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Terry’s First Day of School

Terry woke up early. She struggled out of the bed sheets and tumble in the darkness toward her grandmother’s room. She opened the locks and went inside. In the darkness, she could half make out the large figure of her grandmother. She was sleeping on her side. With her small hands she lifted the curtain. She poked her grandma’s broad shoulder to force her to wake up. Lazily, her grandmother awoke. Without changing their dress pajamas, Terry and her grandma went to open up the house.

All seasons in Cuba are identical. Summer, winter, fall and spring are always hot. The house needed to be open up early to allow the ocean breeze enters inside. When they had finished opening the portals of the house, Terry went to the kitchen. She sat on a chair and rested her head on her hand. She yawned a little and waited until her mother brought her a baby bottle. She took her bottle to her grandmother’s room. By now, her grandma had finished tidying the bed. Tarry lay down on the bed and drank her milk with pleasure. While she drank it, she noticed a uniform at the foot of her bed.

It was her school uniform. It was a red skirt and a white t-shirt. When she finished her milk, she rose from the bed. She placed her bottle on the nightstand. She purposely took a half hour to get dressed. When she was dressed, she went outside the house and sat in the patio. She saw the sunrise over the concrete hill. There was not a single cloud in the sky. The sun felt cool that morning. A gentle breeze would pass by from time to time. When the sun had finally risen, Terry saw her father come out of the house. He was dressed in a white lab coat, green shirt and green pants. He gave a sign when his green eyes rested on his little girl. He carried in his hand a small blue purse, decorate by flowers. He gave the purse to his daughter, Terry. She looked within and saw her baby bottle with milk and a piece of bread wrapped in a napkin. The napkin had the initials F.F.B. She recognized it as one of her father’s handkerchief. On the side, she saw her poorly stitched work. It was a napkin that she had ruined only a few days ago.

 She ate a small piece from the soft part of the bread and placed the rest away. During these proceedings, her father waited. There was a faint smile painted in his tin lips. His green eyes watered a little due to the glare of the sun. He rubbed them to ward away sleep. It was supposed to be his day off. The previous night he had been on night watch at the hospital. Even though he slept for two hours, he still wanted to take his little girl to school. He planned to change his clothing, shower and take a nap after dropping her off. He looked at his wristwatch and noticed that it was almost eight.

He said to Terry, “Let’s go, cutie, you don’t want to be late for your first school day.”

Terry said nothing. Again, her father’s eyes water, this time it was not because of the sun. Together, they took walked toward school up the cement hill. That hill was walled by many houses. Terry had taken that route to school man times. She had seen the school from the outside, whenever she went with her grandma to pick up her older brother. Now, it would be her first time entering the building. While they walked, she played the color game with her father. It consisted of naming the colors of the main features of the houses. Her father had devised that game in order to teach her colors. Close to the school, her father said, “Terry, you are going to love school. There you get to play with other kids, learn numbers and use do a lot of fun things…”

Her father went on ranting about school for the rest of the trip. Terry said nothing to her father’s comments. She had a grim, expressionless face. The kind of face she wore whenever she had to go to the doctor. Now they had reached the park. Just beyond it laid the school. The large trees were raining down white flowers. Its foliage completely covered the sky. Furtive lights illuminated the pavement, covered with flowers. Children younger than her were playing in the park while their mothers watched. She looked at those children and gave a deep sign. Her grim expression deepened into a frown. She slowed down her steps even more. Her father picked her up believing that she was tired. A bit short winded, her father hurried his pace.    

The hot sun fell upon the pair when they left the park. Before them stood a school made of wood, bricks and cement. For the girl, the place reminded her of a prison. All the windows had iron bars. Like most houses of the region, the school had two story high main portals. Since it was school day, both doors were open ajar. Terry saw beyond it, the central park and the cement stage. The children were assembling in the park. Each child wore a uniform very similar to hers. Unlike Terry, a good chunk of them wore a scarf of either red or blue color. On the stage, the teachers sat in wooden chairs. They wore regular attires. Beside them, a little student was raising the Cuban flag. Noticing that they were late, the father placed his daughter on the floor. Giving her a little push, he urged her to join the others. Unfortunately for him, the girl was not budging. She had her feet firmly planted on the floor. He walked toward the park and urged the girl to join the others. By now, the national anthem was over. The teachers departed from their seats and started leading their students to their respective classrooms.

The kinder garden teacher recognized the girl’s father at the entrance. She walked over to see what was occurring. Griming, she said, “Doctor Blanco, Good Morning!”

“Well, see…” he said ignoring the teacher, “Come on, Terry, go to school. It won’t hurt. You might actually have a lot of fun.”

“Relax doctor, leave this to the professionals!” when she said this she went toward the little girl. She took the girl by the hand and started leading her toward the classroom. From the corner of her eye, Terry noticed that her father was leaving. She ran away from the teacher and clung to her father’s leg. Tears were rolling down her cheeks as she said, “Daddy, don’t leave me here!! I don’t to go to school! Never, ever! Please, take me home.”

The girl’s father tried pry her off his leg. However, she was hugging it with all her strength. Noticing that she was not budging, he started walking toward the classroom while the girl clung to his leg. Terry saw that she was drawing ever nearer to the classroom, which resembled a prison. That was the last straw. The girl had one her trademark hissy fits. She started screaming and sobbing while trying to catch her father’s other leg. The students within the classroom started giggling when they saw the odd pair approaching. When they were inside, the girl tried her last gambit.

