The Prank

“Nothing good has ever come from the phrase ‘It’ll be funny.'” - Unknown

It was a prank. Just a prank.

At least that was how Dennis explained it to himself afterward.

A harmless joke. A little embarrassment. Something to knock his brother-in-law Jason down a peg or two before the man disappeared completely into whatever strangely desperate digital cave he seemed to be living in these days.

The idea hadn’t even been Dennis’s at first.

It started with his wife.

One evening she came into the kitchen holding her phone with the particular expression people get when the internet has disappointed them again.

“Jason’s posting again,” she said.

Dennis kept rinsing a coffee mug.

“What about this time?”

She read from the screen.

“‘Women only date criminals now. Society is collapsing. Men like me are being replaced.’”

Dennis sighed.

“Those videos again?”

“The same ones.”

Jason was forty-six. Divorced once and very nearly divorced a second time if you counted the three-month engagement that ended when his fiancée Googled him.

He lived with their mother in a slightly sagging house on the edge of a very small town that had exactly one diner, two churches, and a remarkable ability to remember other people’s business forever.

Most evenings Jason could be found in the detached garage behind the house rebuilding the same Oldsmobile he had been rebuilding for the better part of twelve years while various men on the internet explained why modern civilization had been ruined by women.

Dennis had always tried talking with Jason, but it was a never-ending exercise in futility. Jason could run his mouth longer than a Congressional filibuster and make about as much sense.

Dennis stopped trying.

A few nights later, Dennis and his wife were half-watching television when a late-night host started doing a segment about those lifelike dolls comedians had been joking about for years.

The host held up a photo.

The audience exploded with laughter.

Dennis chuckled.

His wife shook her head.

“Some sad guy somewhere probably thinks that’s the solution to his problems.”

Dennis stared at the screen.

Then he thought about Jason.

Then he thought about Jason’s mother answering the door when the delivery truck arrived.

He laughed out loud.

Dennis picked up his phone.

“Don’t,” his wife said.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“What are you looking up?”

“Just curious.”

She leaned over his shoulder.

“Oh no.”

Dennis would later insist he had considered the consequences.

What he meant was that he had considered them for almost three seconds, but the comedic value beat out logic.

---

The crate arrived at 10:14 the following Thursday morning.

Jason was in the garage listening to a podcast about declining Western masculinity when the delivery truck rolled into the driveway.

Their mother answered the door.

Mrs. Caldwell was nearly seventy and had the quiet observational skills of a woman who had spent most of her life watching other people behave foolishly without interrupting them.

The delivery driver stood beside a wooden crate roughly the size of a washing machine.

“Package for Jason Caldwell.”

She adjusted her glasses and read the label.

MEDICAL TRAINING MANNEQUIN - HUMAN FORM

“Oh,” she said pleasantly.

“My Jason’s always been handy, but I didn’t know he was studying medicine.”

The driver shrugged.

“Needs a signature.”

Ten minutes later the crate sat in the middle of the living room.

Jason came inside for lunch.

He stopped in the doorway.

“Why is there a coffin in the living room?”

“It’s for you,” his mother said.

Jason frowned.

“I didn’t order a coffin.”

“Well, your name’s on it.”

Jason approached the crate cautiously.

“Maybe it’s a mistake.”

“Probably,” she said.

“You should open it.”

Jason opened the box.

Packing straps.

Staples.

Plastic.

Foam.

Then the face appeared.

Smooth dark skin.

Long black hair.

Still expression.

Jason recoiled like the box had hissed.

His mother peered over the edge.

Silence.

“Oh my.”

She chuckled.

“Well, she’s very pretty.”

Jason turned red immediately.

“I DID NOT ORDER THIS.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she said calmly.

Jason stared into the crate.

The doll stared back with the blank serenity of someone who had never heard a three-hour lecture about alpha males.

Jason slammed the lid back down.

“Someone’s fucking with me!”

“That does seem possible,” his mother said.

Unfortunately, at that exact moment there was a knock and the front door opened.

Their neighbor Marlene stepped inside holding a pie.

“I made extra -”

She stopped.

She saw the crate.

She saw Jason sweating beside it.

She saw the doll.

Marlene blinked.

"Oh my..."

Small towns have a simple formula for the spread of information.

One witness plus one phone call equals the entire population by dinner.

By four o’clock the mechanic shop knew.

By five the diner knew.

By six the Baptist prayer group knew.

By seven someone had given the doll a name.

Danielle.

