Miscellaneous Tales and Stories

[smr1957]

Teddy Roosevelt and the Charge Up San Juan Hill
by Steven Ross


The charge of Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders at the Barttle of San Juan hills is legendary, as are Roosevelt's actions - which can be read about in history books and in the after action reports themselves. What most people don't know, however, is what was left OUT of the after action reports (and thus, the history books). Let us go back and see how it really was, as pieced together from many personal diaries and reminiscences.


"Here's the dispatch and map sir. We're to wait till we get the signal."

"Say hey and hip, hip. Jolly good! Too hot for climbing as is."

"Yes, sir. And the Spanish are dug in and armed with cannon."

"Yeas, hear the cannon reports all the time. Jolly poor shooting though - never seem to hit - "

"That's our men, sir, they -"

"Say what? We have no cannon!"

"No - it be the wind from the foods."

"Wind? Holy Godfrey! Can't they get to some outhouses?"

"Only latrines, sir. The only outhouses are on top the hill."

"Let me look at this map. Umm, yes - shows the Spanaird atop of the hill. Pip, pip!"

pppff

"That's the spirit!"

pprrrrrppp

"Hey, what?"

"T'was, nothing, sir." brrrrrrrpt

"Hey now! I say! Your're not windy too?"

"T'was the bully beef, sir"

"Yeas, and bully it was!"

"No sir, t'was bad"

"Tasted bully to me - what hey, pip, pip, hah, hah!"

"No t'was -" bbbrrrrppPPPTTTT

"Here now, my good man, get a grip -"

"Sorry, tis just wind."

"Wind indeed! That's what we need, why the stench -"

BBBBBBBRRRRRRRPPPPPP

"Not again!"

"sorry"

"Well make sure -

BRRRRRPPP

"Man! Can't you control yourself?"

"Sorry Colonel But it's them runs as all the men have."

"Then get to the latrine!"

"Can't, it's" BRRRRRP "fulled up"

"Gosh and darnation! Will you stop that!"

"Begging your pardon, sir"

"Save that for your washer woman!"

"Ye - " BBRRRRROOOOOoooPPT "I think I shat myself, sir"

"Arn't there any outhouses or something?"

"Well, sir, up that hill -"

"Say what?! With all them Spanairds?"

"Yes sir." bbbrrrrrrrrr....

"Drat and tarnation!"

"...s'rry sir..."

"Though why you all have the runs when I ate exactly the same thing, and I -"

GRRRMMMMBBLEBBRRRRRPPPPTTttt.....

"er...and I don- "

GRRRMMMBBBBBLBLBRRRRPPPPRRRRTTTT

"and -"

BRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!

"Where those outhouses again?"


And so Teddy Roosevelt led his Rough Riders up San Juan Hill to glory and all rejoiced. Twas a major victory and a big relief to all.

BBBBBBBRRRRRRPTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!


c Steven Ross

[smr1957]

Taking a break from the usual historical subjects, we will now turn our attention to a recently discovered trove of treasures unearthed by our crack investigative team of researchers - Lost Stories.

LOST STORIES
by Steven Ross

[Fragment I]


Being the travels of the god "------", and what he - or she - saw.

[As found in a long lost and forgotten grotto, newly unearthed by a crack team of investigators, what follows being just one of many recorded observations as transcribed by his prophet for the edification of all "------"'s creations, this being but the first to be deciphered and translated]



All hail and regard the great "------"! All follow "------"'s path! All read now and learn the lessons of "------"!


One day, the god "------" (whose name cannot be spoken or written) decided to walk amongst the people to see how his creation was doing.

Taking the appearance of an old man, the god "------" walked the roads and paths, travelling from village to village, observing all, seeing many things which both gladdened and saddened him. As he did so, he one day came to the center of one small village, where he saw a beggar sitting in the dust with his back leaning against a well, crying that he was thirsty and would someone fetch him some water - but no one did - they all walked by, busy with whatever errands they were out upon. This went on for some time, until a child walked over, and fetching some water from the well, gave it to the beggar to drink, who thanked the child profusely. As the child walked away, the god "------" approached the child and spoke.

"Why did you do that? He could have easily done that himself!"

To which the child replied:
"Yes, father, but he didn't, so therefore it must not have been easy for him to do - because if it was, he would have done it."


It is written that many years later a great scourge swept the land, killing people by the thousands. And all those who had walked past the begger without helping were wiped out along with all their families and closest friends. But not the begger, nor the now grown young boy - and all his family - who had helped him. But perhaps that is all just a fable; only the god "------" knows for sure.


c Steven Ross

[smr1957]

LOST STORIES II
by Steven Ross


[Fragment II]

[Being another of the manuscripts newly deciphered from the great trove found in that once forgotten grotto, concerning the god "------", as related by his yet unknown prophet]



Being the travels of the god "------" (the highest and greatest, whose name cannot be spoken or written), and what they saw.
as transcribed by his lowly and humble prophet and scribe, [undecipherable]


All hail and regard the great "------"! All follow "------"'s path! All read now and learn the lessons of "------"!