When she was two, she had picked up a whole arsenal of foul language. One of her neighbors used to curse worse than a pirate. Even though, it had been three years since last she heard such foul language. She kept those words in her mind. She only used them when things were not going her way. That day Terry used all the foul language she had ever learned .She even made up some interesting combinations that humor greatly, the other students. She went on to curse, everything from the students, the teacher and specially her father. That was the last time Terry was ever so expressive at school.

When she finally calmed down, her face became expressionless. She went through the school routine mechanically. Her teacher was greatly pleased by how nice Terry acted. She imagined that her teaching skills had straightened up that foul mouth girl that had so boisterously cursed her the first time they met. Whenever she spoke with Doctor Blanco, she prided herself on making little Terry into the ideal Pionero. The Doctor simply smiled at the teacher and allowed her to go on with her nonsense.

The Parable of Kakundo

Two men were sitting in a luxurious living room. There was a fireplace burning. On top of it, there were family portraits. One man was sitting on one couch and the other sat in a different couch facing his visitor. There was a coffee table littered with papers and books. The rug was Persian and the lamps of arabesque design. There were notable antiques here and there, as well as a cabinet filled with curiosities.

The owner of the home was in his mid-50s and the other gentleman was in his early 30s. The older man was known as el Greco. His head was starting to go bald. He had crystal clear blue eyes, and dark shadows cast over them. He was wearing a white Guayabera and greyish brown shorts. He had a bit of a pork belly.

In his old age, he had developed a fancy for collecting old history documents, books and oddities.

He was showing his latest collection to Antonio. Antonio was dressed more formally. He had tuxedo pants and a long sleeved blue shirt. The first three buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, showing part of his bushy well-toned chest and a golden pendant with the image of the Virgin Mary. Antonio had a fake, golden tan, brown eyes and raven black hair. He though himself an art expert and was as refined as his well-manicured hands.

 Greco handed Antonio quite the old Tome of Don Quixote and said, “I am sorry to have called you so late. However, I recently acquired this first edition tome! You are a bit of an art expert, so I wanted you to examine it and tell me if I over paid.”

Antonio passed his hands over the cover of the book and frowned. The cover of the book looked brand new, and the pages were pristine white. He said, “I am sorry to tell you this friend, but you have been duped.”

“Fuck!” said Greco shaking his fist and biting his lower lip.

Antonio raised an eye brown. Antonio flipped through it and continued speaking, “Yes! It’s a fake! It doesn’t even have illustrations or bad poems. Also this book is in English.”

“Really?” said Greco flipping through its pages. Greco added, “I did not notice.”

Greco handed Antonio another book called The Golden Age by Jose Marty. This book too proved to be a bust since it was in English. Plus, the name of the writer was misspelled. By the third book, Antonio started getting suspicious.

Eventually, Greco handed Antonio a genuine article. It was a first edition copy of The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho in English. It had its original bizarrely drawn cover with the shepherd, the one eyed woman and the Muslim maiden. The English version was published in 1993. This book was going to be worth something…in a century or two.

Antonio flipped through its pages over the top. He nodded in approval. When he got to the middle of the book, his eyes widened. He frowned and said, “Uh?”

“Well, what is it?” said Greco sitting at the edge of the couch.

Antonio drew from within the pages of the Alchemist a crudely drawn comic. The figures in the comic looked like humans from an Aztec codex. The figures were delineated with a black marker and were painted with watercolor. The background was a bit closer to life and a few drawings looked like the background was traced. The comic was drawn in boxes, like newspaper comic strips.

The man in the front cover was from Africa. His clothing was those of the Modern Odyssey Tribe in Africa. Somewhat amused, Antonio read the comic. He chuckled when he read the “Once Upon a Time opening”.

“Once Upon a Time, there was a strong brave warrior named Kakundo. Kakundo was the strongest man in his village. Despite his strength, Kakundo dreamed of living an easy life. He wanted a better life for himself and for the woman…”

In this part, Antonio saw Kakundo hugging his wife one last time. The wife looked sad, but she seemed to understand. The artist had taken great pains to illustrate Kakundo’s dilapidated house. The house had no doors and the wooden windows were broken.

“Kakundo had planned to return in less than a decade…20 years later, Kakundo returns to his village. He had finally amassed enough wealth to live as a King in his native country. Along the way, there was a bad storm and he lost most of his cargo.

The storm caused him to fall off the ship. After swimming toward the port he was thankful to notice that he had still two ships filled with cargo. One of the ships he lost was the flagship of his privateering fleet. He took this as a sign that he had to give up his old life for good.

When Kakundo was in town, he sold his armor and one of his swords. With this money, Kakundo still had enough to never work a day in his life ever again.”

The sword Kakundo was selling was highly detailed. The sword was fat and curved. It had a white curly handle, with a golden band. The hilt had an infinity golden sign. Over it, there were three gems inlaid into the sword. Antonio lingered on the sword for quite a bit. He felt he had seen the sword before, but he could not remember were.

As for the character Kakundo, he was drawn with grayish looking hair and dark wrinkles bellow his eyes.

Antonio then continued to read:

“After selling his prized sword and armor, Kakundo made arrangements for his loot to be sent to his village. He acquired a horse and then went on ahead to his village. Along the way, he ran into his lifelong rival. The two had been enemies since they were children and they had fought on numerous occasions.