By eight someone at the diner had asked if she was Jason’s fiancée.

Someone else quipped that Jason had always preferred foreign models.

By the time the pie came out of the oven, one of the church ladies was wondering aloud if they should add Jason to the prayer list.

An older gentleman asked if Jason had registered them to vote yet, then returned to nursing his coffee. 

Jason locked himself in the garage.

The Oldsmobile had never heard such language.

Mrs. Caldwell heaved the doll out of the crate and set it on the couch.

She studied it thoughtfully.

Then she tucked a blanket around its legs.

“You’ll catch cold sitting in that box.”

---

Dennis felt quite pleased with himself that evening.

He watched Jason’s increasingly furious Facebook posts unfold like a fireworks display.

THIS IS HARASSMENT!

WHOEVER SENT THIS THINKS THIS IS FUNNY!!

I AM CONTACTING POLICE!!!

Dennis laughed.

The universe, he felt, had delivered a valuable lesson.

The next day he checked his credit card balance.

$3,812.

Dennis winced.

Still worth it.

Later that week, while paying bills online, he noticed it.

Another charge.

Same company.

Same amount.

Dennis stared.

“That can’t be right.”

He called the company.

A cheerful voice answered.

“Thank you for calling Premium Companion Manufacturing!”

Dennis explained the situation.

“I only ordered one.”

The representative clicked keys.

“Yes sir, I see that.”

“Then why was I charged twice?”

Dennis could hear typing in the background.

“Oh.”

Pause.

“Yes sir. The first charge is for the doll.”

“And the second?”

“That is for the replacement doll.”

Dennis blinked.

“The what?”

“The replacement.”

“Why would there be a replacement?”

“Well sir,” she said politely, “the original model was reported as defective.”

---

Jason had called the company in a rage.

“I DIDN’T ORDER THIS.”

Customer service had been extremely apologetic.

“Oh dear! That must have been a shipping error.”

Jason demanded they take it back immediately.

They agreed.

And shipped a replacement.

---

Three days later another truck arrived.

Mrs. Caldwell signed again.

“Oh my,” she said.

Jason screamed from the garage.

---

Dennis tried to dispute the charges.

The credit card company listened carefully.

They sympathized.

They declined.

The transactions were legitimate.

The products had shipped.

The replacement processing fee was non-refundable.

Dennis did what men have done throughout history when confronted with the consequences of their own stupidity.

He ignored the problem.

Weeks passed.

Jason stopped posting angry rants online.

Dennis found this mildly disturbing.

Then one Saturday afternoon his phone buzzed.

A text from his wife.

She was visiting her mother, as she did every other weekend.

The message contained only a photo.

Dennis opened it.

The Caldwell living room.

His mother-in-law sat on the couch.

Jason sat beside her.

Between them sat the two dolls.

Both upright.

Both wearing sweaters.

A blanket lay neatly across their laps.

Wheel of Fortune glowed on the television.

A plate of no-bake cookies sat on the coffee table.

Dennis stared at the picture.

Another text appeared.

> Mom says Jason seems less angry lately.

Dennis was still staring when his phone chimed again.

This time it was an email.

NOTICE OF ACCOUNT TRANSFER

His unpaid balance had been forwarded to a collections agency.

Dennis set the phone down slowly.

It had been a prank.

Just a prank.

Jason, meanwhile, appeared to be settling into a surprisingly stable domestic arrangement.

Dennis, on the other hand, was now eight thousand dollars in debt.

And for the first time in years, people in town were saying Jason Caldwell had finally found someone who understood him.

Two of them, actually.

And according to his mother, they were very quiet girls.

© 2026 Michael C. Metzger

STOP PRAYING...

 Stop praying for peace.

God is not confused.

He is not deceived by polished words wrapped in piety.

You say you want peace -

but only if your side wins.

Only if the “right” people survive.

Only if the “wrong” ones disappear.

So be honest.

Which of God’s children are you prepared to sacrifice?

How many mother's children must die to make you feel secure?

Do not whisper “Lord, bring peace” while funding war.

Do not ask Heaven to intervene while empowering men who profit from blood.

Do not sanctify violence with prayer and call it faith.

God already gave you free will.

You use it to elect violence.

To excuse violence.

To scroll past violence.

Then you close your eyes and ask Him to clean it up.

Peace is not the absence of bombs and gunfire.

It is the absence of the desire to dominate.

And you still desire it.

You still believe some lives matter more than others.

You still believe your border is holier than theirs.

