they are here to help, to bring peace, but in the end they’ll bring misery and destruction.”

“How will I know this is happening, when it does?” I continued to ask.

“Soon, you’ll be able to watch television shows and hear radio programs telling how man came from an ancient race of aliens, who travelled the heavens creating beings much like themselves,” he added.

“We already have stuff like that,” I said.

“Yes, I know,” he countered, “However what I speak of is far more than the science-fiction shows you’ve seen. The information you’ll be given will be presented as the truth and many will believe, which will lead to the loss of their soul.”

“What do you want me to do?” I finally asked, adding, “I mean I’m jus’ a 12-year-old kid.”

“Use you’re God-given talents — write about our meeting one another and share it,” he instructed.

“Yeah, you’re kidding me, right?” I shot back, “Everyone thinks I’m a weirdo already and if anyone were to learn I had this conversation with you, they’d confine me to a nut-house.”

“Tommy,” he started, “What is worse? The loss of your and other people’s soul, or confinement and hardship?”

I knew the answer, but said nothing.

“Please, heed my words, they come directly from God!” he said.

As he spoke, the light surrounding his body and wings grew into a brightness, until I could no longer bear to look at him and had to hold my pillow tight over my face. Suddenly the brightness was gone and I dropped my pillow down to find myself engulf in the darkness of my room.

Rolling over, I looked at where Adam lay, still sound asleep, and concluded I had been dreaming. However as I rolled back, I thought how real it all seemed and wondered why I was wide awake.

Unable to return to sleep, I slid out of bed and found my Red Chief tablet, a pencil and a flashlight, and returned to bed. I decided to write down what had happened and the conversation with the winged-man as he had instructed.

Once finished, I tucked the tablet, pen and light under my pillow and slipped off into a dreamless sleep. I’m glad I did write it down, because by the time the sun rose, I had forgotten most of what I had dreamed.

Adam and I were sitting at the breakfast table, eating, when he asked, “Why did you have the bedroom light on, last night?”

I nearly choked on my Cheerios.

“I didn’t have the lights on –in fact,” I replied, “I thought it was you.

“Nope,” he comment, shaking his head sideways, “Wasn’t me.”

That’s when I recalled the tablet under my pillow. I quickly retrieved it after breakfast and retreated to the bathroom, where I could lock the door and read what I had written.

My body shuttered and my skin developed goose-bumps as I poured over the words. I immediately took the pages and hid them inside the foot-locker Dad had given a year before.

From that point on, every time I look into the nighttime heavens I remember what I have concluded was a very detailed dream. In the meantime, I continue to watch and to wait.

Christmas morning went fine for the family. However the telephone rang jus’ a few minutes after noon causing Dad and I to race out the door, towards the Yurok Volunteer Fire Department.

We were soon en route to an emergency in the Klamath Glen. Once Dad told me what sort of emergency we had, I quickly moved my stethoscope and blood pressure cuff from a side pocket on my first-out bag to the top of the bag.

Inside the home, I quickly located the victim. I could tell right away that there was very little anyone could do for the man, but I proceeded to make a cursory check anyway.

The man, in his late-70s or perhaps early-80s, had passed away quietly in his sleep. I gently pulled the blankets up around him, without covering his face and went outside to await the arrival of the county coroner, while Dad remained inside with the man’s wife and a neighbor couple.

Needless to say, the remainder of that Christmas day was rather subdued for me and Dad.

It was a practical joke that went very wrong. I was dared into “streaking” through the Del Norte County Sheriff’s Office by certain individuals who shall remain nameless.

Never in my life did I think I’d nearly get caught as I pulled on the ski mask, dropped my britches, removed my shirt, jumped from the bed of the truck and ran through the front door. I sprinted by the front desk heading to my left, only to discover it was a dead-end and not the hallway I was told it was.

Before I knew it, five or six deputies — including family friend Joel Barneburg — were hopping the counter and chasing me. Somehow I managed to break free of “the long arm of the law” and make it outside.

By this time I was feeling a little more than panicked as I raced along 5th Street, towards Taylor Street and Pebble Beach Drive. All the while I had all those deputies chasing after me.

It was either B Street or A Street, I cannot recall which, that I turned southbound. I finally ran behind a home and dove into a thicket.

Since it was dark, I was certain the deputies hadn’t seen me duck behind the building. I was right, although I could hear them as they talked between one another while searching for me.

