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  Red smiled. “The pleasure’s all mine.” He whacked him on the other cheek.

  Rod shook his head. “I still love you, Red, and I’ll pray for you. You see, I was insane, but now, brother, I’m healed . . . and free. It’ll happen to you too. You’ll see.”

  Red laughed. “Maybe so, but until then I think I’ll have some fun with you.”

  He grabbed Rod by his prison uniform, hauled him out of bed, slammed him against the wall and gave him a sound thrashing. Rod didn’t fight back because of his faith.

  After the guards had taken Red to the hole, Rod smiled, even though it hurt with the bruises and fat lip. “Yes, Lord, if I’m righteous, I’m righteous for myself, and if Red does evil, only he will pay the penalty. Hallelujah.”

  He resumed reading his Bible.

  The guard walked up to Rod’s cell. “Hey, Rod, I’ve got good news for you.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Your buddy’s been moved to another cell.”

  “Praise the Lord!”

  “I figured you’d be glad to hear that. Are you going to the church service tonight?”

  Rod smiled. “You bet.”

  “All right, happy reading, and hey, I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As per Rod’s prayers, the authorities gave him time off for good behavior and a reduced sentence. The sweet promise of freedom called. As his parole officer dropped him off at his parent’s house, he smelled the freshly-cut grass, listened to the birds sing and felt the cool breeze. Yes, he was free at last and life was good.

  His parents were glad to see him sporting a haircut and a shave.

  Wednesday night, Rod showed up at the First Pentecostal Church in Tampa. He smiled as he shook their hands, mentioning he played guitar.

  As he met Pastor Lawson, the benevolent-looking man beamed. “We’ll use you in the church band.”

  “Anything I can do to help the Lord’s cause, sir, because I’m blessed.”

  “You are now, brother.”

  A month later, Rod played guitar in the church band and smiled up at the Lord’s light shining strongly through the glass walls of the cathedral. He felt a warm fuzzy and was glad he now had a purpose. The song came to an end.

  The pastor stormed up to the mic. “Thank you, Jesus! Yea-yes! And thank you, faithful flock, for coming out in droves to help us win the unrepentant sinners to the mercy God showed us while we were but filthy sinners.” He looked over at Rod. “Brother Rod, put down that guitar and give us a testimony.”

  The crowd cheered and a few girls whooped it up.

  Rod took the mic. “Thank you, Pastor. It’s good to be in the house of the Lord. I was a death metal musician playing music for the devil. I did time in prison and back then, I would’ve killed you for quarter.”

  The spellbound crowd watched him eagerly.

  “But look at me now!”

  The crowd erupted, clapping so hard it sounded almost deafening.

  The pastor took the mic. “Thank you, Jesus! Let’s have another hymn.”

  The band tore into another song and when it concluded the pastor rose from his seat on stage and grabbed the mic. “Praise GAWD, we’re here to have a revival, so let’s revive the dead!”

  The band tore into an instrumental and the pastor skipped across the stage.

  At the conclusion of the service, a huge multitude of sinners came pouring down to the altar while Rod smiled, putting his guitar on the stand.

  Until he saw Red Tisdale come down, the last person Rod had expected to see here. Not then.

  “Brother Rod,” the pastor called, “this man said he knew you when you were a mere sinner, and he’d like you to do some hands-on prayer for him.”

  Rod frowned. You want me to do some hands-on prayer, huh? Rod remembered how hands-on Red had been in the showers while eight guys had held Rod down and the guard had looked the other way. Rod realized now that GAWD had allowed that.

  Rod came forward. He placed his hand on Red’s forehead while Red closed his eyes. Then he placed another hand on his chest.

  Rod had lifted a lot of weights in prison. There’d been nothing else to do.

  “Hello, Rod,” Red breathed.

  Rod scowled. “Lord, save this man’s soul and give him your Holy Spirit.”

  “Yes, Lord,” Red whispered.

  “AND BE SLAIN IN THE SPIRIT.” Rod shoved him back as hard as he could. His strength shoved Red far away from the altar. Red stumbled backward, unable to keep his balance. As he fell he hit his head on the front pew. He lay still, not moving.