You still believe God drafts Himself into your anthem.

So, what are you really praying for?

Victory without guilt?

Safety without sacrifice?

An exemption from responsibility?

Stop praying for the soldiers while glorifying the machine that consumes them.

Most of them chose to carry a weapon - and Scripture is not vague about the path of the sword.

If you truly want peace, it will cost you.

It will cost you pride.

It will cost you certainty.

It may cost you the comforting myth that your side is righteous by default.

That is the part you do not want.

You want war with better branding.

You want blood with a blessing attached.

You want someone else to die so your conscience can sleep.

Praying for peace while practicing war is not faith.

It is hypocrisy dressed in holy language.

So, until you are willing to treat every life as sacred - including the one you were taught to fear - stop using God’s name as cover.

Stop praying for peace. 

He is not hard of hearing.

He is waiting for honesty.

Architect of His Own Confinement

 Inspiration comes in many forms. Good days, bad days, jokes. Sometimes, current events lead to daydreams. - MM

It wasn’t the bombs that woke him.

Those were background noise now. Ritual detonations. Nations flexing like bored gods. The sky coughed fire somewhere every week, but it was theater - a reminder of what he had normalized. The world had learned from him. The world had improved the trick.

No, it was the television that woke him.

The cell was seven feet by twelve. Poured concrete. Floor. Walls. Ceiling. Bed. The slab understanding weight better than mercy.

No mattress.

No pillow.

No shadow.

A four-inch window glowed with artificial light - steady, sterile, unblinking. It offered no sky. No Colorado blue. No dawn. No dusk. Time had been amputated.

The television never turned off.

He did not control it.

Today it played his arrest again.

The self-declared greatest leader in history dragged in chains across a tarmac. Hair whipped sideways. Face pulled tight with panic. His voice cracked - not commanding, not triumphant - but thin. Begging. Promising deals. Offering names. Always offering names.

The audio fluctuated. A whisper. A roar. A whisper again.

He watched himself break.

They never showed the trials of his former allies anymore. That had been phase one. The public needed blood first. They got it.

Now the punishment was repetition.

Analysis panels. Historians. Economists. Veterans. Mothers. Farmers. Doctors. All speaking calmly about the cost. The damage. The dead.

Charts.

Names.

Numbers that would not fit inside his old rally arenas.

He had once filled stadiums.

Now he filled case studies.

He was in his eighties. Fragile bones. Thin wrists. A body that had finally surrendered to gravity. No threat to anyone.

Which was precisely why they would never let him die.

His medical team kept him pristine. Blood pressure balanced. Cholesterol optimized. Organs monitored like rare artifacts.

He had never been healthier.

His meals came in McDonald's wrappers. A private joke from the warden, no doubt. Inside: gray protein paste, measured greens, mineral water.

No salt.

No sugar.

No pleasure.

Once a week they shaved his head. Not for hygiene. For uniformity. They left him featureless. No hair to sculpt. No color to signal. No armor.

He no longer resembled the man on the old campaign posters.

He resembled a cautionary tale.

The guards never spoke.

The doctors never spoke.

The warden appeared only on screen.

“Today,” the warden would say, “we review the migrant separation hearings.”

Or: “Today, we review the market collapse.”

Or: “Today, we review the insurrection footage.”

Always review.

Always calm.

The worst part was not the accusations.

It was the word.

It appeared in headlines. In captions. In academic journals. In documentary titles.

LOSER.

They refused to say his name.

Children in classrooms learned about “The Loser Administration.”

College courses cited “The Loser Doctrine.”

Memorial walls listed victims under the era of “The Loser.”

His name had been erased by consensus.

He had spent his life running from that word. His father’s voice still lived in his skull.

You are not enough.

You will never be enough.

You are a loser.

Money had drowned it for decades.

Power had muffled it.

Crowds had shouted it down.

But here, in the 7x12 room, there were no crowds.

Only the television.

Only the light.

Only the echo of his own recorded voice cracking into a plea.

Outside, somewhere, a distant concussion rolled through the sky.

A reminder.

He stared at the screen as scholars debated whether he had believed his own lies or merely needed them.

No one asked him.

No one cared.

He had almost destroyed a nation.

Instead, he had been reduced to curriculum.

The slab beneath him held steady.

The light did not flicker.

The television moved on to the next segment.

“Phase Four Reforms: How the Republic Rebuilt.”

He was not mentioned.

----

The only physical contact he received came from a unit of seven.