Kakundo fought against his rival to the death. Both were trying to mortally wound one another. Kakundo had gained more real life experience in battle. As such, he was easily able to best his enemy. At the start of the battle, Kakundo had resolved to kill his rival. After crippling him, Kakundo decided to spare his life because he had given up his life of crime.”

There were at least 10 fighting panels. In the last one, Kakundo had cut his nameless rival’s hand and leg.

“When Kakundo went home, he was surprised to see that his wife had not changed at all. She still had the same, straight raven black hair and large brown eyes. His heart was torn by the sight of his home. It was even more dilapidated. He went to the back of his house with his woman and watched the sunrise together. Kakundo resolved to make up for lost time. He cried because his wife had waited for him, until the very end.”

The final image showed Kakundo giving his back to the viewer. His wife was facing the reader while standing beside a cross with a name scribbled on it. When Antonio was done, he rested his head on his hand and sighed.

El Greco asked Antonio, “So…what do you think?”

Chuckling Antonio said, “Eh…it’s not half bad, Kakudo’s identity is pretty obvious. I wouldn’t entertain the idea of publishing…your comic.”

“It’s obvious to you maybe,” said El Greco frowning. He added, “I have other versions of the comic. They go into detail about Kakundo’s pirate adventures.”

“Fine, get em,” said Antonio sitting back. He found the situation quite humoring.

Both their attention was drawn by a noise in another room. El Greco heard the familiar footsteps of his wife and two young daughters. His wife had taken the girls out to see a bad Harry Potter movie. El Greco was worried since his girls had lied about the length of the film. It was past the girls’ bedtime and they had still not returned home.

Seconds later, he heard three shots. Greco and Antonio got up from their seats and rushed to see the commotion. The door to the home was wide open. Greco saw a man jumping the fence. Antonio went to give chase while Greco called an ambulance. This however was a foolish effort since both his wife and his two daughters were already dead.

When the bodies were taken away, Antonio entered the study. His sleeves were covered in blood. Greco was standing by the fire looking grim. Greco exchanged looks with Antonio. Both left the house inside El Greco’s black Lamborghini. Within half an hour, El Greco had arrived at the club. The bouncers did not stand in his way. At the far end of the darkly light club, El Greco recognized the shrill laughter. There was an old man in a wheel chair laughing, beside two hot women.

When he saw El Greco, he told him, “You knew this was going to happen.”

El Greco took a small pistol from his pocket and shot the man point black in the forehead. He left the club without saying a word.

120,000 BC

It was mid-summer when Agh went to the fields to work alongside his family. He belonged to one of the few clans that had domesticated plants. He was now in his late 40s, and still a stout man. He wore pelts made of saber tooth tigers and wolves. When he arrived at the fields, he saw his sister and her husband working in the fields. They were plowing the fields with rudimentary tools made of stone. Keeping a lookout were two wolfish, dogs. These domesticated dogs still maintained plenty of their wolf looks, however their ears were starting to slant and their face were slightly pronounced.  

Agh found this change a bit strange. He remembered dogs from his day had perfectly pointed ears. They were also a bit more hostile than the dogs his sister’s husband owned. Those dogs were a valuable acquisition to the clan. They made hunting quite easier and at night they warned the clan of the approach of larger beasts.  

By sunset, Agh returned to his family hut. It was made of post and lintel, with wooden planks for a roof. Sitting on a chair was his mother; she was wrapped in pelts trying to stay warm by the bonfire. She smiled when she saw Agh. Her faced was lined with wrinkles. Agh sat beside her and she wrapped him in her coats as she had done back when Agh was a child.

Agh suddenly noticed how small his mother’s hands had become. He had a vague memory of her youthful beauty and splendor. Agh’s mother was the oldest maiden in the clan. She was pushing 80. She had survived many things from famines, to attacks and ravenous beasts. Agh suddenly realized that his mother was going to die.

It had never occurred to him that people die of old age. He thought his mother was going to live forever as long as he kept her safe. The thought that she was no longer going to be with him drove Agh to tears. Agh’s mother tried to console him, with coos and grunts. However, Agh was inconsolable. 

The Whisky Surgeon and the Addict

Dr. Walker was a famous plastic surgeon. He operated both rich and poor alike. In the twilight of his life, he was remembering a certain patient of his. At the time, he had been practicing plastic surgery for only 4 years. He had left the hospital and opened a clinic with the hopes of earning more profit for his ever growing family. This was the official excuse.

His drinking problems had gotten more severed with the workload and the nature of his cases. He had hit rock bottom when he had failed to save a little boy. This was a wakeup call. He did not have the stomach or liver to be a true doctor. Resigned to his fate, he opted for the lucrative business of elective surgery.

He found plastic surgery a rewarding. He was turning ugly women, beautiful. Since the bulk of them were healthy, he did not have the pressure of dealing with major complications. Only rarely did the operations go down south. Such mild surprises paled in comparison to what he had to deal with in the hospital.

As a result of his new employment, he got his drinking under control. He even began to have the vague hope of getting rid of his addiction for good. It was around that time when he met her. It wasn’t too uncommon for maidens to revisit his office for new upgrades. The maidens he operated were never satisfied.

