Author: Gary

As you read this blog, another Thanksgiving weekend is winding down.  Family has come together from far and wide, sat and broken bread together, then once again gone their separate ways.  Everyone has reconnected and spent just enough time with one another to remind themselves why they don’t talk to each other during the rest of the year.

In my family, as in many others, we have a tradition that as we sit at the dinner table on Thanksgiving night, we go around the table and each of us says what we are thankful for at that moment in time.  When it was my turn, I said I was thankful that we were all able to get together for another Holiday.  This was a lie, but I didn’t want to be the one that lit the fuse this year.  Don’t get me wrong.  It always gets lit, but I don’t always have to be the one to do it.

It wasn’t easy, though.  Instead of the trite acknowledgement of our tradition, what I really wanted to say was this:

I am thankful for Uncle Mike, who is always hammered by no later than one o’clock.  Who lounges on the couch watching football while holding a drink in each hand, and yet still manages to pat every female who wanders too close to him on the butt.  Although by the end of the night he will be passed out on the floor, in the hours he is awake he will still manage to create a scene that involves the neighbors and the police.

I am thankful for Grandma.  The matron of the family who speaks infrequently, but when she does everyone holds their breath, wondering if she is going to attack one of us specifically or just mutter something that is generally horrible.  This “God fearing woman” with her moral values established two hundred years ago is convinced that each of us has strayed from the true path and is firmly in the grasp of the Devil.  I hope she does not have to put up with us for much longer.  Seriously, I hope Saint Peter comes for her before dessert.

I am thankful for my brother, the man who must always do me one better and draw the attention away if it happens to fall on me from time to time.  Me: “I’ll be right back, I have to pee.”  Him: “I’ve had to pee for the last hour, but I guess spending time with family is just more important to me.”

I am thankful for my nephew, who is in prison again.  No matter how bad I screw things up during the previous year, he always makes me feel better because I know it could have been worse.  A lot worse.  That kid is really messed up.  I mean, what the hell did he think he was going to do with a zebra?

I am thankful for my cousin, Laura, who could not be here this year.  She and her girlfriend are still upset by what Grandma said to them three years ago.  Not that I blame her.  Grandma was in a particularly foul mood that year.

I am thankful for my dad.  He passed away thirteen years ago, proving definitively that there actually is a way to escape the sucking hole of need that is our family, if only you have the will to do it.  Way to go, Dad.  I wish I had your strength.

And lastly, I am thankful for my dog.  She doesn’t talk to me.  Ever.  She sits quietly in the corner, minding her own business.  She only asks for a bowl of water, some kibble, and the occasional moment to stand outside in the sunshine.  And if she occasionally takes a dump on my neighbor’s lawn, nobody feels the need to call the cops.

Unlike with Uncle Mike.

Seasickness is merely a state of mind over matter.  Any person who succumbs to violent illness while traversing the wonders that are the world’s oceans is only demonstrating his own weakness of mind, body, and spirit.  Knowing this statement to be pure fact, when a friend of mine asked me last week if I wanted to go to Bodega Bay and fish for Rock cod and Dungeness crab, I wrapped myself in the cloak of my own testosterone and said, “Absolutely!  I would love to go.  Can’t wait.  Here is a ridiculous amount of money to reserve my space on the boat!”

With a smile, my friend – who we will just call “Bob,” since I have not yet decided if I am going to kill him – took my money.  He told me the chartered boat leaves dock Tuesday morning at exactly 5:30 AM; that I should pack a lunch and bring even more cash so I can rent a fishing pole, purchase lures and bait, pay the deck hands to clean any fish I catch, and tip the crew.  Still in the deep grip of my own self-delusion, I again said, “Sure.  Can’t wait.”

A few days passed and, as promised, I was on board a fishing boat in Bodega Bay on Tuesday morning at 5:30 AM.  Me, and about forty other people on a vessel designed to carry no more than twenty and still maintain a reasonable certainty of not sinking or capsizing.  The Captain welcomed us aboard with a cheery, “pay me before you go on the boat,” then directed us to find a location at the railing that would be our designated fishing spot.  My friend hooked me by the elbow and dragged me to one side of the ship, indicating that I should place my gear on the deck at my feet to reserve the twelve square inches I was allotted.