For jus’ over an hour, I laid in that thicket, half afraid to move. My fear wasn’t over getting busted by the cops though, rather it was due to the fact that I was hiding in bunch of blackberry bushes.

After spending a couple of months living in Las Vegas, I decided to head north. I pulled my VW Bug into the parking lot of the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino and went inside.

In my pocket was around $800 and it was burning a hole. I decided to sit down and play a few dollars in a slot machine.

At first it paid out, adding $250 to my wad of cash. But like so many others who come to the gaming mecca’s of Nevada, my luck quickly stalled and I started losing.

However, I reasoned that my luck could return jus’ as quickly as it had left. This is where the casinos have it over their guests.

Within an hour I was down to a few bucks in my wallet. I realized that then I had jus’ blown all the money I’d saved to rent a place, buy gas and food and search for a job.

Disappointed in myself, I got up and walked across the casino to the restrooms where I washed my face with cold water and tried to rethink my situation. I knew standing there, staring at myself in the mirror, wasn’t going to make the situation better.

As I started towards the doors, I had to pass by the slot machine that turned into a one-armed bandit. There was an elderly woman sitting in the spot I had most recently occupied.

Without warning, I heard a scream, followed by flashing lights, bells and alarms. I turned back to see what was going on.

The elderly woman had jus’ hit the jackpot. It wasn’t jus’ “a jackpot,” it was “the jackpot.”

Not only did she win $86,000 in cash, she won the brand-new and very shiny Porsche Targa 911-Turbo on display in the center of the slot machine bank.

That night, I walked out of the MGM Grand having learned two things: God never meant for me to gamble and there is no such thing as luck. I lived for two-weeks in my VW Bug as a result of this lesson.

Legend has it Ernest Hemingway was asked to write his autobiography in six words. Ever the king of brevity, he penned, “For Sale: baby shoes, never used”.

On the surface, these six words make for a catchy tale, beneath the surface though, they display a sadness that Hemingway was unable to fully express.

Being bi-polar or manic-depressive as it was once known, gives me a slight insight to Hemingway. It also helps me understand to a small extent his final resolution in dealing with his personal demon.

This is the third and final installment of my failed attempt to enter a Hemingway writing contest, sponsored by Harry’s Bar and American Grill, in Century City. While I like this story the most, I had to really stretch things in order to get Harry’s name written into it as the rules required.

The explosion shook the entire ship and all aboard it. Immediately following the ear deafening bang, flames shot into the nighttime darkness.

The blaze roared through the ship engulfing everything in its way. Passengers, who were sleeping, now ran about the decks in a mass panic, each concerned with nothing more than their lives or the life of a loved one.

The bow was slowly slipping into the black ocean water, with the aft of the vessel soon to follow. Those who hadn’t got into a life raft, didn’t stand on the disappearing decks, feeling sorry. They had decided to take their chances with the unknown sea and like lemurs, tumbled into the water.

As for Gerald Rabner, the same was true. His cabin was near the back of the ship and he hadn’t felt the rumble until seconds after it occurred. By the time he shook the sleepy cobwebs from his head, the decks were crowded with people fleeing the quickly dying ship.

He turned back and grabbed his trousers off the floor where they lay. Back to the hallway and towards the deck he ran as fast as he could.

 He stopped and looked over the railing as he pulled his trousers over his legs.

In the water he could see dozens of horrible stories drawing to a conclusion.

 He looked over his shoulder, thinking he’d rather take his chances with the flames. One deep breath of smoke would send him into unconsciousness and he’d never know what happened after that.

Then the flames licked at his face. The full beard he once sported was now gone, having been singed.

Over the side of the vessel and into the water he flung himself.

For only a moment, which seemed like hours, he struggled to get back to air. And as his head broke the water’s surface, the ship was gone as were the voices of the many that had been splashing about him.

Only a single crate was visible in the immense darkness, and Rabner swam to it as fast as he could. As he clung to the crate, he could see more debris floating beyond it.

Among that debris was the outline of a lifeboat. Now Rabner found himself swimming for that.

When he reached it, he pulled himself aboard the wooden craft. Once safely inside he found he wasn’t alone.

Lying in the bottom of the boat was Jack Russell terrier. And like Rabner, it too was cold, wet and scared. The dog quickly greeted him with a wagging tail and barking.