One day, as the god "------" walked down one of the dusty streets that made up one of the larger villages, he came upon a group of people who were throwing stones at a young man and a young woman. Asking one of those in the crowd, a middle aged man, what the offense was for which they were being punished, the man replied:
"They are abominations! They offend the eye of the great, true, and just god "------"! The young man, he goes with other men, and the woman, unmarried, was seen speaking with men in private! So we punish them for their evil ways, as the god "------" would wish."
"So, you know what the great god "------" wishes? And you know that this is what "------" desires?'
"Do you not see it that way, as well, father?" said the man, as he hefted a stone.
"I am just an old man who sees what he sees, and as an old man, does not judge."
Then, the god "------" looked to the sky, and lo! clouds did gather and a storm broke forth, the drenching rain dispersing the crowd and allowing the young man and the young woman to run off.


The next day, those in the crowd who had cried out against the two, and had judged, and had thrown stones, and had said that the two were an abomination in their eyes, were struck blind, and the god "------" spoke, and the voice of "------" was heard!
"Hear now! You have said that you have seen things that were abominations! Abomination in the god "------"'s eyes and abominations in your eyes! Let it be known! I, "-------" saw no abomination in those two, I saw only abominations in those who presumed upon my name! And so that they may no longer see these abominations, I have so judged! Now they are free forever more from the affliction of seeing that which offends them! Now, let all thee praise "------" for this mercy and kindness!"


Perhaps it is just a tale, a fable, a story that is passed by word of mouth to entertain or instruct, of that, only the god "------", the great and mighty, all seeing, all hearing, knows for sure.


Thanks be to the one great and true god "------"! Thanks be for "------"'s wisdom! All bow and acknowledge the great and mighty "------"!
This having been inscribed by his humble prophet and scribe, [undecipherable]


c Steven Ross

[smr1957]

LOST STORIES III
by Steven Ross


[Fragment III]

[Being another of the manuscripts found and deciphered from the great trove in that once forgotten grotto, concerning the god "------", as related by his yet unknown prophet]:



Being the travels of the god "------" (the highest and greatest, whose name cannot be spoken or written), and what they saw
as transcribed by his lowly and humble prophet and scribe, [undecipherable]


All hail and regard the great "------"! All follow "------"'s path! All read now and learn the lessons of "------"!


So it came to be that it was the season of celebration and giving and all the populace were astir with the thoughts of what they would give and receive on that special day of gifts.


As "------" walked amongst the people in the guise of an old man, he asked those he encountered what they wished for, and received many answers.
"A new cart...new clothes...new toys..."
"More land...more money...more of everything..."
"Better looks...better furnishings...new, more, better everything..."


"------" pondered these responses and thought deep upon them. As he did so, he spied a hill where people were wont to toss their trash and other items they had no use for. Atop this small hill, was a small ramshackle hovel outside of which a small child was playing with whatever items of interest she had found lying about in the surrounding debris. Walking up to the child, "------" spoke to her.
"Oh my child, it is the time of giving and receiving, surely there is something which you would wish for?"
To which the child replied:
"On no, father, Ihere is nothing I want."
"But surely there must be something?"
"No, Father, I am happy and have parents who love me and a young brother who loves me, but..." At this, the child's voice trailed off.
"Speak, young one, I see that there is something that you would wish."
"Well, Father, since you ask, there are some things, though I only speak of them because you have asked."
"Tell me."
"My brother, he suffers from a hurt that keeps him abed most days, I would wish for him to be healed, and..."
"Go on, young one."
"And my parents, they toil all day to provide for us, I would wish them to have a small moment of their own, free from their toil."
"But of yourself, their must be something?"
"No, as I said, I have loving parents and a loving brother, and so, am happy. What more could I possibly want?"