They entered without warning. Full riot gear. Black visors. No insignia. No names.

Procedure was identical every time.

He was ordered to the floor. If he hesitated, he was placed there. Clothing removed. Wrists secured behind his back. Ankles chained. A gag fastened tight enough to prevent speech but loose enough to prevent suffocation. Efficiency mattered.

They never spoke.

Not to him.

Not to each other.

He was lifted and carried or, when deemed medically advisable, transported on a reinforced dolly designed for high-risk detainees. Strapped down. Eyes covered. Moved through corridors he would never map.

The medical staff did not speak either.

The warden spoke only through the television.

Policy updates. Schedule changes. Legal clarifications. Periodic recitations of the charges: unlawful detention, incitement, obstruction, corruption, crimes against humanity. The language was clinical. The tone instructional.

There was no anger in it.

The last time he heard a human voice directed at him in the same room, he had been transported to a conference chamber - fluorescent lights, metal table bolted to the floor.

His wife sat across from him.

He was ungagged but still restrained.

She did not cry.

She informed him the divorce had been finalized. Emergency provisions passed in the aftermath of his administration had made it possible. All shared assets had been seized, audited, liquidated. Funds redistributed through a federal restitution program established under statutes he himself had once expanded.

She explained it carefully, like reading weather conditions.

She and their son had accepted relocation terms. Permanent expatriation. No right of return.

Of his five children, four had lost citizenship under revisions to executive authority - revisions modeled directly on policies he had championed. Retroactive enforcement. Bloodline scrutiny. Documentation review.

Precedent, the court had ruled, was his own.

The eldest three were reclassified under the very language he had weaponized. Anchor provisions. Maternal status. Eligibility recalculated.

The law had been airtight.

He had made sure of that.

His youngest daughter’s case had not held. Her mother’s citizenship predated the marriage. That detail, once inconvenient, had now become a shield.

The wife finished speaking.

She did not insult him.

She did not comfort him.

She signed the final document in silence.

He was gagged again before he could respond.

Returned to the dolly. Returned to the room.

Returned to the light.

The television later aired a panel discussion explaining how authoritarian legal frameworks often collapse inward, consuming their architects.

His name was not mentioned.

Only the term: architect of his own confinement.

Brown Out

 The power is out.

It has been for some time. He cannot tell how long. The television is black. The clock above it is frozen at 2:17. The second hand died mid-twitch.

He faces three walls and a dark screen.

The silence presses.

He knows madness. He has visited it before. He used to deliver it.

Now he sits in his chair - strapped, angled, parked - a monument to gravity. Once, one of the aides called him an oversized paperweight.

She thought he was asleep.

She had laughed into her phone, her words thick with shortcuts and swallowed consonants. He had wanted to correct her. Once he would have corrected her with volume. Or a hand.

He had solved most of his life with hands.

Pain was how he communicated.

Now he cannot even clear his throat.

Once, he emptied rooms.

Now he occupies one.

The last time he stood on his own two feet, he had blood on his hands.

He had broken a beer pitcher across a man’s face because the man laughed too loudly. There had been blood in the foam. Then came the friends. There were always friends. He handled them too.

He had always handled things.

On the drive home that night, a deer stepped into his headlights. He swerved. The alcohol slowed him. The pills slowed him. The punches he’d taken slowed him.

The guardrail tore open.

The car spun.

Then there was a month of nothing.

He was awake for two days before anyone noticed.

He has not spoken since.

Months of therapy gave him back his left hand. Two fingers twitch when he tries hard enough. The rest of him belongs to the chair.

And now he sits.

Alone with an inventory.

His childhood was a ledger of beatings. He decided early that pain was currency. Once grown, he redistributed it generously - girlfriends, coworkers, strangers, one unfortunate supervisor.

His hands are scarred. His face, too. In the black television screen, he studies the man he has become.

Half of him has withered. The other half remembers.

The room cools.

He feels dampness beneath him but does not remember when it happened. That is the worst part now - not the act, but the delay.

He does not always realize when he soils himself. He only knows by the way they speak to him afterward.

Twice a day he is changed. Three if fortune smiles.

They complain to him while they work. They narrate his indignity. They tell him what he smells like. They call him things they would not call a dog.

He cannot respond.

He cannot apologize.

He cannot scream.

The power flickers once. On. Off.

Not even a storm.

Maybe the building will burn, he thinks.

It does not.

Darkness thickens. The aide mutters into her phone. She doesn’t want to be stuck here in the dark with “ol’ Mr. Poopydraws.”