When he had first met Sofia, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her chest was full and perky. Her behind, though not large was firm and scrumptious. Her face was not pretty, but she certainly passed as handsome. With a bit of makeup, she could be called beautiful. Naturally, Dr. Walker never told his patients that he thought they were beautiful. He did once, to his first patient, however, the maiden threatened to call the police.

Sofia started with a standard upgrade: Liposuction with a Brazilian butt-lift. This procedure was quickly followed with breast implants. Sofia came out beautifully from the procedure, but it was not enough for her.

About a year later, she came back asking for four ribs to be removed. She wanted a thinner waist. Dr. Walker eyed her skeptically from head to toe. The upgrades to her chest and her naturally wide hips made her waist look thin. Since her previous checks had cleared, Dr. Walker decided not to argue.

Over the course of 3 years, Sofia returned time and time again asking for new upgrades. In this sense, she was becoming a regular costumer. Some of the procedures she wanted as of late had gotten ridiculous. Her most recent request had been an ear operation. She felt unhappy by the shape of her ears. Indeed, she had a goblin thing going for her. However, Dr. Walker had never met a guy who married a maiden because she had pretty ears.

This was the first check that bounced. A few weeks later, she came back with the cash. Dr. Walker started suspecting that his patient had bankrupted herself with all these plastic surgeries. When she came to ask him to operate her eyes, he said, “Have you tried sleeping 8 hours a day? Those teabags might go away by themselves if you sleep more often.”

“Don’t be silly,” said his out of patience, patient.

“I am just concerned by the number of operations you are getting as of late. I do not want to see you go bankrupt as a result of these procedures,” said Dr. Walker.

“Don’t pretend to care now, Doctor. You have been happy to operate on me as long as all the checks cleared, up until now. This was just an error in the bank; my work check had come in late. It will not happen again. I promise,” said Sofia.

Dr. Walker yawned, while he Irished-up his coffee. He then said with a bit more courage, “I am sorry, but I cannot ethically give you this operation. There is nothing wrong with your eyes. You don’t even have crow’s feet.”

“Good day, Dr. Walker! Know that you have lost one of your best patients. Don’t you dare call me up and ask me to come back, you hear,” yelled Sofia.

After his patient stormed out of his office, Dr. Walker yawned and said, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the door to his office slowly closed, he saw the large line of prospective clients.

The House

Mrs. Thomson was walking by the park one day with her maid. She was wearing a lovely blue dress, with a blue parasol. Along the way, she saw a strange man that made her very nervous. Something about that old gentleman looked familiar. To avoid him, she took an unusual route back home. After taking a wrong turn, she was in an unfamiliar part of the city.

At least, it seemed unfamiliar to her at first. The more she walked the more she remembered. She had played hopscotch on a sidewalk in front of the bakery. Her mother had bought her a blue laurel from a strange looking flower seller at the street corner.

Her wanderings eventually brought her to that house. The house was the second home from her childhood. The first had been lost due to her family’s declining fortune. As she got older, she discovered that her dearly departed father had gambled away her mother’s dowry. In no time, they would have landed in the poor house. As her mother had said, “It was a good thing he got sick and died before then.”

For a time, her father was bed ridden, unable to lift his head from his pillow. For a year, his mother handled the financial affairs. One day, her father simply withered away like a dry rose petal. With her father dead, his family stopped sending her mother money. She was forced to move to a new house.

This new house was ironically ten times as a large as her old one. Despite its massive dilapidated state, Mrs. Thomson noted the sublime architectural detail. Even the overgrown garden had remnants of its former glory. She opened the rickety fence and went cautiously inside.

Her maid protested against this, but she did not bother to listen to her. Once inside, the surroundings were quite familiar, even without the furniture and paintings. She walked through the entire house undisturbed. On her way back home, Mrs. Thomson found it odd how peaceful the old house had become this last 12 years. It seemed to her that the spooks had finally moved on.

Back when Mrs. Thomson was a child, the house had been inhabited by ghosts. Her mother had told her so. It was the main reason they had gotten the house so cheap. No one wanted to live in that haunted house. The spooks rarely appeared in her bedroom. When they did, it was just for a few minutes to watch her sleep or see if she was studying.

Normal children would have been scared by this new situation. However, Mrs. Thomson had decided to be brave for her mother’s sake. Her mother would once a day go out to work to do the neighbors laundry. On the meantime, the house would be filled with all sorts of noises, laughter and groans.

It was almost impossible to focus on anything, let alone her lectures. One day, a specter had struck her mother, it had made Mrs. Thomson so angry that she had overcome her fear to yell this to it, “Why don’t you and your friends go back to hell were you belong?”

The ghost had turned pale as death. One of his friends then escorted him back to the abyss. Unlike the others, he was never seen again. Aside from grown up ghosts, the house had children ghost too. She felt pity for the children’s ghost, especially those of small infant and toddlers.

She remembered clearly how one had been left in a seat near her. She was supposed to watch over it. She did not quite understand why the baby’s mother was bothering her with the ghost baby. There was nothing else that could happen to it, now that it was dead. To avoid being yelled at, Mrs. Thomson had kept an eye on the child.

She would sit it back in place, whenever it got too close to the edge of the sofa. It was a bit of a hassle, but it broke the monotony of her studies. After spotting a rodent, Mrs. Thomson decided to return home. It was nighttime when she reached her domicile. Her husband had finally taken notice of her absence. Once at home, she sank back to her cozy existence. She stopped thinking about that house, and the ghosts that had once dwelled within.