Yet the crate was on Rabner’s mind at the moment and with great speed he moved to recover it. And as he did so, he saw the word, “supply,” stenciled to the box, causing his heart to race with anticipation.

Once the box was in the lifeboat, he wasted no time in opening it. Once opened, Rabner laughed out loud.

He looked at the dog sitting next to him and said, “You’ll eat well, my little one.”

For days the tiny boat drifted about the ocean. And Gerald Rabner slowly faded with each passing day, often dreaming about evenings spent at Harry’s Bar and American Grill.

On the twelfth day a passing cargo ship spotted the little craft. And the captain ordered it brought along side the ship.

As the captain looked down from the high deck into the little boat, he could see Gerald Rabner was dead. However the Jack Russell terrier was still alive and was greeting the sailor’s recovering the lifeboat with a wagging tail and more barking.

They hauled the expired man’s boat onto the ship’s deck as the captain ordered. It was met by both the ship’s doctor and chaplain.

“The man died of starvation,” the doctor reported to the captain.

 The captain looked puzzled, “He had food, didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir,” the doctor answered.

“Then why did he starve to death?” the captain queried.

The chaplain interrupted, “He was a Jew, Captain.”

“So?” the captain countered.

“All he had aboard were tins of pork,” the chaplain answered, “And most Jews don’t eat pig as a matter of faith.”

“I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of shit,” Ernest Hemingway confided to F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1934. “I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.”

Good advice for anyone – even those not given to writing.

This is part two of three submissions I wrote for a Hemingway contest, sponsored by Harry’s Bar and American Grill in Century City, California. I didn’t send them in as I felt they were less than what was called for using Hemingway’s standard.

It was slow at Harry’s Bar and American Grill as usual on a Tuesday night. The bar was especially slow as the two bartenders watched television and re-wiped the clean glasses.

The older of the two saw me as I entered the bar and immediately asked, “What’ll it be?”

 “Jus’ a draft, thanks,” I answered.

As he went about getting my beer, I sat down on the stool nearest the T.V. He returned with a mug and exchanged it for the money in my hand.

I had been sitting there for a while when he spoke to me.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked in a gruff voice.

“Nothing,” I replied.

He shrugged and walked away.  As he did I looked at him for the first time.

His ruddy complected face sported a crooked nose and jutting jaw. For his years, he was large with huge hands and broad shoulders.

 When he walked away I asked him, “Why’d you become a bartender?”

 He looked at me startled, “I could still be a cop – I was sergeant once, but I wasn’t happy.”

 He poured himself a shot something from behind the bar and quickly downed it.

“Why weren’t you happy?” I asked.

“I wasn’t living,” he answered.

I stared at him with a puzzled look.

“In anything you do, son,” he started, “You gotta live life.”

“And being a bartender is life?” I asked.

“No,” he returned, as he poured himself another drink, “this is life.”

 He gazed thoughtfully at the glass for a moment, and then looked back at me, smiling as he said, “Being a bartender is a living.”

I smiled back and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

This very short story is one of three written as an attempt to win an Ernest Hemingway contest put on by Harry’s Bar and American Grill, in Century City, California. Part of the rules included using the restaurants name in the story somehow.  I never submitted any of the stories as I believe them to be more in the genre of O. Henry than E. Hemingway.

“Stand back folks,” the man in the tuxedo with the microphone said, “Here’s our one-millionth customer!”

As he said that, a man walked through the automatic doors, carrying a small box. At the same time the camera in the background came on as did the lights.

The tuxedoed man with the microphone moved forward with an extended hand and said, “Congratulations, sir! You’re our one-millionth customer!”

“I am?” the man asked in astonishment.

“Yes, sir, you’re our one millionth customer,” the tuxedoed man started, “And we have a wonderful prize for you!”

Still in shock, the one-millionth customer replied questioningly, “You do?”

“Yes, sir,” the man win the tuxedo with the microphone answered, “You’ve won dinner for two to Harry’s Bar and American Grill!”

As he finished, he handed the one-millionth customer an envelope.

“I’m…” the one-millionth customer started, “I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” the man with the microphone and tuxedo said, adding, “What brings you to our store today?

“Well,” the one-millionth customer answered, “I was jus’ planning on returning this.”

As he said it, he lifted the small box slightly.

“You’re what?!” the tuxedoed man with the microphone exclaimed.

