A Tearful Death

The Visitor
Oct 19, 2006

He was waiting for her when she got home.

He sat in the dark, on time, merely counting the minutes until she would return. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the blackness of the room, and the only sound was that of the ticking clock, counting by the seconds and minutes until she would return.

And suddenly, the front door opened, letting light spill into the room, chasing away the shadows. He rose as she entered.

For a few minutes they stood and watched each other. She seemed shocked, but then again, most people were, even though they saw him coming.

After a while, she spoke.

"I've expected you for a while," she commented in a weak but conversational tone of voice, as if she were talking about the weather.

"I know." he replied.

"You look more... weary than I expected. Not at all like I thought you would."

"Appearances are misleading. The occupation isn't the most rewarding in the world." He motioned to a maple dining chair. "Would you like to take a seat, before we end this?"

"Thank you. But if you don't mind, I'd like to have a cup of warm tea first, then lie back in my bed while you do... your business." She shuffled slowly to the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"

"Oh no, thank you very much," he replied, "but I can only stay for so long."

"I understand." She placed her warm drink on the bedside table. Rubbing her thighs with her hands, she turned away from him. "It's a very cold night tonight."

"Yes, I know. I brought the car along instead of the horse."

"Is that a joke? I didn't know this was so funny," she said, but there was a deep resignation in her eyes, and a glint of humor about the situation.

"Well, life is what we make of it, is it not? Humor can be seen in anything, and in my... line of work, humor is a necessary function- we armor ourselves with it, to prevent despair."

"I suppose it is. I'm just glad this is turning out to be so easy. I was actually quite nervous, but now that you're here, I don't really mind at all. I suppose there's no turning back now either."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, the ticking of the clock matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. Counting down the seconds, like a cruel Fortune, a despairing Fate.

"Do you have any questions before I do what I have to?" He moved from the shadows, took a seat in the chair opposite the bed, looking at her with his hands clasped.

"I... I do have one question..." She looked up at him with her eyes suddenly full of glistening tears.

"Yes?"

"Was it the drugs? Or just age? Or perhaps something else?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not the right person to tell you that. I'm here to do my business, and I'm passing through, just like everyone else."

She sat for a long while, without words, or movement. He sat equally as still and silent, waiting for an answer, a response, something.

Finally, she spoke.

"Are you going to kill me?" she said, her hands trembling as she reached for the cup.

He paused.

"You're already dead," He replied, touching her shoulder, and she was.

Taking the silk blankets, he tucked her in gently, closed her open eyes with tender love, and took the empty cup from her limp hands.

He pulled his hood over his head, picked up his scythe, and walked back into the streets.

The air outside was chilly. It matched the ice surrounding his heart, and the tingle of frost running down his spine.

He looked up at the full moon smiling down on him, and that was when the tears began to fall.

A Mother

*Author's Note: I wrote this for my mother's 50th birthday. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

What is a mother?
A mother isn't a job, or a person, but an idea.
A mother is a lifelong commitment to selflessness.


Mothers are different than other women.
Their faces are worn, from years of nagging,
and their hair doesn't match the latest styles-
in fact, sometimes their hair isn't done at all.
A mother's clothing is often wrought with holes;
not because she can't afford nice clothes,
but because her children need the latest fashions.

A mother has certain gifts that may not seem obvious.
Her kisses can heal anything,
from broken bones to broken hearts.
Her hands are rough from years of hard work,
but are still the softest things on the earth.
She knows what you're thinking before you do,
and what you're about to do before you do it.

A mother can fix anything, from sinks to furnaces,
Even after engineering students have tried their best.
Sometimes, it seems as if she has six pairs of hands,
To work, to hold, to comfort, and to scold.
The heart of a mother is bottomless,
Full of forgiveness, of love, of caring-
A mother's love endures beyond all.


A mother's love cannot be measured.
It has no beginning, and has no end.

Abandoned: Part 1

"Fuck," Tom muttered to himself. His SUV kicked up a spray of rubble and sand as it rumbled over the dirt road. With one hand on the steering wheel, and the other on the map, he cursed again, periodically glancing up, before turning his gaze back on the map.