Stardust

The year is 1856. A Palladian style manor is filled with mercenaries, cowboys and men with guns. Outside, there is a tree with eight figures hanging lifelessly from its branches. One of the figures is an old black woman. A cowboy, with a star on his vest is getting the testimony from one of the guests inside the manor.

The tale he had spun was straight out of an Edgar Allan Poe novel. The sheriff would have noticed the parallel, if he had ever bothered to learn how to read. The person giving his story was the preacher’s son. He had visited the manor in question along with his twin sister and his elderly mother.

The sheriff was not surprised when he said, “My name is Jonathan Wesley. That’s my sister Jane and my mother Frances Jane Wesley.”

“You are not from around here, are you?” asked the sheriff.

“You can tell from our accent. Yes, we are from the North. We were on our way to Florida to visit some relatives, when we were invited to this gala…” Jonathan explained. He added, “Our boat was not set to depart till the next day, so we decided to attend the party. My sister is not the type of person to turn down a free meal.”

The men chuckled at this comment. For indeed, little Jane was in the middle of raiding the food closet of the manor. Normally, the sheriff would have reprimanded her unladylike behavior; however considering the strange, traumatic event she had just experienced he had decided to let her be.

“Continue your story,” said the sheriff. One of his men had just returned with his drink freshened up.

“We arrived a little late to the party. All the guests were already wandering about the manor. I was greeted by one of the servants. At first, she seemed a bit reluctant to let me inside. She kept insisting that it was already too late and I should return home. I thought her behavior was a bit queer, but my sister’s stomach would not wait. In retrospect, I should have taken the hint.

As soon as I came inside, I marveled at all the wealth that surrounded the place. The candle stands were made of solid gold, the rug was genuinely Persian, and the walls were littered with paintings…” Jonathan was interrupted by the sheriff.

In a stern voice he said, “We can see that. Now focus on the action!”

“Ahem! The slaves and white servants had the manor well kept. Among them, there was this nice elderly, old black slave woman. All the servants treated her with reverence, even the white indentured servants. At the time, I did not think much of it. I naturally assumed that witch doctors were more common in the South, no offense,” said Jonathan.

“None taken please continue,” said the sheriff.

“After perusing the foods, I noticed everything looked fattening, so I refrained from eating. My doctor has asked me to show moderation, let’s my ankles break under my own weight. Like I was saying, I did not eat or drink anything since I had eaten before going to the party. I was drawn to a strange, familiar piano music coming from another room.

A gorgeous little blonde girl was playing on a grand piano. When I saw her face, I was overwhelmed by pity. He green eyes were out of focus, and she was drooling. I naturally assumed she was daft or mad. Regardless, she was playing one of my favorite piano songs: Claro Luna by Debussy, from time to time she would miss a note and one of the maids would hit her. I would have protested, but it is not my business to meddle in the manner that people raise their children.

Throughout this entire affair, this piano song would play over and over. It seemed to me that the girl only knew this one song. After noticing that the girl would not play a new song, I started talking with the maid that had received me. She went on a rant about Carl Marx,” said Jonathan.

“Who?” asked the sheriff.

“Marx is a European philosopher; he is quite popular in London. He speaks all sorts of dribble about the exploitation of the working class and whatnot. Since my little maid had the look of a fanatic, I decided to agree with her arguments. It is always a wasted effort to argue with narrow minded people,” he commented. He paused for a moment before continuing.

“…while talking with her. I saw from the corner of my eye some of the guests being dragged downstairs. The maid saw the direction my eyes were looking. After stammering a bit, she said, “They are drunk…they are taking them to rest, to keep them from pestering the other guests.”

“I pretended to believe her. However, after she returned to her work I went in the direction that the men had been taken away. This path took me to the kitchen and from there to the basement. The maid in the kitchen did not seemed to notice me. She was busy adding a strange, shiny purplish powder over all the food and drinks. When I opened the door to the basement, I saw a group of men sitting in chairs around a strange looking, giant flowering plant. Its azure, violet colors and shape were unlike any flower that I knew of. There was a strange aroma, and I started to feel sick to my stomach and a little light headed. For some reason, something was compelling me to get closer to the plant. Before I stepped into the room, the maid I had spoken to dragged me out of the room. She had a scarf covering her face, to keep her from imbibing the…miasma, for lack of a better word.”

“She asked me if I had eaten anything, and I said no. She said that the old crone was using the plant to control the owners of the manor. She added, “Its spores… they cause people to see things. What’s worse is that if you are exposed to it for too long, you suffer memory loss, followed by death after a week. So you would not remember being near the plant. You need to make your mother and sister throw up before the poison kills them.”

In a hurry, I found my sister and told her to throw up. She was never the type to question me, even when my stories seemed extremely farfetched. After throwing up, she sighed and said, “I feel a lot better.”

We found our mother who was about drink some of the wine. I tried to drag her to another room while explaining things to her. She however poo, poo, my story and told me I should not take serious the superstitious rants of slaves. Between my sister and me, we made her throw up, much to her annoyance and then I knocked her out. We started carrying her, but the crone noticed us starting to leave,” said Jonathan.

“How did you escape?” asked the sheriff.

“That is just the thing; I cannot for the life of me remember how it happened. My mother was unconscious and my sister suffered partial memory loss from the residual poison,” explained Jonathan.

“Why do you think the slaves were poisoning their masters?” asked the sheriff more to himself.