When everyone was finally situated in each other’s pockets, the captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker, indicating that we would be leaving port momentarily.  He stated that we were going to a favorite fishing location of his a few miles out and that we would be fishing until approximately 11 o’clock.  At this time, he would turn the boat around and, as we headed back to shore, he would begin pulling up crab pots that he had dropped a few days before.  True to his word, we were soon underway.

The water was rough that morning; what sea-going folk might call choppy, or blustery, or whatever the hell sea-going folk call really shitty water.  Swells taller than the boat kept picking us up and dropping us back down as we made unnoticeable progress forward.  During the first hour of this type of treatment, I held up fairly well, keeping my mind focused on all the crab and fish I would be bringing home for my wife to clean.  It was about fifteen minutes into hour number two that I started to feel like I might be in some trouble.  I told Bob that I hoped we were going to reach our destination soon.  He took one look at me and asked, “Are you okay?”

I think I missed his boots.  To be honest, I am not entirely certain what I did and did not manage to avoid as I turned to face the rolling waters beside the boat and attempted to eject half of my bodily organs out through my mouth.  I have read that it is physically impossible to die from seasickness.  I spent fifteen minutes retching over the boat’s railing, afraid that the author of that piece of information was entirely wrong.  After that, as my body purged itself of everything I had consumed over the past forty-eight hours, I became even more afraid that he might be right.  Death would have been preferable to the hell I was enduring.

At some point during the nauseated haze that dominated the rest of my fishing trip, the boat at last came to a stop.  The Captain announced that passengers could now drop their lines, and he wished us all good luck.  Somehow, I succeeded in rigging my fishing pole and putting a hook in the water.  After that herculean feat, all I could manage to do was to curl up on the wet, slippery deck in a ball of sick misery.  I do recall that every once in a while, Bob would kick me with the side of his boot and shout, “You have a fish on your line.  You want me to pull it in?”

With a small wave of my shaking hand, I would indicate to him, “Yes, please.  I would like you to reel in my fish as I have not yet finished vomiting onto my shirt and pants.  And would you be so kind as to not drop the fish on top of me as you did last time?”

In this manner, over the next several hours my stomach emptied, and my bag of fish filled up.  When everyone had caught their limit, including myself through the repeated “help” of my friend, the Captain’s voice requested that everyone reel in their lines because it was time to go collect some crabs.

The trip back to shore is a complete blur.  I do recall the boat stopping frequently, and passengers talking excitedly as crab pots were pulled to the surface.  I also have a recollection of Bob waving a clawed monstrosity in my face and yelling, “Dude!  These babies are huge!”  I think I threw up on it.  I couldn’t tell you who was unhappier at that moment; me or the crab.

Finally, after nine disastrous hours at sea, I found myself mercifully on unmoving land holding a bag of dead fish in one hand and a bag of live crab in the other.  My friend held up his own catch beside me and told me that he had a blast, and that we definitely had to do the same trip again next year.

And that is when I said probably the dumbest thing I have ever said in my life.  I looked Bob square in the eyes, and I told him, “Yup.  Sounds like fun.”

From WHEN DARKNESS COMES

Andi grabbed my hand and half led, half dragged me down the final slope of hillside and into the heart of the collection of headstones filling the isolated cemetery.  She pulled me directly to one of the four central mausoleums, not stopping until we were almost within its shadow.  The structure loomed above us like a huge iron and marble box; at least fifteen feet tall and just as wide, with perhaps forty feet separating the front wall from the back.  Four stone gargoyles guarded the moldering residents inside from positions at each corner of the roof, while two more – at least twice the size of the others – perched from parapets jutting above each side of the dual metal doors barring the front entrance.  The massive creatures glared down at us, eyes slitted and fanged mouths gaping wide, clearly indicating that trespassers should tread warily.

Andi paused and laid a tentative hand on one of the doors.  I thought the eerie surroundings and my own building unease were causing me to hallucinate as I watched her close her eyes and sniff the air.  Without warning, she dropped to her hands and knees, lowered her face to the ground, and again inhaled deeply.  She reminded me of an animal sniffing for the spoor of another; a predator searching for a competitor or enemy who may have left his scent behind to mark a claim.  She spat once into the dirt, then once more on the paving stones that formed a small porch at the front of the mausoleum.  She stood and dusted the dirt from the knees of her jeans.  Andi then smiled at me as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

I looked at my feet and took a long breath, trying to clear my head and bring myself back to reality.  I thought to myself, did I really just witness that?  But I knew I had.  I wasn’t deluded or hallucinating.  This was really happening.  However I had gotten to this point, the fact of the matter was that I currently stood in a cemetery located in the middle of nowhere with a creature I barely knew.  I loved her with all the passion in my being, but I also had to acknowledge I didn’t know anything about who she was or what she was capable of.  I loved her, yes, but that night, for the first time, I realized I did not completely trust her.  And I had to admit I might even, perhaps a little, be afraid of her.  But it was far too late for that revelation.