His anger rises on instinct.

It has nowhere to go.

He cannot punch. Cannot shout. Cannot even grind his teeth properly. Rage collapses inward, becomes pressure behind the eyes.

She quits before night fully settles. Throws her phone into her bag. Says she has better places to be. The door slams.

He is alone.

The sore on his hip burns. A new one forming. He feels the damp heat beneath him and wonders if infection would be a kindness.

He sleeps.

In dreams, he is a hundred years old and still sitting here. Still waiting. In the dream he can scream. The scream tears at his throat and fills the room.

When he wakes, the lights are back.

The television is on. Some show he would have mocked in another life. He has no vote now.

A new aide stands over him. Thirty-something. Broad-shouldered. Skin the color of caramel. An accent he cannot place.

She speaks gently.

He cannot understand every word.

He understands the gag.

He understands the pause before she touches him.

He understands the look.

For the first time in his life, he is the thing people endure.

The clock on the wall has started again.

2:19.

2:20.

2:21.

She turns the television louder before she leaves the room.

He sits.

Waiting.

Staring.

by M.C. Metzger © 2026

Hey...YOU!

 Well Now! and a big ol' MERCY! Just checked the stats on the ol' bliggetty blog. (I knew there was a way to do it - I'd just never bothered before) Almost 1300 people have been reading it this month alone...and it's only the 18th! That gets a big ol' WOW! from me. As internet numbers go, that number isn't particularly high...but I'm also extremely lazy and not really interested in self-promotion. That's always been the case. I never cared for the business end of anything I've been involved in. I'm NOT a salesman. Sure, I might post the occasional link on antisocial media or share a link with someone...but where 1300 people are coming from - I just don't get it. I've written a few things in Bulgarian, and those seem to catch people's attention. Maybe folks are just nebby and hit the old 'right click - translate to English' to see what I'm rambling about. Like I said, I just don't get it. I can only hope I get numbers like these when my book comes out. According to my stats, I had over 100,000 readers last year - still not huge numbers in the digital world - but I'd be thrilled to sell that many books! (or CDs, or whatever!) In the meantime, I'll keep writing even y'all ain't reading it.

But for those of you who are reading.... THANK YE KINDLY!!!!! People rarely leave comments, so I usually have no clue if anyone is reading this at all. That's OK. I write mostly for myself. If you've been following along on the home version, you know my gray matter ain't what it used to be - so writing is just another one of those 'exercises' I do these days. Occasionally, someone will send me a message (via email or the aforementioned antisocial media) to let me know that they read some of my scribbles. Always nice to get those message - even though sometimes I have to ask myself, "Self, did we write that?" 

OK...the aforementioned book. You might be wondering "is he finally publishing the NOVEL????" Short answer, no. Yes, the novel is finished but for now, I'm trying to decide what to do with it. It's a heckuva read, if I do say so myself. I'm pretty proud of it and honestly believe it would be a moneymaker for a publishing house. I'm pretty sure every writer thinks that way about their own scribbles. I might just be a tad more pragmatic. I spent years in the recording industry (which is only slightly less vicious than publishing) and I usually have a good idea what will and won't be commercial. (NOTE: My music ain't exactly commercial - again, OK by me) 

So, what book (you may or may not be asking)? I've written a collection of 30 dark short stories. Why? I like this sort of stuff! Why short stories? Why not a full novel? Simple. Not all stories need to be dragged out to fill 2-300+ pages. I'm also often reminded of my old buddy Danny Gatton. While he wasn't against reading, his lifestyle was such that he usually only read where most men do: the bathroom. He liked "shit house reading". Short, to the point, easy to digest. Keeping that in mind, I write a lot of stuff in that format. The new collection could well be read in full, or in chunks. I think the stories are good and will stick with the reader. Hell, who knows - I could be wrong. But I'm willing to give the book a chance...so I'm going the self-publishing route with it. I promise I'll try to promote it...just not sure the best methods for that. Live and learn, I guess.

Until the next time I get to scribbling, THANKS AGAIN! for reading the ol' bliggetty blog. I really had no idea how many of you are out there giving it the proverbial squizz. I'll call it an early birthday present! Seeing those numbers really made my day. Now, can I keep myself from obsessing and monitoring the data, now that I know where to find it? Only time will tell.  

One last thing. If you do enjoy my scribbles, feel free to share them. I write for myself, but like anything, if I think it's worth sharing with you, I think it's worth sharing with everyone...I just don't know everyone and have no clue how to go about it. So, as Crippled Bobby Hawkins always said, "Can ya help a brother out?"