“Isn’t it obvious, they wanted to rob them and go live up north,” said one of the officers.

“If they wanted to do so, then why the party? Why stay when they have a means to eascape?” asked the sheriff.

“We could have asked the perpetrators, pity that our men got a little carried away,” said another gentleman.

“A true pity indeed, for among those who are hanging was the girl who saved me,” said Jonathan frowning. He wanted to say more, but he chose to remain silent. He knew that slaves were never given any true justice in the South. In the end, he decided that the slave girl had gotten what she deserved. She may have helped him, but she had led many others to their deaths.

The following day the house was turned upside down. It was discovered that the true owners had been dead for more than two years. The girl who was playing the piano was indeed the daughter of the masters of the manor. She was also a lot more lucid than she had first appeared. The servants were apparently drugging the girl to keep her from speaking the truth about the atrocities that were going on around her.

Her memory was spotty at best, though she was aware of her surroundings. Instead of talking about a plant, she would rave about a fairy that would come listen to her piano. She would only appear when she played Claro Luna.

The plant that was kept in the basement was no were to be found. Still, its aroma had seeped into all the clothing, fabrics and other items stored in the basement. To test out the psychedelic effects of the plant, the sheriff had one of his men sniff a handkerchief. A single whiff of it alone had him in a daze. Like the servant girl had described, the cowboy lost some of his memory. He could not remember entering the basement or even volunteering to take a whiff.

Spirit Bear

Edward Brandon was a British loyalist who firmly believed in the motherland, and all it represented. He thought himself a righteous, outstanding, pious gentleman. His faith in this belief was tested during the French and Indian War.

While he participated in this war, he was witness to the atrocities committed by his fellow men, in their pursuit to carry out the Crown’s orders. Even if the Red Devils were sinners, nothing could excuse the crimes committed by his comrades. In one of such adventures, he assisted in the massacre of a Native tribe. He personally shot and killed a mother and her small daughter. He did this in part out of mercy. He did not wish upon them the fate of the rest of the Native women.

The war ended and he settled in a plantation in Virginia. He resolved to put the war behind him, and dedicate the rest of his life to atone for his crimes. He was kind to his indenture servants, and he would even give them part of his money to help them settle in a new town, once their debt was repaid. He also gave generous alms to both the church and whatever beggar he ran into.

He even got himself a pretty wife. Soon he had a daughter of his own, little Marianne. When his daughter turned eight, Brandon started having nightmares. He would dream that a large white bear was slaughtering his wife and daughter. One night, he screamed at the bear, “Why!”

The bear sneered and said, “À chaque fou plaît sa marotte!”

He found it quite odd that the bear would have spoken to him in French. It took three dreams, but he was finally able to remember the exact words the bear had said. He was not too familiar with the French language, so he wrote it down how it sounded phonetically in English. When the sun rose, he visited one of his neighbors, a painter, who had studied in Paris. He showed him the paper and asked him what it meant. He kept to himself the origin of the phrase.

Smiling, Cole said, “It means: Every fool is pleased with his own folly.”

Brandon was not remotely humored by what the phrase meant. He reasoned that the dream was God telling him that he had to do more to make up for what he had done. He went on to do more charitable works in the community. One day when walking home, he saw a native little girl wandering about town. Based on her shackles, she was probably a slave of sorts. When the girl saw him, she pointed behind him and started screaming something in her native tongue.  

Brandon was chilled to the bone and rode back home to check up on his family. Everything was as it should be. After seeing the Native girl, he stopped having the nightmares. He slowly allowed himself to relax. A week passed, and all was well. One night, he was awakened to the horror of finding his wife dead beside him.

A monstrous bear was eating her. Brandon could not phantom how the bear had gotten inside the house, without making a peep. Remembering his dream, he ran toward his daughter’s room and took her in his arms. He threw her sleeping form inside a carriage, and rode out of his home as fast as his horses could take him.

The next day, the servants found their dead mistress. When the guards came, they were naturally inclined to blame Brandon for the murder of his wife. This however was disproven by the claw marks of the bear so vividly gnawed into her body.

Brandon rode his carriage nonstop for an entire day. He eventually decided to stop due to the protestations of his small daughter. He stopped at an inn to get supplies, in order to continue on his journey. He finally unburned himself to the barkeep, after drinking himself silly. The next morning, when he was more sober the barkeep suggested he visit St. John’s Episcopal Church.

Following his advice, Brandon took refuge with his daughter in the church. Weeks passed, and Brandon would not take his eye off his daughter for even a second. The priest was kind, but he could not wrap his head around the possibility of an Indian curse actually working. He firmly believed that the Lord would not allow the heathen devils to harm his faithful flock.

The priest still did bother to bless them, and even performed a complimentary exorcism. Two months passed, and the spirit bear did not make an appearance. Brandon could still not find any peace. His servants and his brother James eventually tracked him down. Brandon related his strange story, but his brother who naturally refused to believe him. He firmly believed that his brother Edward had murdered his wife out of jealousy.

James in part had come to take his niece away from his demented brother. Since he could not find a way to get the girl out, without much commotion, he decided to stay in the church to watch over her. Things continue peacefully for a few more days. Brandon’s peace was shattered when at night; he saw the spirit bear outside the church.

He was in the outskirts of the graveyard. The stylized hooded angel headstones looked real, and flesh like, almost as if they were alive. The spirit bear vomited a green miasma that spread over the graveyard. Brandon rose from his bed and closed the window. His brother, who was in the room watching him sleep, was shocked to see him sleep walking toward the window.