“We’re okay,” she said.  “We can go in.”

“Go in?” I asked, taking a small involuntary step back.  “Why would we want to go in?”

Andi pushed the metal doors and they swung inward, opening under her touch.  The metal hinges protested loudly but offered no real resistance.  I flinched as the grating screech echoed out through the otherwise perfect silence around us.  When quiet reigned once again, I realized I was holding my breath.  I think I was waiting for something to rise up out of the ground and raise some kind of objection to the noisy announcement of our presence.  But nothing moved, so I forced myself to release the air from my lungs.

The doors of this towering monument to death now stood fully open, but even straining my eyes I could see only shadows inside.

“You don’t want to come in with me?” Andi asked.  The smile was still on her face.

“Not really, no,” I replied, still trying to pierce the wall of gloom to see what might be lurking inside – or perhaps what might come rushing out.

Andi pulled her sweatshirt off over her head.  She wasn’t wearing anything underneath it.  With a careless flip of her wrist, she tossed the garment over her shoulder and let it fall to the ground.  Next, her hands went to work unfastening her belt and the clasp of her pants.  More articles of clothing followed the first, and soon she stood naked in the moonlight looking questioningly back at me.  “I think you do,” she said with a playful cock of her head.  She turned and stepped through the inky black doorway without a second glance in my direction.

It took only a few seconds for fear and concern for self-preservation to be swallowed up by a much more primal urge.  In my mind’s eye I saw her again just before the shadows claimed her.  Her pale skin caressed by the moonlight.  The delicate line of her spine and the two shallow dimples that accented her lower back.  I saw the round muscles of her buttocks, alternately clenching and relaxing as she walked away from me, and what common sense I still possessed was quickly shouted down by my baser instincts.

“Shit,” I said aloud, knowing I was making the wrong decision but helpless to change it.  With the image of Andi’s naked backside held firmly before me like a mental shield against my fears, I followed her into the darkness.

As I stepped through the opening, I stumbled down an unexpected flight of stairs.  Fortunately there were only three small steps and I was able to catch myself before falling on my face.  I found my balance enough to stop my forward momentum, but the darkness quickly overwhelmed me and I became disoriented anew.  I felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if the blackness around me were a physical presence pressing in on me.  “Andi?”  I called out softly, feeling panic blossoming in my chest.  I feared if I tried to speak any louder, I might scream.  “Where are you?”

“Shush.  I’m right here, Love.”  Her voice came from only a few feet away, and the sound of it immediately calmed me.  I still felt disoriented, and decidedly confused by Andi’s decision to bring me here, but the panic at least subsided.  “Close your eyes and let them adjust.  Relax and count to one hundred, slowly.”

I did as she instructed.  I counted silently in my head and willed my heart beat to slow back to a reasonable pace.  Inhaling and exhaling deeply, I also brought my breathing back to something approximating normal.

“One hundred,” I said aloud a few moments later and opened my eyes.  The blackness no longer seemed so complete.  I found I could now make out a few details of the mausoleum’s interior.  Even as I looked around, my vision continued to improve until the moonlight pouring through the doorway became more than sufficient to move about safely.

The roof, floor and two side walls in the building were covered with something pale and smooth; perhaps marble block or tile.  If there were murals or paint of any kind, it was still indistinguishable in the limited light.  Ornate stone benches also ran the length of the side walls, and periodic recesses offered ledges where what appeared to be glass bowls had been sporadically placed.  A closer look revealed the bowls held unlit candles.  Most of the candles already seemed to be burnt and melted to the point of uselessness.

I moved further into the deep, single room of the structure and realized for the first time that the walls were intact along their entire length.  There were no windows or openings of any kind.  The front door was the only way in and out.