Смяна на караула

Старицата беше позната гледка в квартала.

Мъничко нещо. Леко прегърбена, сякаш облегната на вятър, който само тя можеше да усети. Тъмен шал, вързан под брадичката ѝ. Тъмно палто, независимо от времето. Износена пазарска чанта. Обувки, купени преди десетилетия, практични и неразрушими.

Тя говореше само когато беше необходимо.

Акцентът ѝ принадлежеше на страна, която никой вече не можеше да назове.

Не беше нужно да говори. Познаваше квартала си по-добре от всеки друг. Знаеше кой магазин продава любимия ѝ хляб. Коя аптека е отворена във вторник. Кои тротоарни плочки са напукани. Кимаше веднъж всяка сутрин на стареца на вестникарската будка. Това беше достатъчно.

Освен това, тя беше част от пейзажа.

Тя рядко говореше.

Акцентът ѝ идваше отнякъде, което вече не изискваше обяснение.

Тя познаваше улиците. Познаваше вратите. Знаеше кой принадлежи и кой не.

Всяка котка в квартала я познаваше.

Те я наблюдаваха с немигащо доверие. Те ѝ разчистиха път.

Никое куче не лаеше по нея. Когато се приближи, дори най-тревожните от тях замръзнаха, опашките им увиснаха, след което се поклатиха едва доловимо, несигурно.

Животните винаги знаят.

Дори по-малките същества; плъховете, хлебарките.

Има граници на този свят.

Някои са написани. Някои са изговорени. Някои просто се спазват.

Никой не се оплака от паразити.

Никой не се сети да попита защо.

Всяка сутрин тя ходеше на църква.

Всяка вечер се връщаше.

Три кръста.

Един коленичи.

Последната пейка.

Винаги последната.

Тя се молеше на език, който вече не се печата в книги.

Тя се изповяда шепнешком.

Плащаше за хляба си със смачкани банкноти, теглени от банка, която никой никога не беше виждал.

Никой не знаеше името ѝ.

Никой не знаеше възрастта ѝ.

Седемдесет?

Сто?

Още?

Очите ѝ носеха тежест, без осъждане.

Бяха видели това, което трябваше да се види.

Апартаментът ѝ беше малък и близо до земята.

Рафтове се катереха по стените. Книги, написани с азбука, която се извиваше и чупеше като стари кости. Снимки на сериозни лица. Икони, потъмнели от дим и време.

Тясно легло. Малка маса.

Един-единствен стол.

Всяка вечер тя седеше до прозореца.

Наблюдаваше.

Има неща, които се движат само когато не са наблюдавани.

Тя не го позволяваше.

Тогава, една студена ноемврийска сутрин, тя не беше сама.

Друга възрастна жена вървеше до нея.

Подобно палто.

Подобен шал.

Същата внимателна стъпка.

Говореха на общия си език.

Не топло. Не студено.

Прецизно.

Влязоха заедно в църквата.

Три дни се движеха като едно.

На четвъртата нощ всяко куче в квартала започна да вие.

Всички наведнъж.

Нито един преди друг.

Нито един след него.

Звукът ставаше все по-силен и по-дълъг.

После спря.

Котките не помръднаха.

Светлината в апартамента на старата жена светеше три нощи без прекъсване.

Никой не почука.

Никой не попита.

До неделя остана само една стара жена.

Тя вървеше сама.

Три кръста.

Един коленичи.

Последната пейка.

Винаги последна.

Тя остана до здрач.

В понеделник кучетата вече не изглеждаха неспокойни.

Във вторник котките отново разчистиха пътя.

В сряда месарят промърмори, че каквото и да се е движило зад магазина му, се е движило напред.

Няма погребение.

Няма траур.

Няма съобщение.

Пазачът се беше сменил.

Както винаги.

("Не знаем какво не знаем." - Неизвестен)

An American in Winterbourne

 My old buddy S.A. Baker, possibly Canada's finest author of creeptastic fiction, has a deep spot in his literary heart for the town of Winterbourne, Ontario. Read his books and you'll find out why!

If you've been following along on the home version, you're familiar with some of my own writing. Well, last night turned into a mini marathon of scribbling! I fell asleep on the couch for a few hours, woke up, knocked out the final story for a collection I've been working on - watched some TV - but couldn't sleep. The brain was still in writing mode! So, I wrote this little piece for my buddy up north!