Looking behind himself, Tom checked that all his baggage was securely tied down. This road trip was shaping up to be a bad idea, he thought. First the overbooked hotel, the flat tires, and now he was lost, traveling down the backwaters of rural America, wandering around in the damn desert. When he had first set out, he was sure that the trip would be full of adventure - but now, all he wanted to do was go home, sit back and watch some television.

"Aarghhhhh!" Frustrated, Tom pulled over to the side of the road, his car tilting onto the sparse grass. The hot midday sun beat down relentlessly, heating up the leather interior of the SUV. Tom turned up the air conditioning, blowing the scents of suntan lotion and sweat away, and flapped the map open on his lap, sending a fine dust into the air.

With a pen, he marked down his route, trying to figure out where he had gone off course. The map was already criss-crossed with red lines, denoting stops and routes, distances and calculations. After a few minutes of staring at the unreadable mess, Tom slammed the map down on his lap and gave a strangled scream of anger. If there were only some gas station, or an information kiosk...

Suddenly, Tom stared off into the distance. Leaning forward, he wiped at the windshield. Nope, it wasn't a smudge on the glass - there was smoke rising from the horizon. A house? A station? Whatever it was, smoke meant people, and people meant help. Maybe they would have directions back to the main road.

Tom shifted into gear. Pressing his foot on the gas, the car roared and sped off, leaving dust clouds in its wake. For the next few hours, he drove, keeping an eye on the dwindling smoke pillar. Eventually by nightfall the smoke had disappeared, but Tom was certain he was headed in the right direction. His hunch proved to be right when he rolled into a small town at the base of a small hill - and just in time. The sun was going down at a fast pace, almost as if it were falling into the surrounding desert.

Parking his car in front of a lit house, Tom turned off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. As he approached the building, he noticed old-fashioned carts and churns along the side of the wall, and the lights emanating from the window appeared to be flickering alike candles, rather than electric lights. Maybe this was some sort of Amish community, like the brochure back in the car described.

Upon reaching the door and failing to find a doorbell, Tom knocked twice. He could hear muffled conversation from behind the door, and saw shadows moving in the tinted windows. The knob rattled, and Tom stepped backwards as the door swung open.

Simultaneously, Tom screamed and jumped backwards, as the... creature on the other side of the threshold did the same. The door slammed between the two, Tom rushing back to his car, frantically fumbling at the door, yanking it open, throwing himself inside, locking the door after him, and only then did he allow himself to take another breath. Panting, he looked back at the house, where shadows were moving quickly across the window.

What was that? He put a hand to his forehead. All he had seen were two wide circles for eyes, a long muzzle, a bald scalp. As the picture clarified in his head, he almost laughed in relief. It was just a gas mask - the strange nature of it was what had startled him. It was probably just some kids playing around. Tom tossed his head back and closed him eyes. It was the stress getting to him, making him see things that weren't there.

A knock at his window startled him. Opening his eyes, he saw a shadowy figure at the car door. He flicked on the interior light and wound down his window slightly. It was another gas-masked person, holding a candle. "Hello?"

"Who are you?" A muffled voice came through the mask, noisily echoing with the hiss of the filter. "What are you doing here?"

There was a strange lilt to the man's accent, something vaguely sophisticated. Shrugging it off, Tom responded. "My name's Tom, I got lost across the 402. I think I made a wrong turn somewhere. Do you know how I can get back onto the main roads?"

But the man didn't appear to be listening. Looking over his shoulder for a second, he turned back to Tom before asking more questions. "Why aren't you wearing a mask? Aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid?" Tom shook his head, puzzled. "Why are you wearing masks? Is there something I'm missing here?"

The man looked at Tom, his eyes unreadable under the gas mask, his expression hidden. Stepping back, he appeared to be observing the SUV. "What is this? Some sort of mechanized tank? Are you with the Germans? Where is your gas mask?"

"I'm German, yeah - I mean, my parents were born in-"

Before he could continue, the man reared back. Turning around he ran back into his house, shouting something unintelligible. Tom stared, utterly confused, and a little frightened. This place was weird.