  The pastor blanched. “Oh my LAWD, don’t’ let him be dead.” He rushed over to Red, placing his hand over his mouth and feeling for a pulse. “Oh my good GAWD, he’s . . . no longer with us.” He looked at Rod. “It was an accident. Brother Rod didn’t mean to do it.”

  The congregation agreed with the pastor.

  Rod felt true joy within himself. Praise the LAWD.

  One week later, Rod had left the church and jammed out with Subterfuge. He cut a power solo . . . until a bullet cut him down, sinking into his heart.

  Keith Walker held the gun, standing amidst the moshers in the audience. “Remember me? You killed my friend!”

  As the world faded to black, Rod gaped.

  You won again, Red. See you in hell.

  Shades of Gray (the Symbiosis of Light and Dark)

  You are the prettiest woman in the neighborhood, and you know it. But I’m nothing. Though I work my ass off, I never get ahead. I don’t have a car or very much money. Yet I’ve been in love with you since the second grade. I die inside every time I talk to you—you, with your nose in the air and your license plate that says You Wish—to acknowledge me would shift the planet out of balance. Heaven is close every time I see your straight, blond hair flowing in the wind like straw in a barn on a stormy day; your pouty, full lips, red as apples; your full bosom, not too large and not too small; your tanned, thin legs; the apple butt they rush into; and your teeth that shine like ivory. When I watch you across the street frolicking in your pool, I catch a fever inside, burning like the sun. If you’d cared enough to find out about me you’d know I’m a mental patient, and I can’t wish anymore. Tonight is the night, my love. I’m going to kidnap you and have you for my very own; when it’s dark, when it’s late, at the hour you always come home from work. I’m going to make you consummate our unholy marriage. There’s just one more detail, my dear. I know you’ll scream and squirm, trying to get away—that’s what the rope and duct tape are for—but just to make sure you don’t resist me anymore, I’m going to clinch it. Besides, I’ve always dreamed of having sex with the dead.

  The Interloper

  How can I explain how my life became a pinprick of agony so you’ll understand? Oh well, it’s worth a try.

  Once I was handsome like the studs that fare well today. Beautiful women were my quarry, and I loved life with the zeal of a child. Every experience new, every day a bright promise, every conversation interesting, the roads leading away from my corner of the world filled me with hope for opportunities previously unexplored.

  But the years took their toll. Life became tedious, people became annoying and each new dawn proved a curse. My full head of lush, brown hair turned into a barren crown, the ripped abs morphed into a paunch and like a sickening tumor, hate spread throughout me ‘til I loathed my fellow man.

  Then the Centrum Silver years crept up on me. Now I’m just a tired shell, awaiting death.

  I work at a printing shop, and the stains covering my clothing and skin never seem to come out, along with that smell. My joints ache all the time. At sixty-three, I’m too old to do this work, and too young to retire because of the bad economy. Imagine a world of crime taking over the streets because no good jobs await the seekers, even though Barack Obama promised to make everything better. I’ve heard that empty promise before.

  My bills are meager. The food I buy is but the basest of supply.

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p; And I fear the youth. Teens could erupt on me in a pack and what could I do? They’d already made fun of me whenever they’d caught me riding my bicycle.

  I could tolerate the misery of the world, but my house and its deception, I could not stand.

  Coming home one evening, the lady next-door, Miss Barton, waved hello as she toiled at the begonias. The oppressive sun highlighted her hair picturesquely. I waved back, covered with black ink and smelling like a bad automobile engine. All I wanted was to rid myself of the filth of the day, so I planned a hot shower.

  She rose and dusted herself off. “Hello, Gerald. Working hard, I see? That’s good for the economy.”

  I attempted a smile. “I’m not sure anything can help our economy, but it’s worth a try, ‘eh?”

  She pointed at me, looking like a fairy version of a medieval troll; her short legs twined with varicose veins, her midsection bulging and her gray hair scruffy. “You give ‘em hell!”