I continued my inspection all the way to the back the wall opposite the doors, where what initially appeared to me to be more flat surface with several symmetrical dark patches of color, I could now identify as a series of physical irregularities of shape along its surface.  I reached toward the odd shapes, but stopped myself as I realized what I was seeing.  In the minimal lighting I could barely make out sixteen metal plates – four rows of four – set in the wall.  Each plate measured approximately three feet square, and each had set in its base, a simple metal handle.  The arrangement looked to me almost like a series of file drawers holding what could have been centuries of paper documents.  I did not need to pull on one of the handles to know behind those small doors rested not papers, but the decomposing ancestors of Andi’s mysterious friend.

Suddenly remembering Andi and the reason I had even come inside in the first place, I looked around the room once more searching for her.  I found her standing off to one side, still by the front doors, arms crossed in front of her breasts and watching me closely.

“Do you see me?” she asked when I turned to face her.

“Yes.  I see you.”

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From THIRTEEN ROOMS

RIVER GNOME DANCE

Why the hell was I here?

Actually, that was the wrong question.  The answer to that was simple.  I was here because Git was here.  The appropriate question should have been: Why the hell was Git here?

Point Mountain Resort near Phoenix, Arizona: a tiny oasis of activity surrounded by miles of rock, cactus, and (probably) poisonous lizards.  Heat-tempered inhospitable land stretched out for miles in all directions, promising any unwary traveler only hunger, thirst, and a slow painful death.  Of course, Highway I-10 provided easy access to the airport from the resort, but so what?  Where else was the road supposed to go?  Third sand dune from the left?

Besides, Git didn’t like flying and was unlikely to head that way.  Even grounded, the little bastard had already proven himself extremely mobile and difficult to catch.  It was sheer dumb luck this time that one of our office techs, while visiting family, spotted him in the city.

From that initial sighting, I tracked him to the hotel without too much difficulty.  Git stood out when he finally raised his head from hiding, which was not really that surprising when you consider that Git was a River Gnome.  And a pretty mean one, at that.

Most River Gnomes existed quietly around unpopulated rivers, lakes, or damp rain forests, keeping to themselves and avoiding people at all costs.  They were communal, peaceful, and generally timid creatures.  Gnomes only survived this long by staying unnoticed.  If they ever allowed themselves to be discovered they would be wiped out by hunters, scientists, and Dungeons & Dragons freaks willing to sell their own parents to own a real-live magical creature.  The Gnomes knew this.  That’s why they all stayed out of sight.

All, except Git.

Somehow, a few years ago, this particular malcontent got it into his slimy green head to go exploring.  He discovered in his travels that he had a taste for human luxuries, including tobacco, alcohol, and – of all ridiculous things – cheesecake.  None of these items were exactly prevalent where he came from, so Git decided to live around people.

As I said before, Git stood out.

The biggest rummy to ever stagger his way up to a bar stool is eventually going to notice a three-foot tall River Gnome pounding back beers on the seat next to him.  Git started a few riots and frightened a lot of people.  At first, he was more of a nuisance than any real problem, but nine months ago his status changed dramatically and he made his first appearance on my radar.  He was out on one of his forays for booze, and he killed a local police officer who made the mistake of trying to arrest him.

I was assigned his case the next day.  The best way to catch a creature that isn’t supposed to exist in the first place is with a person that isn’t supposed to exist.  That’s me.  Well, me and about six other agents – I’m not sure exactly how many of us there are – and a couple dozen office staff that kept us properly funded and equipped.  All of us were highly trained, top secret, and completely expendable.

So, when this problem arose that needed to be dealt with quietly, it fell squarely in my lap.  My job was to remove Git from the human population.  If I could capture him alive, I would.  If not….

After taking the assignment, I got close to him a couple of times, but he managed to slip away before I could physically get my hands on him.  After our last encounter, he disappeared completely for over a month, and I admit I actually started to convince myself he was gone for good.  Six weeks passed without so much as a single sighting.  I should have known my luck couldn’t hold forever.

Git was moving again, and this time I did not plan on losing him.

Which left me with my original question:  What the hell was a River Gnome doing in the middle of a desert?

Especially at this hotel on this particular weekend.

When I arrived I was met in the lobby by a large, black bulletin board announcing something called an Oireachtas occurring at this location over the next three days.  Turns out, an Oireachtas was some kind of dance competition.  Dancers from all over the Western United States descended on this resort hotel, tucked away in its own private corner of Hell, to perform and compete in Irish dancing.  I couldn’t tell exactly what they were competing for, however.  Maybe they were trying to determine who was going to be cast in the next Lord of the Dance road show.  (Thank you Michael Flatly for unleashing that particular plague on humanity.)