Don't worry Sidney, I ain't horning in on your territory! We'll just call this either a tip O the hat OR a bit of literary jagoffery! Enjoy!

I drink too much coffee. I know this, my wife knows this, and my doctor frequently reminds me that he too knows this. I haven't 'partied' in years, hell I can't remember the last time I had a beer...so, coffee it is. I don't travel without my oversized 'sippy cup', as my wife likes to call it. Say what you will, but it keeps my coffee hot for hours - not that it usually lasts that long.

Being self-employed, I can pretty much work when I want to. If I feel like taking some time off, I do. The downside is the wife works for a company that builds components for computers and rockets. She jokes that she builds robots that build other robots. This means she works a lot of long hours, so when I get a wild hair up my keister and decide to take a road trip, it's usually a solo run.

I'm OK with this. As a writer, it gives me time alone with my thoughts - however morbid they might be. I find inspiration in the least likely of places. A bit of graffiti, an overheard conversation at a gas station, a story shared by a waitress at a diner - all ripe for the picking. 

Life in the States has become woeful in recent years. Decades of believing our own marketing has left the nation reeling with surprise that maybe, just maybe, we're not the "best country in the nation". Having always been a restless sort, I've been all over the globe. I tried to move to Australia 25 years ago. Even then, I was met with the reality that while Oz was thrilled to have us 'seppos' visit, we usually weren't high on the list of wanted immigrants. We're "too loud, too opinionated" and surprisingly, viewed as "too violent". This from a country born of relocated convicts! 

I've been all over the UK, different parts of Europe, and of course Mexico and Canada. I have a few good, old friends in Canada. From my home in Pittsburgh, it's also within reasonable driving distance. In the time it would take me to drive west, into and across Ohio and into either Indiana or Kentucky, I can just drive due north and be in Ontario. I remember the 'good ol' days' when we didn't even need a passport. A driver's license or state ID would suffice. But, the current regime hasn't been exactly neighborly with our neighbors, so I had to renew my passport. Costs a helluva lot more than it used to...but that's the truth with everything these days.

I needed to get out of the States for a while. I wanted the wife to come with me, but she'd just started work on a new project and really couldn't justify the time away from work. 

"Go ahead, have some fun! Go see Marco or Sidney, have a good time, and maybe work on some story ideas!" God, I lucked out with her. She's not only beautiful, she's supportive. So, I started making plans to head north for a week. Early spring maybe isn't the best time to head to the Great White North, but like I said, I needed to get away. I called my friends to give them the heads-up that I was northbound and would see them soon. As usual, no concrete plans. Just get there, and let come what may. 

My old buddy Marco lives up near Thunder Bay, but he's on the road a lot for work. He said we could easily meet up somewhere near Kitchener or Waterloo. This was perfect as Sidney lives in Kitchener. Ain't none of us young bucks anymore, but I figured we could still get out and have some fun and still be in bed by a reasonable hour. Jeez, aging sucks. 

Canada has always been hit or miss with me. It's a beautiful country in its own way, with some of the nicest people you'd ever want to meet. But, I always seem to run into the guy or gal from Quebec who has a chip on their shoulder. They give me hell for not being able to speak French. In fact, I do 'parlez vous a bit of the Francais' but the reality is I only speak 'un peu'. In the greater Pittsburgh area (as well as damned near anywhere else in the States) it's not really necessary. My attempts at Spanglish are just as pitiful, but at least the Guatemalan gals I used to work with didn't yell at me about it. They thought it was hilarious. But, Canada was the current goal and I was keeping my fingers crossed to not run into any cranky Quebecois. If I did, I'd just do as my grandmother always suggested - smile and nod. It's always worked before, no reason to think it wouldn't now.

Off I went, up I79 to I90 and 5 hours later I was stopping for gas near Niagara Falls. The wife and I had been here a few times. When I was younger, friends and I would drive up, cross the border and hit the casinos. Niagara looks more run-down than it used to, but I've heard the pandemic was hard on the town. I gassed up, refilled my sippy cup and made my way across the border without incident. 

GPS time! One of the problems I've always had with Canada is that it's just so damned flat compared with what I'm used to. Makes it hard to get my bearings. Thank God for Google Maps. It looked like all I had to do was get on 401W and I'd be there in an hour or so. Don't ask me how, but I managed to get lost. My GPS was acting up and sucked the life out of my phone's battery, so I was having to wing it. I figured if I could find a gas station or a Tim Horton's, someone would give me directions. Hell, as polite as most Canadians are, they'd probably offer to show me the way personally. I stopped at a service station in St. Jacobs and the old guy there about talked my ear off. 