He quickly grabbed the envelope back from the man and pushed him aside, announcing, “Stand back folks, here comes our one-millionth customer!”

Mom had jus’ passed away and there was a lot to do in the way of taking care of her remains and her personal effects, including her entire household. I was already exhausted and I found the ordeal of dealing with my siblings emotional dysfunction even more taxing.

So after all was done, I retreated to Mom’s home and laid on her bed and cried myself to sleep. After an hour-long nap I got up and started poking around her home.

There were a number of items I recalled as a kid and some of them I had often coveted as an adult. But somehow they no longer held the importance they once had since Mom’s death the night before.

So I left them to be parsed out between my brother and two sisters as I didn’t want to bother with the fight. Besides I already knew Mom had left me four things: a panoramic plate she and Dad purchased in Switzerland before I was born, a porcelain holy water fount, the families’ Catholic bible and a Lucky Lager churchkey.

For the uninitiated, a churchkey is a manual bottle or can opener. Sardine tins and condensed milk cans are about the only thing a manual can opener is used for nowadays, while there is still a need for the bottle opener as many imported beers require one.

In 1935, beer cans with flat tops were marketed, and a device to puncture the lids was needed. This new invention gave birth to another invention: the manual can opener or churchkey.

It was created by D.F. Sampson for the American Can Company. The company issued operating instructions on the cans themselves and even gave away free openers with their cans.

As for the term “church key,” sources vary on its origin, but it’s obvious there’s a bit of irony in the naming of the device.  Some have claimed the “churchkey” was so named as a way to rub the repealing of the Eighteenth Amendment in the noses of the various religious organizations who had helped bring Prohibition to the U.S. in the first place.

Whatever the case, this particular churchkey had been around for as long as I could remember and something I often got in trouble for playing with as child. In recent years I had come to wonder why she kept it as she had stopped drinking years before her death.

I have since realized her saving it and willing it to me, was all part of Mom’s quirky sense of humor — and it’s about all I have left of her now.

As a Route Operator for CitiLift, the Regional Transportation Commission’s para-transit system, I spent six to eight hours on the area roadways. This length of time caused me, like many who drove for CitiLift, to find restrooms where ever they were available.

For me, one of those places was at the American Red Cross building on Corporate Blvd. I had the advantage of being a CPR and first aid instructor for the Red Cross and knew all the people who worked in the building.

As a rule I wore heavy, leather gloves on a daily basis, to protect my fingers from the crimps we used to secure wheelchair passengers inside the vehicle. One day I pulled in and parked, leaving my gloves wrapped on the steering wheel as if I were still holding onto it.

They reminded me a photograph I had seen of a jack hammer left upright with a pair of work gloves still gripping the handle. I left them like that and went inside to take care of business.

When I came out of the restroom, I was stopped by my supervisor, Health and Safety Director Christine Price. She had a puzzled look on her face.

“What’s up?” I asked.

She smiled and answered, “We jus’ had a person come in and say they thought something was wrong because your gloves were still gripping your van’s steering wheel.”

I chuckled as she added, “So I had to go out and look.”

Needless to say, I never left my gloves like that again.

One of the most difficult assignments is the writing of a “Notice of Death.” And what makes this one even harder is it’s being written nearly a decade to late.

Five years ago, while working for the Sparks Tribune, I started to write this article, but it was tabled for a current and active news story. Now, after such a long delay I could simply run down a list of achievements and career highlights, but that wouldn’t enough as there are often deeper strands that need securing when it comes to death.

It’s a delicate balancing act — to touch the memory of a person without making them sound like a footnote at the end of a chapter. But the brief life of U.S. Army Lt. Col. Karen Wagner needs to be told in respect to the history of Nevada.

Lt. Col. Wagner was killed when American Flight 77 became a jet-fuel laden missile that slammed into the Pentagon on the morning of September 11, 2001. While she was raised in San Antonio, Texas, she was a 1984 graduate of the University of Nevada-Las Vegas where she excelled on the basketball court and in the university’s ROTC program.

It was as a student-athlete at UNLV that she decided on a career path in the military and in medicine. She had been in the U.S. Army for 21 years before her death at the age of 40.

And it’s because of this seemingly tenuous connection, Lt. Col. Karen Wagner will always be Nevadan, one of the first lost in the Global War on Terror. It is after all, no coincidence that Nevada’s state flag bears the phrase “Battleborn.”