"------" pondered this, and as he did so, the child's parents appeared in the door, and waved, and called him over.
"Come and sit with us a while, Father, we have little, but perhaps you would come inside and partake of a cup of cool water and somewhat to eat, and rest yourself for a while."
"------" walked over, acommpanied by the young girl, and followed them into the shack where he was shown to the only chair in the place.
"Here Father, have this cup of water and one of these small loaves we have just baked."
"But what of yourselves, for I see that the water basin is nearly empty, and except for two more small loaves, there is no more food to be had."
"Do not fret Father, we will find more, as the good and great god "------" wishes."
"That is most kind of you, but surely there is something that you can be given in return - for is it not the season of giving, and many in the village have already told me of the many things which they hope to receive."
At this, the parents shook their heads.
"We wish nothing for ourselves, for we are happy together and have two wondeful children - though if we could, we would hope for a better future for our children - but that is in the hands of the great and mighty "------" and doubtless, "------" has more important things to think upon."
The god "------" then walked over and sat next to where a young boy lay upon a mat.
"Well, I am sure that a young boy such as yourself can think of some things which they wish to have?"
"Oh no, Father, I wish nothing for myself as I already have the love of my parents and sister, but they are always looking after me, so I would wish for them some time of their own so that they may be free from cares for a while."
"------" sat and sipped the water he had been given, pondering these answers. Finally, he spoke to all four member of the family.
"I have heard you all, but still, I am curious. There must be something that all of you would wish for?"
The family all looked among themselves , exchanging glances, and then they turned their eyes to the ground. Finally, the small girl spoke up.
"If I could, I would wish for all the people in the village to be happy."
"And I," said the young boy from where he lay on his mat, "would wish them all to be healthy."
Then the father and mother spoke in turn.
"As for me," said the father, "I would hope for peace and that they all have a family who loves them."
"And I," spake the mother, "would wish for them prosperity, so they do not know want or hunger."
"------" rose from his seat.
"I thank you for the hospitality you have shown me, but I must be on my way again."
"May you have a safe journey, Father," said the mother, "But please take this loaf, for the road is long and you are apt to become hungry as you walk."
"But, what of yourselves? You shall only have but the one left!"
"Of that, we will share, and for after, we pray that the good and great "------" will provide, as he always has."
As the god "------", in his guise as an old man, walked away from the village, he thought long on all that he had heard, and slowy shook his head.



On the morning of the great celebration, a great flood swept down from the moutains, washing away all the homes and possessions of all in the village. Fortunately, there had been a short time of forewarning, and all the villagers were able to gather upon the one place that was safe from the flood - the hill of refuse where they were wont to dump their trash, upon which one poor family lived. And washed up there as well, was great amount of livestock and food. That day, the poor family walked amongst the displaced villagers, helping thiose who needed it, cooking food to feed those who were hungry, and through their cheerfulness, giving hope to those who had lost it. At the end of the day, the family came together in their small hovel, and gave thanks to the great and mighty, the one true god "------" for granting them their wishes, for all their neighbors had been saved, and they were filled with joy for having been able to aid them.


And so it is written that in after times, the young son was healed of all his ailments, the daughter prospered as she grew into beauty, and the parents never wanted for any necessities for themselves or their family again, but encompassed by love, grew to a great age surrounded by their children and their children's chidren, and received the grateful love from all the villagers, for whom they had provided for in the time of the village's greatest need, forevermore.


All give thanks to the great and good god "------"! All hail his wisdom and kindness! All praise "------"!
This having been inscribed by his humble prophet and scribe, [undecipherable]


c Steven Ross

[smr1957]

LOST STORIES IV
By Steven Ross


[Fragment IV]

[Being yet another of the manuscripts found and deciphered from the great trove of the once forgotten grotto, concerning the god "------", as related by his yet unknown prophet]:



Being the travels of the god "------" (the highest and greatest, whose name cannot be spoken or written), and what they saw
as transcribed by his lowly and humble prophet and scribe, [undecipherable]

All hail and regard the great "------"! All follow "------"'s path! All read now and learn the lessons of "------"!

As the great and mighty "------" (the highest and most worshipful, praised be their name) was traveling through the hinterlands in the guise of an old man, he came upon a small prosperous hamlet. All seemed fine to "------" as he found a seat and relaxed in the shade of a widespreading tree at the local caravanserai.
"Father," said the proprieter to "------", "may I fetch you something cool to quench your thirst after your travels?"
"------" nodded his assent, and soon the proprietor returned with a fresh sherbet.
"Here, Father," said the proprietor, handing the drink to "------", "sip of this so as to slake your thirst, and be there anything else you may wish, do not hesitate to ask." And so, with a flourish and a bow, the proprietor left "------" to enjoy his drink and the shade.