I made the mistake of asking a woman at the hotel about it, and she treated me to a five-minute scathing discourse on proper Gaelic pronunciation.  Apparently – for anyone who might harbor the slightest interest – the word is pronounced ee-rock-tis.  Not, as I so errantly thought, oy-reach-tas.  Silly me.  Once she finished schooling me in my ignorance, she went on to explain that it would be ten dollars if I wanted to go in and watch the dancers, and would that be cash or charge?

Not having any idea where – or if – Git would turn up, I paid my entrance fee and received a Day-Glo-pink paper wrist band, as well as a stern warning not to take it off or lose it lest I be docked another ten-spot to replace it.  I smiled my best I’m-trying-to-be-a-good-sport smile and dutifully taped it to my wrist.  I escaped through the back lobby doors, just past a bank of elevators waiting to take the hotel guests up to their rooms, and walked out into the open courtyard.

A wall of noise struck me in the face with physical impact.  The yard teemed with people milling about a collection of umbrella covered tables and shiny metal space heaters (that seemed very out of place on an eighty-five degree day).  Humanity packed the courtyard from one garish, yellow stucco building to the next.  Sitting, standing, laughing, shouting; people swarmed everywhere.  And they were all loud.

I took a slow breath to ease the adrenaline kick I’d just received and cast myself adrift into the shifting currents of Oireachtas attendees.  (Oireachtites?)  As I pushed through the throng, being jostled first one way then another, I scanned the crowd hoping to catch a glimpse of Git.

I waded to the half-way point through the courtyard and glanced back toward the hotel lobby.  For the first time I really took notice of the people flocking about me.  I was surrounded by hundreds of little girls, most of them under the age of ten, very few over sixteen, and all of them were either dressed in knee socks and short, garishly embroidered skirts, or else running around in undershirts and dance shorts.  Every one of them had their hair curled into tight ringlets that bounced comically up and down when they moved, and they all wore more makeup than I had ever seen on any human being not directly affiliated with a circus.  Hundreds of miniature, beauty-queen caricatures flashed past me, ricocheting off of furniture, walls, and each other in bright undecipherable patterns.  I felt like I had kicked an anthill in some Lewis Carroll fever dream and got caught in the resulting Technicolor stampede.

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From Not for Bedtime Stories, by G. Allen Wilbanks

A MOTHER’S LOVE

Elizabeth stood motionless in the corner of the dark nursery.  She did not turn on a light, but instead let the shadows caress and conceal her while she hovered in her indecision.  Despite the darkness, she could see the small form huddled in the crib clearly, and she knew, should it wake, it would see her just as easily.  The blanket-swaddled mass moved rhythmically and almost soundlessly as it drew air in and out of its tiny lungs.  Only the fragile hiss of air passing its rosebud lips with each exhalation disturbed the otherwise perfect quiet of the room.  The noise was so slight Elizabeth might have missed it had she not been listening so closely.

To most new mothers, the sound of a child’s breath comes as a great comfort, a reassurance that the baby is alive and will wake in due time, hungry and needing of attention.  But her child’s whispered sighs gave no comfort to Elizabeth.  The sound taunted her.

Silence and shadows ruled the rest of the house as well.  Had Elizabeth opened the nursery door right now she would have heard her husband’s light snoring from where he remained asleep in their room.  She envied his blissful retreat from reality into the world of sleep.  She had been unable to make the journey herself.  Her mind, unable to quiet and unwilling to rest, had finally driven her from their bed.

When she entered the room where the child lay and closed the door behind her, she had not known exactly why she was there.  She only knew that she had some deep need pushing her tonight.  Elizabeth crossed to the tall wooden rocking chair that had given her so many hours of comfort during her pregnancy, intending to sit and wait for dawn or for sleep, whichever should find her first.  But, as she moved the small, embroidered hand pillow resting on the seat, the feel of the material in her hand sent a shock up her arm into her roiling mind.  Her thoughts clarified in an instant, and she knew without a doubt why she had come.

 

When the child was born, Elizabeth had chosen the name Michael for the new arrival.  It was her grandfather’s name and she had selected it to pay tribute to what he had meant to her before his death just a few months previously.  The name was special to her and she could not wait to bestow it on the new member of her family.  But when the child left her body, she knew immediately that it would never carry the name Michael, or any other human name.  Not to her.