He looked up from the counter as I came in.

“From the States, eh? What brings you up this way?”

I explained about the GPS going sideways and how I’d managed to get myself turned around.

“Ahh, that’ll do it. Happens more than you’d think.” He nodded toward my plate. “Whereabouts you from?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh, eh? Steelers country.” He smiled. “My boy’s right into your football. Says your lot’s usually pretty decent.”

I shrugged. “We’ve had our moments. Got a halfway respectable hockey team too.”

He gave a quiet little huff.

“Well now...we might have to have a chat about that.” He leaned on the counter like he had nowhere else to be. “Hockey’s not just a sport up here. It’s...sort of the way things are.”

He proceeded to give me the Coles Notes version of Canadian hockey history, including at least one personal grievance involving the Stanley Cup.

Before I left, he topped off my sippy cup without asking.

“If you’ve got a bit of time,” he said, scribbling directions on the back of a receipt, “you might take a run up to Winterbourne. Real pretty up there. Right along the river. Quiet.”

He let that last word hang there a second too long.

“Beauty of a day for it.”

I thanked him and agreed that maybe I would check out Winterbourne. Remember, I'm a writer. A little country town just might inspire my next novel. You never know. Besides, it was only a 10 or so minute drive, and the old guy really seemed to think it was worth checking out. Even in Canada, you don't get that sort of marketing for small towns!

Winterbourne, ON reminded me, in a few ways, of parts of northeast Ohio. Small, rural, corn fields, a river...FLATNESS. But there was something else. Something intangible. The air had an uneasy quality to it. Not pollution, more like an invisible warning sign. DO NOT ENTER. With the vibes I was getting, I wouldn't have been surprised to see a hand-painted sign that read ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER. 

What the hell was wrong with me? It was just a small town. I'd been in literally hundreds, if not thousands, of them in my lifetime. I'd lived in a few. They were no different than anywhere else, just smaller and with fewer people. Somehow, I kept looping back into West Montrose - another little town. It almost felt like Winterbourne was trying, somehow, to keep me out! This not only annoyed me, but steeled my resolve to see Winterbourne and whatever it had to offer. Maybe Winterbourne itself was just that tiny. I didn't know the area...I had to keep reminding myself of that. 

Finally, I saw a young boy of around 8 or 10 walking along the roadside. I rolled down the window.

“Hey there. You know how to get to the river in Winterbourne?”

He looked at me like I’d just asked him how to breathe.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

“Nope.”

He nodded once, like that confirmed something important.

“Take that road till it bends. Don’t turn off. You’ll see it.”

I thanked him.

He started walking again, then stopped.

“Dad always says, ‘Long as you can find the river, you can find your way home.’”

“Sounds about right.”

I checked my mirror out of habit.

The road behind me was empty.

Just fields. Wind. Nothing else.

I got into Winterbourne. The sign read WINTERBOURNE - DRIVE LIKE YOUR CHILDREN LIVE HERE. Stern, but at least it wasn't preachy. As I drove around, it looked like any other small, country town. Some nice houses, some not as nice. The old cemetery looked more sparse than I would have guessed but again, I just couldn't shake the uneasy feeling. The place was really giving me the creeps. 

I hardly saw any people, or animals for that matter. Maybe that's what was weirding me out. It was a sunny day. It should have been a lovely time, just sightseeing. By the time I made my way to the bridge, I just wanted out. I saw a lady standing on the bridge. She stared in my direction. I blinked. The bridge was empty. I had to get the hell out of there!

I hightailed it out of there. I got on 23 and I finally made it to Kitchener, found a hotel, plugged in my phone, and called Sidney.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Well look at that. You made it.”

“Barely.”

“So. You want proper home cooking, or you off chasing ‘authentic’ poutine?”

I laughed. “Man, I’m gonna lie down awhile. It’s been a weird day.”

I told him about getting lost. The old guy. Winterbourne. The kid. The bridge.

Silence on the other end.

Not long.

Just long enough.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Winterbourne’s...an odd spot.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Some folks don’t care for it much.”

“You ever been?”

“Sure.”

Another small pause.

“Just hope you didn’t track anything back with you.”

The line crackled.

“Didn’t track...”

The call dropped.

I thought I heard something in the room behind me.

Probably the heater.