As "------" sat, sipping his refreshment, he was struck by the peacefullness and the fraternity exhibited by all those around - whether hastening upon errands, bartering in shops, or just relaxing under the shade of the trees. And, "------" thought, FINALLY, A PLACE OF PEACE AND CALM, WHERE GOODNESS ABOUNDS. And then he noticed something strange. Off to the side, an individual like all the rest, was being harshly repremanded for sitting under one of the shade trees. And another, the same, for trying to enter one of the shops - and a third for seemingly no reason at all. When next the caravansai proprietor returned, "------" asked him about what he saw.
"Ah, Father, do you not see? They are different from us, and so we cannot allow them to partake of the things which we hold to ourselves."
"Different? How so are these others different, for these old eyes cannot see a difference should there be one."
"Father, can it not be that you have not noticed? It is their hair."
"Their hair? But all have different shades and colors, different lenghts and styles! What then can it be which sets them apart?"
"Truly, Father, I am surprised! Can you not see the obvious? Why, it is the part! The truly righeous and god fearing all part their hair upon the left - the non-believers and evildoers all part it upon the right, and so, to keep evil away, they are shunned."
And it was then that "------" saw it. Indeed, all those being chased or barred or insulted, all had their hair parted upon the right, and those doing the chasing, barring, and insulting, all had it parted upon the left!
"------" thanked the proprieter for explaining this to him, and left the shade of the tree and continued upon his jouney.

After walking just a short few hours, "------" came upon another small peaceful hamlet, whereupon he went to the town center and sat at a small table outside the local inn. All was peaceful and serene as the innkeeper brought "------" a refreshment. Yet, as "------" took his first sip, he noticed a strange thing. For no apparent reason, certain individuals were being shunned and insulted. After just a few more sips of his refreshment, "------" called the innkeep over.
"Yes, Father? How may I be of help?"
"Please forgive me, but these old eyes of mine - it would seem that they see some people being treated differently than the others in town."
"Yes, Father, that is so. We do try, but still, there are some evildoers, and we would not wish to risk the wrath and suffer the bane of the Great and Mighty "------", the One True God, by letting them do as they wished and flaunting their differences."
"And, their differences, would it be the fact that they part their hair upon the left?"
"Ah, that is so, Father," the innkeeper said, grinning widely. "As is obvious, all of the truly faithful, the chosen of "------" (the Most Revered and Highest), we all part our hair upon the right." And lo, it was seen that truly, the innkeep did indeed part his hair upon the right, as did all those who were mistreating others - whose only fault was that their hair was parted upon the left.
"------" thanked the innkeeper, and rising from his seat, walked down the main street, left the small peaceful hamlet, and thus continued his journies through the countryside.

And so it is written, that soon thereafter, the two villages were visited by a strange illness, in that all lost their hair and none were ever thereafter able to regrow it. And so, for a time, all were treated equally, though doubtless they all eventually found something else to ill treat their fellow villagers over - but if so, it no longer had anything to do with hair.

All give thanks to the great and good god "------"! All hail his wisdom and kindness! All praise "------"!
This having been inscribed by his humble prophet and scribe, [undecipherable]


c Steven Ross

[smr1957]

LOST STORIES V
By Steven Ross


[Fragment V]

[Being yet another of the manuscripts found and deciphered from the great trove of the once forgotten grotto, concerning the god "-------", as related by his yet unknown prophet]:



Being the travels of the god "-------" (the highest and greatest, whose name cannot be spoken or written), and what they saw
as transcribed by his lowly and humble prophet and scribe, [undecipherable]

All hail and regard the great "-------"! All follow "-------"'s path! All read now and learn the lessons of "-------"!


It came one day that the great and mighty "-------" (the highest and most worshipful, praised be their name) in his travels, came to a village and espied a man lying in the dust in front of a small house.

"-------" walked over to the man, who looked to be healthy, if a bit undernourished.
"Why do you lie here in the dust?"
"Father," replied the man, "I have not the energy to do even the simplest of tasks, and my family is all gone and no one is left to help."
"Surely there must be some in this village who would be glad to offer you assistance."
"No, Father, they all walk by, turning their heads so they do not see."
And "-------" saw that this was so, for as each person passed, they averted their eyes and would not look.
"Let me seek out the village Elders," said "-------".
"They will not help," replied the man, and he lowered his head back into the dust.


So it was that the the great and glorious god "-------" in his guise as an old man, made is way to the town square, where many of the Elders of the town sat and took their ease during the day.
"Hail, wise ones!" said "-------". "I have seen a man lying in the dust, all distraught and unable to move. Do thee know of this?"
"Indeed we do, Father," replied one of the Elders' number. "He lost his family and all his properties some time ago, and so now lies in the dust each day, without moving, nor even caring for himself."
"But surely there must be some help that he can obtain."
"There is, but he insists that he is not able to do this on his own."
"Yes," chimed in another of those seated, "we have all told him of the help there is and where to find it, if only he would go and request it, but he refuses to move, repeating only that he cannot." And the man shook his head as if in disbelief that this was so.
"Surely there must be -"
"We have done all we can do."
"Is there not one person in this town who will offer him aid?" asked "-------"
"Oh, Father, we all had a meeting, and decided that if he will not help himself, why then should we? The best thing for all would be for him to be gone."