Elizabeth knew something was wrong with the writhing mass of purple and pink flesh the moment the doctor laid it on her breast.  The squalling thing had gazed at her, covered in her blood and coated with the slick white film of birth; its toothless maw agape and screaming obscenities in a language she could not understand.  She had refused to address it by the name she had chosen.  The creature was not human.  It was not her baby, and to call it Michael would be to give a semblance of normalcy to the evil that had been thrust upon her.  She would not give lie to the horror and pretend nothing had happened.  She could not hide from the truth of its monstrosity.  Perhaps others could blind themselves and smile and coo at this horrid mockery of life, but she simply could not.

She pushed the child away.

Her husband lifted the crying baby from her, a startled and hurt expression on his face.  He did not understand her reaction.  He did not see the truth.  Elizabeth began to cry, turning away from both of them and burying her face against the stiff, uncomfortable hospital pillow.

Now, three weeks later, Elizabeth still would not speak the name of a child that did not exist.  She stood in the shadows of the nursery, feeling an even greater darkness building inside of her.  The darkness of being alone, of being the only one capable of seeing the evil she had borne into the world.

Elizabeth clutched the hand-embroidered pillow in front of her, holding the white rectangle of material up like a talisman against the creature in the nursery with her.  Her fingers curled into bloodless white claws around the smooth, giving material, clinging desperately as though someone might at any minute try to rip the item from her hands.  The pillow had been a gift from some well-meaning relative, but it had turned out to be only a cruel reminder.  Although it was too dark to read the blue stitched lettering on the pillow’s face, Elizabeth could picture it clearly: It’s A Boy!

The irony was almost laughable, except Elizabeth found nothing about her situation funny.  It wasn’t a boy.  How could it be a boy?  It wasn’t human.

She took a step closer to the crib.

 

The doctors had told her that her reaction toward the baby was not normal, but also not uncommon.  Many new mothers had difficulty accepting their children at first.  They gave her long detailed explanations of the hormones in her body and how they could easily be fouled up during pregnancy and childbirth.  They threw medical terms and definitions at her, her favorite being postpartum depression.  But she had a few terms for them as well: demon, changeling, dybbuk, shedu.  Each doctor and nurse, in his or her own self-important, condescending manner told her she was going to be fine and with a little time she would come to love her baby.  Elizabeth tried to tell them there was no baby here to love.

They gave her drugs.  The medications left her slow and sluggish.  The fear remained, but she was left helpless to fight back as her husband placed the writhing leech upon her teat to feed upon her body.  Elizabeth imagined the child drawing blood and small ragged pieces of her soul through her sore, hurting nipples.  She told herself the baby only wanted milk, but her mind insisted this diseased imitation of human life would destroy her if allowed to suckle just one minute more.

Despite the numbing effects of the sedative, Elizabeth raised her hands to the baby’s head and pushed with all the strength remaining to her.  If her husband had not been standing right beside the bed to rescue the child, it might have fallen to the floor, crushing its tiny skull and ending her torment instantly.  He caught the child before any harm could come to it.  Elizabeth moaned and tried weakly to roll over in her hospital bed.

“Take it away.  Away.”  She mumbled the words around a drug-thickened tongue, but her well-meaning husband understood.  He carried the screaming infant from the room.

 

That had been the last time the child fed from anything other than a bottle.  At least Elizabeth had accomplished that much.

Her breasts still ached occasionally from the milk filling them, from the pressure of the fluids she would not allow the child to draw from her.  Sometimes, when the creature cried, her nipples leaked, wetting the front of her blouse with large circular patches around each breast.  It infuriated her that the little beast should have control over her body in any way, especially one so visibly obvious.

Elizabeth took a second step.

The floor creaked under the weight of her foot and she froze.  The child’s breathing ceased for just a moment, and the tiny hands thrashed briefly beneath the restraining blanket wrapped around its body.  Then it relaxed and the slow, rhythmic breathing began once more.

Elizabeth released the breath she did not realize she had been holding.  Her heart hammered in her chest, so painful and loud she thought the whole neighborhood must be able to hear it.  She glanced guiltily around the room, jerking her head left, then right.  She could feel someone watching her and she searched desperately to find the intruder who had slipped into the nursery with her, but she found nothing except stuffed animals, furniture and shadows sharing these four walls.

No one.  Yet the feeling did not diminish.  Something else about the room had changed as well.