  I unlocked the door, put down my lunch pail and collapsed on the sofa. If you only knew how it felt to get up at four in the morning, leave for work by five, bicycle to my brother Arnold’s house—my ride to work in another town—and then slave over a press all day. I wanted to reach for my remote, but even that became a chore.

  No wife awaited me. Celia lost her struggle with cervical cancer two years ago.

  Depression soon turned into agoraphobia.

  I don’t see my wife’s face in my mind anymore. Oh Celia, forgive me, I’ve started to forget what you looked like. In my dreams though, she lived on while remission blessed us as we vacationed in Bermuda. Waking indeed becomes akin to Satan’s fall as God hurled him from heaven.

  My phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Hello, is this Gerald Vanderbilt?”

  “Yes.” I sighed. Great, a telemarketer. “Who is this?”

  “This is Jeffrey from Isle River Resort. We’ve got tons of prizes waiting for you. Is there any way you can get a ride up here for our exhibition on the twenty-seventh?”

  Jeffrey, the pencil pusher. “How many times have I told you people that I tried to get a ride to your resort and no one was available? Don’t call here anymore!”

  “But sir, I—”

  I hung up.

  How I finally found the strength to pick up the remote is beyond me. When I flicked on the television, a news report showed another mass suicide in Central Africa. A preacher from Minnesota had led a congregation there and talked them into drinking cyanide to escape the reign of the beast. They thought Armageddon threatened because of all the bitter-hearted people into worldly rap and death metal music. The visions created a vile disgust within my being. I turned it off without remorse.

  Someone shoved me onto the floor from behind.

  Pushing myself up by my hands, shock gripped me as a vice. I breathed heavily, hoping I wouldn’t have a heart attack. Springing to my feet—with what energy, I don’t know—I wanted to know what sick fiend had broken into my house.

  No one was there.

  My heart pulsed wildly within my chest. The previous visions of violence returned as I realized someone had entered the sanctity of my home.

  By the way, I’m a schizophrenic. I have to take medicine to even up the equilibrium in my head. Always worrying about a trigger—a horrible event—making me relapse and sending me to the hospital, I’ve suffered considerable stress. Sometimes the hallucinations were tactile and olfactory. So was this another hallucination, or had someone broken into my house, shoved me and then made a quick escape?

  Walking to the back door, I found it ajar, knowing I hadn’t left it that way. Jesus! What should I do?

  I sprang toward the phone, dialing 911.

  “Poughkeepsie Police,” a woman answered.

  “Help me.” My voice trembled.

  “What’s wrong, sir?”

  I wiped sweat off my brow. “I’d like to report a home invasion. Someone assaulted me.”

  “Hold on. I’ll let you speak to an officer.”

  While waiting, I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone was lurking there.

  “Officer Bastion. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, officer, someone broke into my house. Whoever it is, they tried to kill me.”

  “Is the perpetrator still in the house?”

  “I . . . don’t know. I turned around and the person had run off.”

  “Have you searched the house?”

  A dreadful flaw asserted itself then. I was afraid to confront a criminal. As a lot of decent, hard-working people, I preferred to live in a suburb where the unimaginable doesn’t happen, keeping the baser elements of society in the city.

  With fidgeting, trembling hands, I spun in all directions to try to spot the intruder. “Um . . . no. Could you come out and investigate?”

  “Well, it sounds to me like the intruder fled the scene. But I’ll come check it out.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Sure.”

  Click.

  I waited and waited but no one showed up. After an hour, I called the police station and learned Officer Bastion had been in an accident. The operator said they’d send another officer. I told her not to bother because by then a panic attack was having its way with me. After breathing hard and suffering through mental pain akin to someone setting my mind on fire, I just wanted to get out of there.

  Did I doze off for a minute? Imagine the whole thing? Sometimes dreams can seem so real.

  Frightened, I decided to flee the scene and dine out.

  When I arrived home after eating at Hardee’s, night fell. I unlocked the door with shaking fingers and inched into the home, flicking on the light. The amber glow pulled away the darkness as a schoolgirl brushing her hair. Making sure all the doors and windows were shut and locked, I heard rustling noises.