And thus did "------" return to the street wherein the man lay in the dust, and sitting on a stone bench, pondered all that he had heard.
So it was that "____" observed, a short while later, a family passing through on their cart stopping before the distraught man. The father, dismounting, spoke with the man for a bit, and then, reaching down with his hand, assisted the man to stand, and helped him into the cart, whereupon the family began to ride off. As they passed where "-------" was seated, he called to them.
"I see you are taking the man with you. May I ask why is that?'
To which the wife replied, as the husband halted the cart. "We travel through here every so often, and noticed him. When we asked the townsfolk about him the first time we spied him, they said he had suffered a misfortune. When next passing through, seeing him in the same state, we asked again, and were told 'If he will not help himself, why for should we help him.' So my husband and I and our children all discussed it, and resolved that if he would have it so, we should take him with us and care for him in our own home, for as long as needs be. And so today, seeing that he is still troubled, my husband spoke with him, and he agreed to come with us - as you have seen. If no one else will help, then perhaps we can." With that, they continued on their way, and were soon lost to sight.


And so it is written, that shortly thereafter, it befell that all the villagers of that town came down with a strange malaise. Although they looked healthy, they were unable to move from their homes or do even the most menial of tasks, and passersby, making their way through the village on their travels, would tell them the same thing that the villagers had told the man - "You look healthy enough! Go here (and they would name a place), there are plently of supplies to be had, plenty of help to be gotten!" But due to their affliction, none of the villagers were able to do so, and thus, in time, they all fell victim to the disease because they could not even do the most basic of things necessary to survive, and so all died.

And in the small village where the kind strangers lived, the ill man, through their kindness, regained his strength, and opened a business, and as people who use to get their goods from his former town, now that the town was deserted, all thence went to him to buy their goods, he went on to prosper, and repaid the family manyfold who had shown him care and compassion in his time of need.



All give thanks to the great and good god "-------"! All hail his wisdom and kindness! All praise "-------"!
This having been inscribed by his humble prophet and scribe, [undecipherable]


c Steven Ross

[smr1957]

The Footsteps on the Stairs
by Steven Ross


I found this in some old papers I was clearing out of the house I've rented. I post it here for you:


Let me tell you a story. All of it is true. It is what I heard from Emily, my neighbor at the time, before she disappeared.
Emily had always been afraid of the dark, going back to the time of her childhood and being frightened by stories told her by her parents - tales of how the boogeyman would get you if you didn't watch out. Of course, it never did, and, as with all scary things from childhood, was soon forgotten.
Forgotten, that is, until when in her mid twenties she moved back home after the death of her parents in an auto accident. They had been returing late at night from a party and had driven off the road and into a tree, though no one could explain why - except, perhaps, that it being late at night, they had both dozed off, with tragic results. Or maybe it was the drinks.
It was soon after moving in that the noises began - groans like the house settling, or floorboards being tread upon and creaking.
And then (as she told me) she recalled the stories her parents had told her of the boogeyman. About the footsteps, the footsteps on the stairs.
And how when they reach you, you die.

So, being alone in the house, Emily took to sleeping with a light on, and as long as she did so, there were no noises, no footsteps - no footsteps on the stairs. And soon it became a habit, keeping that light on, and she forgot the reason why - almost (or so she said). Until one night, as she lay asleep in bed, she was awakened by a crash - a crash of thunder. And then, a flash and a boom, the lighting and thunder coming both at once - and the lights went out, the only sound, now, the sound of the pouring rain. And then it began. The sound of footsteps. The sound of footsteps on the stairs. Thud, clump, thud, clump, thud...
Emily could hear them clearly, over the sound of the rain. Clump, thud, clump, thud, clump... Emily was frozen, she could not move or even make a sound.
thud, clump, thud...
And then the footsteps stopped.
For a moment there was no sound but the rain.
Then the bedroom door swung slowly open...
The shadow approached...

closer...

closer...

until it leaned right over the bed where Emily lay.
And all this time, not a sound; not a sound but for the hiss of the rain.
The shadow leaned closer still, bent to within inches of Emily.
Emily saw the eyes...
And then the only thing Emily heard was the sound of her own voice screaming.
Suddenly, the lights flickered back on as power was restored, and it - whatever it was - was gone.

That was what Emily told me. The last thing she told me - and then she put the house up for rent, but she must have moved away, for I have not seen her since. And her house, being empty, I rented and now live in.


And I would not be writing this now, except, except just about a week ago, in the oh so quiet house, I too began hearing noises as if the house was settling, or the creaking of floorboards as if someone - or thing - was treading upon them. And last night, I heard them - the footsteps on the stairs, yet when I turned on the light and went to look, there was no one or nothing there. I slept the rest of that night with the light on.

