Devil's Visitation

On that day, of all days, the devil came to town. And I was in no mood to welcome him.

“Go. Away.” Fists propped on my hips, I glared at him as he stood on my doorstep.

“Mrs. Albert,” it does not surprise me he knows my name, “I have come for my due.”

“I know full well that you’ve come for my son, but you may not have him.” Glass broke in the house behind me, a child wailed. The devil listened to the sounds of discord and smiled.

“Ma! I need another beer!” his voice drifted from the depths of the house.

“Later, Johnathan,” I called back, my eyes never leaving the devil.

He smiled at me, a greasy, oily smile. “I have come for my due,” he repeated. “Surely your son can be nothing but a burden for you. Give him to me.”

“No.”

Surprise crossed the devil’s face at the iron in my voice. But he hid it quickly and snapped on another slippery smile. “Mrs. Albert, your son is on the run from his gang. He will bring you nothing but trouble.”

“He is my son. You may not have him.” I glared at the devil as the sound of the crying child grew closer and footsteps scuffed on the ground behind me.

“Ma, he won’t shut up.”

I kept myself between the devil and my family, but half turned to look back into the house. My son stood in the hall, stubbled face, rumpled shirt, a squalling child on his hip.

“He won’t shut up, Ma, and I need another beer.”

“He is your son, Johnathan. Rock him, walk with him, do not hit him, and get yourself a beer. I am busy.” I turn back to block the doorway, but not fast enough. Johnathan catches sight of the devil over my shoulder.

“Who are you?” he demands, striding forward. “What do you want with my Ma?”

“I am the devil and I have come for you, Johnathan Washington Albert, former henchman of Logan Williams.” The devil stretched his mouth in a terrible smile and held out a hand.

Johnathan went pale. His bluster vanished. He gave the devil a terrified look and fled into the house. I breathed a sigh of relief as he disappeared from view. The devil laughed softly.

“What a good son he is, leaving his mother to face the devil alone. Surely, Mrs. Albert, you will let me take him.”

“No.” I crossed my arms and glared at the devil.

He stared back at me, the laughter fading from his face. “What do you gain from harboring him?” he demanded. “He is a slob, lazy, a drunk, on the run from a powerful gang, and he loves neither his child nor you. Why do you protect him?”

“He is my son.” I plant myself in the doorway, feet anchored, chest out, head thrown back. “That is reason enough. You may never have him.”

bleh

lawnmowers smell quite awful

Webby!!!

The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round . . .

Metro Transit

‘Hello?’
‘Wasup?’
‘What?! Are you serious?!’

He’s behind me, the boy on his cell phone. The bus growls, drowning out his voice. I wonder what he’s talking about.

‘No! Don’t ever say that again.’ Whoa, that’s some vehemence. ‘Don’t ever say that again.’

Rumble, rumble goes the bus. Grumbling, growling his words fade away under the noise. I can hear his voice mixing with the bus’s belches but I can’t catch his words. Who is he speaking to? What’s going on? What must they never say again?

Mumble, mumble, ‘ . . . to say goodbye.’

Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good. Maybe his grandpa died. Did I hear the word break in that mumbling? Perhaps his girlfriend broke up with him. Or boyfriend. Or maybe my imagination is just too active.

‘Ok . . . ’ rumble roar. ‘I’ll . . . ’ why do buses have to be so loud? And yes I know, I’m a shameless eavesdropper. ‘ . . . ever say that again . . . ’ breaks groan ‘ . . . hold on.’

The bus stops and he gets off, still talking into the cell phone, skateboard in hand, newspaper tucked under his arm. Leaving me to wonder, who is he? And what will become of him?

melting

90 degrees is way, way, way too hot

running

is fun once I get myself to start. Starting is the hard part.

fiddling

feet can't stop tapping

feet hurt

too much walking around with horses

Ninja Chickens!

Don't ask. It's actually not what you think it is.

Waiting

decision derision

twice, three times, forever until infinity

is there a limit on the times one can second guess one's self?

is there a cap on the number of times i can decide only to decide i decided wrong?

should there be a limit, i'd like to reach it, i'd like to know

a magic turning point would be nice, a time when i suddenly will know what to do

i don't think life works that way

instead i wonder, doubt, waver

surrounded by 'what if' plagued by 'but'

i want to see the future but i know that won't help

nothing will

there's only me, my future, my mind, my doubts, my decision

i knew that. i've always known that

the question is: what should i do?