  What’s that? A rat? The wind? Or something else?

  I looked at my watch. 9:00 p.m. had crept up on me. Even if I go to bed now, I still won’t get eight hours. I wondered if I could sleep. God, I’ll feel like hell tomorrow.

  Deciding a good night’s sleep was more important than fearing interlopers, I trudged up the stairs. A better word for what I did would’ve been “climbed.” I went straight to bed, pulling the green patchwork quilt my wife had made over me.

  “What’s the problem? Can’t get any help from the police?” a raspy, grating voice like a child scraping a blackboard asked.

  I bolted to a sitting position and flicked on the light. As I stared at my late wife’s knickknacks, they appeared to be watching me from the dresser, little girl angels and boys on bicycles now resembling the messengers of death. Her oval mirror reflected my horrified face, and I was surprised by my visage of fear and lack of courage that apparently matched the ridiculous yellow wallpaper staring back at me.

  Rustling continued to assault the house. The smell of dead flowers took my nostrils, and I heard a deep sigh that wasn’t my own. I took a few deep breaths, trying to relax my heart that beat out a drum roll from hell. My hands shook. I must confront him! Now I can’t even sleep!

  “All right, see here! Whoever that is, you must come out!”

  I continued to breathe hard, my heart skipping a beat when no one answered; looking at the bedroom door, I started. Good Lord, it’s still locked from the inside! I looked at the window. It was still locked. My eyes traveled to the closet door, the only possibility that made sense. Do I have the heart to get up and open that door? What if an armed madman lurks behind it?

  I got out of there, sprinting downstairs and bicycling to the nearest motel.

  After feeling I would drop, I parked the bicycle and walked inside. An Asian man took my money and information. I walked across the gravel parking lot and unlocked a seedy room with a nice bed, cable TV, a couple of chairs, a desk, and brown carpeting. Moving into the bathroom, I spotted a big cockroach crawling over a bath towel.

  Good God, I can’t stay here.

  “It won’t help you anyway. I’m here too,” the g
rating voice said.

  I wheeled around in shock, seeing no one. That did it. I got out of there and bicycled home, after getting my money back.

  Creeping into the house, I made my way to the bedroom and grabbed the baseball bat under my bed. I crept, silently, slowly. My arms shook so badly I thought I’d drop the bat. Reaching out and feeling the cold doorknob—who can afford to adequately heat their house in this economy?—I marveled at how my hands shook. I felt the best way to get it open was to yank it like the skin off a hangnail.

  I tore the door open.

  No one was lurking in the closet.

  Of course I’m not in the closet. I’m in your head! Someone spoke in my mind.

  I whirled around. “A telepath? Is that what you are?”

  The bedroom door crashed inward, the frame breaking.

  I slowly turned to my left toward the door. Again, no one showed.

  No, no telepath, an intruder! I thought. “Listen, I’m calling the police now! And they’ll help me this time, because I’m going to keep calling them and calling them until they come and arrest you!”

  More deep breaths. I thought I’d faint dead away, but managed to stay on my feet. Get it together, man. Show some mettle. I have to search the house and stop this!

  But I couldn’t. The thought of a crook with a gun jumping out of the shadows terrified me. What was I supposed to do if someone shoved the cold, hard steel in my face? Whimper while staring down a gun barrel?

  I don’t own a gun.

  Tut, tut. What are you afraid of, man? What’s the worst that could happen? All they’ll be able to do is send you to heaven with your beloved wife. That’s actually the best thing that could happen.

  I jumped when my window rattled while a growl came from outside. “You don’t have the guts to face me!” it said.

  “Gaaaaaah.”

  After taking a few minutes to compose myself, I stared out the window, hoping to catch someone hunched over a tree branch. Lit by the moonlight, the long branches scraped the window like talons as the oak swayed in the wind. Tip-toeing over to the window to get a closer look, I prepared to jump back if the panes shattered. No one was lurking there, just the tree.