It took only a moment for Elizabeth to realize what the difference was: the child’s breathing had quickened.  It was awake!  She stared in mounting terror at the tiny face protruding from the bundle of blankets.  As she watched, the eyes opened.  Tiny pits of blackness perched above cherubic pink cheeks focused on her; bored into her.

It gazed at her, silent, appraising, through the bars of the crib.

The child did not cry out or make a noise of any kind.  It merely observed; waiting to see what she might do.  In the darkness, the wooden slats of the crib reminded Elizabeth of black iron bars; the type of bars that might be found in a centuries old prison.  She could almost smell the decay of the dead and dying wallowing in filth and garbage.   Her gorge rose, and she had to fight to shake off the imagery and focus on the task at hand.  Although the bars circled the swaddled creature, Elizabeth had no doubt in her mind who was truly the prisoner in this situation.

She took another step.

The child still did not move, but a noise bubbled from its undeveloped throat.  A single nonsense syllable that shattered the delicate silence that had sustained Elizabeth to this point.  The rules suddenly changed.  This was no longer a mission of stealth, it was an attack on an aware enemy.  She had to charge forward with her advantages of surprise and deliberation gone.  She wanted to move, but her determination began to slip.  Someone had cut the strings holding her up.

Elizabeth’s knees buckled, but she knew that if she fell she would never have the strength to try again.  With the last of her wavering will, she forced herself forward.  Toppling, she fell against the crib, draped her torso over the top rail and pushed the pillow down with both hands over the child’s wide-eyed face.

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A couple weeks ago, I briefly mentioned school fund raising drives.  I didn’t go too deeply into the topic, instead focusing solely on the point that the fund raisers all seemed aimed directly at the parents of student athletes and children in extracurricular activities.  In this post, I would like to delve into that cesspool a little deeper.

Recently, my daughter brought home a pamphlet and a sign-up sheet.  It seems she had been asked to sell cookie dough to raise funds for the school band.  The first thing she showed me was a page that listed a number of prizes that she could win if she sold enough of the items listed in the pamphlet.  Apparently, if she sells ten tubs of cookie dough, she could win … wait for it … a free tub of cookie dough!

Since it is most likely that as the parents of the child, we will be purchasing most if not all of what she sells, this is basically telling me that if I buy 10 tubs, I get one free.  But who the hell needs eleven tubs of cookie dough?  If my daughter wants to win a bucket of cookie dough, why don’t we just buy one bucket and let her have it.  It achieves the same goal.

I have to wonder if there was a meeting somewhere between all the executives of Cookie Dough Conglomerated, where they were discussing what prizes to give the kids that sold the most of their product.  I can only assume that someone trying to be funny, said, “Hey, how about this: If they sell a lot of cookie dough, we should give them more cookie dough.”  I’m sure they all had a good laugh about this until one person took it too far by actually writing the stupid suggestion down.

Okay, I realize that the prizes are not the point of the fund raisers.  I shouldn’t focus on the silliness of giving a child a 5 dollar water bottle if they sell $200 worth of cookies (yes, that too is an actual prize listed on the flyer).  The focus should be on helping the band raise money to pay for travel, uniforms, and other yearly expenses.  However, I should point out that if I pay one hundred dollars for cookies, the band gets $25.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to simply give the band $25 dollars and save myself the additional seventy-five?  Seems like the cheaper deal for me, and the school gets exactly the same outcome.

I can hear what some of you are thinking right now.  “But, if you donate twenty-five dollars, you don’t have anything to show for it.  If you buy cookies, you have one hundred dollars-worth of yummy cookie dough in your freezer.”  This is true, however, it is also true that if I wanted a hundred dollars-worth of cookie dough in my house, I would probably already have it.  Because, here is the dirty little secret: you can find cookie dough literally everywhere, at any time.  It does not just magically appear once a year when my daughter’s band needs to raise funds.  California is not a cookie dough barren wasteland.  I don’t need to stock up on the stuff.

Hell, if I were desperate, I could probably find the ingredients in my pantry to make my own dough.  I’m not going to, because I’m lazy.  But, I could.  If I really wanted to.  Which I don’t.  Because of the aforementioned laziness.

So, am I going to buy cookie dough from my daughter?  Yeah, I probably am.  Am I going to suck friends and family members into this crappy deal?  Yup.  Probably going to do that too.  I don’t want my child to be “that kid” that couldn’t even sell one tub of cookie dough.

But, I think I will make out the check for three cents less than the correct total, just to see what those greedy cookie moguls do about it.  Power to the people!