He started to suspect that his brother might be possessed. When the sun rose, little Marianne was with fever. The days passed and her conditioned worsened. When all hope seemed lost, a native boy came into church. The priests started to naturally shoo him away, however, he apparently knew Brandon.

“My older sister asked me to see Edward Brandon, she needs your help,” he said.

“I don’t help your kind, be gone cur!” said Brandon.

“You must see my father. He is the one who sent the spirit bear. If you refuse, he will continue killing everyone you love,” the boy explained, “If you do not believe me, I will tell you the phrase the bear spoke told you when you first saw him: À chaque fou plaît sa marotte.”

“This is madness. He probably heard the barkeep gossiping about it. If you go with him, it will be the death of you,” said James alarmed.

“I will see him my brother, for one thing. I only told one person what the bear had said,” said Brandon resigned to his fate.

Brandon traveled with the native boy, while his brother stayed behind looking after his daughter. In secret, his brother sent soldiers to follow after him. The native boy guided him up a mount. The mount was surrounded by strange sobbing and whispers that grew stronger the closer one got to the summit.

The soldiers who were trailing Brandon naturally did not hear anything. However, they were alarmed by the lack of sound that surrounded them. The breeze was dead, and not even an ant graced them with its presence. When Brandon got to the top, he saw an old wooden cabin, with smoke coming from the chimney. Outside, he saw in the flesh the specter of the little girl he had shot.

Brandon did not know this, but the girl was begging her father to stop killing for her sake. He could not understand her sobbing, since she spoke in her native tongue. She was tired of innocents dying because of her. Brandon entered the cabin. Inside he saw the true Spirit Bear, in the flesh. The old native was eyeing him with a look of content.

When the soldiers arrived at the cabin, they found it abandoned. There were no traces of it having been habited for the last 8 years. Brandon’s body was never found, nor was the strange native boy ever seen or heard from again. Marianne did not recover from her illness either. In her final delirious hours, she screamed for her father to protect her from the spirit bear.  

The Cursed Doll

The reporter Kevin Nestor was collecting anecdotes about the life during colonial times. It seemed unreal, that only 60 years ago there was slavery in America. To complete his book, he wanted to get the opinion of not only the slaves, but of the people who directly benefited from slavery. He wanted to get the other side of the story, in an effort to humanize the slave owners. For him, they were just people of their own time who naturally never questioned the evil of slavery, just the same as the people from his time were not questioning Separate but Equal.

Talking with former slaves had proven to be an easy task. However, getting former slave owners to open up was proving to be a difficult task. When describing the purpose of his book, he was always rudely sent away, and even a clan member had threatened to hang him.

After much effort, he found Rebeca M. Preston. Her family had owned slaves since her childhood. Her father had even fought for the Confederates. She had the ideal qualifications for his book. His publicist had made arrangements for him to speak with Mrs. Preston in her home. At the age of 68, this feeble old maiden was living in a farm with her youngest daughter, who was taking care of her.

After sharing a bit of tea and cake in the garden, Nestor started as thus, “How was your life growing up in a slave plantation?”

“Privileged,” said Mrs. Preston smiling coolly. Nestor frowned realizing her mind was as sharp as ever. He was not the sharpest tool in the shed.

“Did you ever felt guilty about the way the slaves were treated?” asked Nestor.

“No…” said Mrs. Preston.

“Why?” asked Nestor.

“As a lady, it was never my busyness how my father managed his property. I born white and raised by a black slave to be sure. I never questioned anything, nor saw anything wrong with the world around me. Sure, to you they were people, but to me they were not even human,” explained Mrs. Preston.

“Do you still feel the same way?” asked Nestor.

“Before I give you my answer, I would like to tell you a little story. A tale I have not told anyone, about the strange circumstances that led to decline of my father’s estate. You may have read about a strange plague that poisoned not only the slaves, but the horses, cattle and even the masters of the house, yes?” asked Mrs. Preston.

“Yes, I heard of it,” said Nestor lying. He wrote down in his notebook these few interesting facts about Mrs. Preston’s life. He wished he had done a bit of prep research before heading out. This interview was too short notice for his taste.  

“When I was eight, I was a precocious little girl. My father said I was born with the heart of a boy. Despite my mother and my nana’s best efforts, I lived a pretty active life running all over the farm, throwing rocks, practicing shooting and riding horses. My favorite game was to go exploring. Together with my older brother Luscious, may God Rest his soul, we would see how far we could explore out in the farm. Are you following me thus far, young Nestor?” asked Mrs. Preston. She sipped her tea and then continued her story, “While exploring, we stumbled upon a dark mysterious cave. It was hidden in the undergrowth of a tree. I remember the floor was damp, and the cave was not deep. One could get to the end in less than 1 minute.

There were slight holes in the top made by the roots of the tree. This allowed flickering tender light to enter inside. Luscious had reached into his knapsack and taken out a lantern. Beneath its flickering light, I saw something that caught my eye. Luscious grasped, saying, “It looks like a dead baby!”

We creep closer and were disappointed to discover that it was a weird, bisque doll. Bisque dolls were starting to get trendy. I used to own 20, all imported from Germany. I even had one that was a meter tall. I had gotten it for my 7^th birthday in an effort to curb my manly hobbies. It is ironic…now that I think about. My father never raised his hand against me, and was always indulgent to all my little eccentricities as a child, even when I willingly disobeyed him, but I digress,” said Mrs. Preston going on a tangent.