But now, as a storm brews outside, I lie abed with the light on once again, writing this, as the footsteps on the stairs returned. Thud, clump, thud, clump, thud... they sounded, once I'd turned the lights out and retired for the evening. And yet, when I leapt out of bed and turned on the lights - nothing. There was nothing. So here I am, bedroom door shut, light on, writing this. And as the wind blows, the lights begin to flicker - and there is a flash of lightning and the bang of thunder, and the power is out now, except for the dim light of the battery powered alarm clock - just enough to write by. And now, I can hear them again.
clump, thud, clump, thud, clump, thud...
There are thirteen steps on the stairs. How many was that?!
HOW MANY!
clump, thud...
Silence, a scrape, now the door begins to swing open...
Emily??
Oh god......



Well, the manuscript ends there, too bad, really, as it sounded like a good story.

Strange thing, though, just the other night, after turning off the lights and settling in for sleep, I heard what sounded like footsteps upon the stairs. Yet there was nothing there when I turned on the light and went to look. As I switched off the light, I again heard a step, and then another - so, on with the light, an so they stop. And now I dare not for the life of me turn the lights back off.

But now it is another night, and there is a storm getting up, and my lights too, are flickering. And now they are out...
Thud, clump, thud, clump, thud, clump, thud, clump.........
And now the power comes back on, and with it, the lights - and the footsteps stop.
I think I should leave this house, leave at first light tomorrow - pack now and leave - leave and move far away.
Just one last word of advice before I start packing -

Beware the footsteps on the stairs.
When you hear them, it means it is coming.
Yes, it is coming; step by step it is coming -
coming for you.
So beware the footsteps, for they herald its coming -
And when they reach the top of the stairs, it will be too late.
You'll want to hide under the bed - but don't.
Run - just run!
Because when it reaches you, you will die.
So run!


RUN!!!!!

No! The power just went off again! I am alone in the dark...

And the footsteps on the stairs are back - closer now.
Thud, clump, thud, clump, thud.......nothing. And now the door begins to swing open...


c Steven Ross

[smr1957]

The Jungle
by Steven Ross


The air pressed down on the encampment and the surrounding jungle like the sweaty hand of some cruel and merciless giant. It clung to the skin like damp cloth, wrapping around one's self like the close embrace of an unwanted lover - clinging, clutching, smothering, and, at the last, suffocating. The sheer weight of the air dragged one down as if a necklace of lead had been hung around one's neck, or a hundred such necklaces - or one hundred dead albatrosses, each one putrid and stinking with decay. It was this heaviness which made even the simplest of tasks a herculean labor; made even the drawing of one's breath a chore requiring the summoning of all one's strength. One wanted to escape, to find refuge; some place in which one could hide, a place where the air did not press down quite so hard, did not weigh so heavily upon one's mind or oppress one's senses so thoroughly. But from this heaviness, this oppressiveness, there was no escape - it sought one out; it seeped through the drab green fabric of the camp's tents, slipped under doors and windows, and oozed through cracks in the crumbling cement walls of the encampment's buildings. Finally, having searched one out, it overwhelmed the senses, so that all memory of the light and joy of happier times was driven out and one's mind was turned to darker, more sinister things, until one thought that if one did not find some release, one would be driven insane, sent running and screaming through the encampment until one killed oneself is desperation and despair. This evil did not, however, stem from the air alone; rather, it seemed to ooze from the ground as well, like some foul vapor intent on poisoning life itself; it seemed to drip from the overhanging, oversized, shiny green leaves of the surrounding trees as venom drips from the fangs of a poisonous snake. It was a pervasive, all-encompassing feeling, one felt more in the subconscious than in the conscious mind – flowing as if from some malignant mind deep within the heart of the jungle – rotten, corrupt, and hating all things that were not of its own. And like a living thing of evil incarnate, it crushed all who would not heed its ways, as ants beneath a booted foot. This, then, was the jungle.


The Lieutenant stepped off the ramp leading from the plane, onto the hot asphalt of the tarmac, and looked out into the distance, where, shimmering in the heat, the jungle was a hazy green wall fencing the airfield in. It was hard for him to imagine, but just a bare three months ago he had been back in his home town in Kansas, celebrating with his friends before leaving for final training. Of his friends, he was neither the first, nor would he be the last, to sign up for the service. After all, if you were growing up in America's heartland, in some small town that was steadily dying as the population moved to the opportunities and glamour which awaited one in the big cities, the service provided a sure ticket out. You put in your tour of active service, and when you came home, you were all set and had nothing to worry about. Everyone turned out to see the returning hero. Everyone. Even the people who used to chase you off their property when you were growing up and would curse you out whenever they saw you. And the girls, he thought, remembering his last visit home. It was amazing the way the same girls who hadn't even given him the time of day before he had joined up, suddenly had been all over him when he had returned home on leave for two days before being shipped overseas. Well, he thought, just wait til he got home at the end of his hitch; then he would really have something to look forward to. Even now he could imagine the looks on the girls' faces as he told them the horrifying stories of all he had seen and been through when he was away. And if half the things he told them were pure bullshit, well, they would never know. Yes, he really had it made. The only thing that came close to worrying him, were his parents - ever since his father's illness he had been their main source of support. Despite this, nothing he ever did seemed to please his father. Day after day he had watched as his father's body grew more submissive to age while, at the same time, as if to make up for the sudden weakness in his limbs, his father's will had become increasingly domineering. The Lieutenant thought of the two of them, his mother and father, sitting all alone in that farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, nothing but corn for miles around. Hell, he thought suddenly, they would be all right - besides, the neighbors would be stopping in to see how they were doing. Anyway, the important thing to him right now was that he was finally free, out from under the heel of his father's domineering spirit. Oh sure, he had to take orders - so did everyone else here - but then, he got to give some himself, and at least no one was going tell him to report everything he did on his time off.

He had been walking across to a cluster of buildings set at the edge of the airfield, the jungle beyond an impenetrable mass of riotous growth. Now he was at the main entrance to the largest of the buildings and could see that on its side was a poster containing a picture of a group of men in uniform and the words “WE WANT YOU” emblazoned across the bottom. Shit, he thought, they even have recruiting posters out here. Who did they think they were gonna recruit? The local natives? Hell, they couldn't be bothered with any of it. As a matter of fact, there was a group of them passing with their wagon now – a whole family of them – and not one even bothered to turn their head and look as the planes landed and took off. Well, to hell with them, he thought. In just a few months, with any luck, he would be set up in a permanent post riding a desk and would have learned all the ins and outs of living in this country. And once he learned all those ins and outs, he'd have a blast. After all, if you were going to be stuck in some backwater country that was three quarters jungle anyway, you might as well make the most of it. With that, he was through the main gate and in the cool, air-conditioned interior of the building, on his way to receive his assignment.

Outside, the villagers with their wagon rounded a bend in the road and were swallowed by the jungle.


The Lieutenant stood alone in the harsh sun of the encampment, gazing down at the dead bodies laid out in a row at his feet, his uniform a limp rag clinging to his sweaty skin. He had been assigned to the camp two months ago as its battalion casualty officer, and his mind reeled under the constant bombardment of horror to which it had been subjected. It was his duty to inspect the corpses - the stinking, rotten, corrupt bodies; the effluence of a stinking, rotten, corrupt war, and a stinking, rotten, corrupt world: a cesspool with all of the inherent slime and decay - or, a jungle, where dying leaves drift down to mingle with decaying carcasses in the undergrowth, both nourishing the gargantuan trees until they too, in time, topple over and add to the stinking, primeval loam of the jungle floor. Day in and day out, it was the same routine. How many bodies? How did they die? How many pieces had they been shattered into? It was to this hell that The Lieutenant, Battalion Casualty Officer, awoke each day, and, at night, asleep on his cot, found again in his dreams.

Dreams? Nightmares, rather, for in them, The Lieutenant could find no sanctuary. How often had he awakened in terror, chased from the forgetfulness of sleep by the phantoms of the dead, the countless legions that he had at one time or another seen stretch out at his feet? This one missing an arm, that one a leg, another without a face - just a red, pulpy, putrescent mass acrawl with blowflies and maggots - all of these pursuing him across the field of sleep until he awoke in a cold sweat, only to find that even more dead were lying in wait for him on the field of the encampment's parade ground. The dreams of the previous nights had been especially harrowing. The phantoms of his mind had interwoven with the sighing of the wind in the trees to weave a net around his thoughts, a net from which it was impossible to escape completely to that blessed realm - the land of rest and sleep where all one's worries are forgotten. A land where one could find relief from the cares which plague one. A land of escape.

As The Lieutenant stood in the setting sun, the memories the day assailed him. Earlier, a young boy had been brought in, or rather, the remains of a young boy, for there was little left of what had once been a strong, healthy body. The boy had been playing in the fields, looking for empty cans or broken equipment, brass cartridges and spent bullets, discarded or forgotten ammunition - anything of value or what went for value in this disturbed land. He had apparently come upon a mortar shell which had failed to explode, and in this land where the tools of war became the playthings of children, had started digging it up when suddenly it had detonated, blowing him to bits. All that were left were scraps of torn flesh – chopped up gore, bones, gristle, and, by an eerie quirk of the explosive forces of the shell, the boy's face, a happy smile still framed upon the lips. It was this, the memory of the boy's smiling face, which remained with The Lieutenant as the sun slipped behind the trees of the jungle and night descended.