She took in a deep breath, and then continued, “The bizarre thing about the bisque doll was that it was black. My brother picked it up with suspicion and then commented, “It looks like it is burned or something.”

“Yeah, that would explain the color and the black dress,” I said agreeing with him.

“Do you want it?” asked Luscious.

“It is a bit dingy but I think Nana can probably clean it up,” I said putting the doll under my arm. I know now that it was God’s will that I picked up that doll. Through it, he was able to work great miracles within my family.

I took the black doll home and added it to my collection. Since the first day I brought it in, the slaves started acting restless, disoriented even. Some would start walking blindly at night, laughing like madmen. In the morning, their pace was sluggish. Even the most docile of slaves would sometimes suffer bursts of anger. It was quite the perplexing alteration in their behavior.

Whenever they would pass by me, they would eye the doll in a queer fashion. I had also to ask Nana like a hundred times to get her to clean the doll. In the end, she did so reluctantly. Despite her best efforts, the doll retained an overall charred look. I was beginning to suspect that it was a black bisque doll.

During dinner a week later, Luscious had spoken of the black doll to my father. He had laughed it off saying, “Those German snobs don’t make black dolls.”

One day, I was playing outside in the porch with my other dollies when a slave passing by accidently tripped on my black bisque doll. The doll was not harmed, still annoyed I said, “Watch were you are going!”

His eyes opened wide, and he said kneeling down, “Oh! Please, please forgive me! I did not see you, I implore your forgiveness! Honest, little lady I won’t do it again. I swear.”

My father who was reading the newspaper, sitting in a rocking chair beside me said calmly, “Its fine! It can happen to anyone. See! This is why I tell you not to play on the floor!”

The slave continued apologizing for a good while. In the end, my father sent someone to put him “away” since he was starting to annoy him. That day I tried my best to clean the doll and her stepped-on dress. I had sent it to the cleaner and even had the doll borrow a dress from my other bisque dolls. I naturally forgot about the entire incident. While going out in an excursion with my brother, I saw the slaves opening a grave for one of their peers. This was nothing new, so I continued on my way. Though, the burials were starting to become more frequent as of late.

The days passed and I continued blissfully with my life. Though, I was noticing some strange things. My nana would not speak to me whenever I had my black doll in the room. I took to taking the doll with me, so that my nana would not pester me about doing my lectures. A month eventually passed and that was when I noticed the bodies piling up. It was not just the slaves who were starting to die, but even the white indenture servants. My mother too was starting to fall ill.

At night, I heard whispers near my bedroom. The next morning, my father was looking very serious. He noticed the black doll too in my arms. He offered me a new, white doll and said coldly, “Maybe you will like this one better. It is the latest model.”

I tried playing with the new doll, but after two days I found its face shattered. The more graves the slaves dug up, the more whispers I heard behind my door at night. One day, I woke up in the middle of the night. I saw my nana standing by a rocking chair, staring at the black doll like a madman. It was not her face, glowing the moonlight which frightened me so, it was…” said Mrs. Preston stopping. Her face had turned paled, from the vividness of this memory.   

Taking strength again, she continued, “The chair… it started to rock by itself. Trembling from head to toe, I convinced myself that the wind was making the chair rock. I had opened the window that night to let the cold air in. The night was still and silent as a coffin. The only thing that broke the silence was the low groan of the rocking chair. I closed my eyes against my waking nightmare. I know not when I fell asleep. My dreams were haunted and confused.

When the sun rose, I was terrified to note that my nana had been replaced by a different slave. While walking outside, I saw my nana’s hand sticking out of one of the corpse wrappings. She was thrown unceremoniously along all the others who had died the previous night.

At that moment, I realized what I had done. During the afternoon, I took the doll with me. I went to the cave alone, without telling my brother. Sensing that I was up to no good, the doll starts having influence over me, and I feel myself becoming ill. I collapsed, and I yelled, “God! Please!”

I threw the doll toward a nearby water puddle and the dark rainy sky became aglow with light. I saw an ashen figure of a black little girl, dressed in gold emanate from the doll and then turn to ash. God had never answered any of my prayers till them. This was the one and only time I ever saw a miracle manifest before me. After that incident, the deaths stopped all together. I had apparently passed out from the stress. My father had found me fainted by the small stream. He had picked up the doll as well. The same day we had moved to another farm.

The war came and with it, my dear father was killed. You may think he was fighting on the side of evil, but he was a good, man who fought for what he believed in. To answer your question, I still feel the same way as before. Society may forcefully change, but people take a lot longer to change their mind, if at all,” concluded Mrs. Preston.

Nestor did not know what to make of Mrs. Preston’s bizarre story. He resolved to keep the cute parts, and everything relating the mysterious plague. He decided to remove the doll, all together from his anecdote anthology. He imagined his client probably suffered from hallucinations caused by lead poisoning. Building water pipes with lead was an unknown danger back then.

After completing the interview, Mrs. Preston asked him, “Would you like to see my black doll?”

I was under the impression you would want to get rid of it, after everything that happened though Nestor grimacing. Mrs. Preston showed him the peculiar black doll. Just like Mrs. Preston’s nana, he could not shake the feeling that the doll was staring at him.