It was night, and as the world slept, the jungle came alive. Out from under the brush and creepers spread over the jungle floor they came. Small and dark they were, possessing eyes bright and glowing. They crept along the ground, only to be followed by larger, more massive bodies, their great mouthes open in anticipation of the kill, while all around was the jungle, its great trees biding their time until the day when the hunters, too, would be theirs.

In the encampment, all was quiet, yet still the dreams came to torment The Lieutenant as he slept; a solitary figure asleep on a cot in a tent. That night he dreamt he was a small boy back in Kansas. He had just come running back to the house after playing all afternoon in the fields of corn and, as he approached home, the delicate aroma of freshly baked apple pies had filled his nose and he had been able to see the pies lined up on the window sill where his mother had set them to cool. He had gone into the kitchen and sat down at the table, while his mother took one of the pies from the window and set it down before him with a glass of fresh milk. He looked out the window where the pies rested and, off in the distance, at the very limits of vision, he saw a dark green line stretching the length of the horizon. He turned back to the table, and as he cut into the still warm pie, the scent of apples escaped anew. Suddenly, his sense of smell was assaulted by the nauseating, yet strangely appealing, scent of burnt flesh, and as he lifted out the slice of pie which he had cut, he could see that it was not apples, but chunks of flesh which constituted the ingredients of the pie. Pushing the pie away from him, he knocked over the glass of milk – milk no longer, for it had been transformed into a malted of blood. Screaming, he ran from the house, pursued now by the voices of the dead, their words unintelligible, and found himself on the encampment's parade ground, the wind whistling and moaning through the trees of the jungle canopy.

Over the ensuing weeks, The Lieutenant would have variations of that same dream, and always, in the distance, that dark green line drew ever nearer, until it was revealed as a malignant jungle devouring the cornfields and all the lands around in its verdant maw. In one dream, his father would tell him to go to the smokehouse to get some hams for supper. Entering the smokehouse, he would see, not shanks of meat, but rather, a collection of human limbs and bodies suspended by hooks from the ceiling. An arm here, a leg there, and over in the corner, an entire human torso. He would dash from the smokehouse, only to find himself once again on the parade ground, his body drenched in sweat. Or another dream might have his mother asking him to get a bottle of milk out of the refrigerator, and opening the refrigerator door, he would be confronted by its grisly contents. Bottles of pickled eyes, all staring at him; bottled tongues, all talking to him; and packed in boxes like so many strange mushrooms, fingers, all reaching out for him. Shutting his eyes to the horror, he would reach in, grabbing at the bottle of milk, only to see too late that it was not milk at all, but a bottle of blood, just as had been in his glass in earlier dreams. Dropping the bottle at his feet, he would try to run, but something or someone was holding him and he would be unable to get away. With a scream, The Lieutenant would awaken, his legs entangled in the mosquito netting which had fallen upon him from the roof of the tent where it had been hung. The rest of the night he would spend tossing and turning, afraid of sleep, yet equally afraid of what the dawn of a new day would bring. And so another night would pass in which The Lieutenant found no rest.

Standing in the hot sun of a new day, staring down at a new set of bodies laid out at his feet, The Lieutenant knew he needn't worry any longer about what each new day would bring; as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west each day without the least prompting from man or animal, so it was with death, whether The Lieutenant wished it or not. Just as at harvest time the corn had been laid out at his father's feet, so too it was with The Lieutenant, except that death was his crop, and for death it was always harvest time. Even as The Lieutenant stood in the bright of day, he could not rid himself of the dark visitations of nights past. The wind blowing through the jungle canopy now carried with it the unheard words of the dead. And The Lieutenant found himself straining to hear, as if listening more intently he could divine the words hidden in that endless wail, could decipher the messages that it contained. But strain his ears as he might, the words remained just out of reach.

And always, in the distance, the jungle waited.



Standing on line in the compound's mess, The Lieutenant tried to stay awake and steady on his feet. The last few nights, whether due to the heat, distress over his job, or just plain fear of once again wandering down those paths which lead to that loathsome midnight land of terror and despair, he had been unable to attain sleep. As The Lieutenant reached the serving area, the messhand could see the drawn, pinched look on his face, the sunken, bloodshot eyes, and his pale, washed out complexion. The messhand spoke to The Lieutenant.

“Lieutenant, I think you should be getting' some sleep. You 'bout ready to fall over from the looks of things.”

"No, I'm all right,” The Lieutenant replied in a tired, detached voice.

“I don't know, Lieutenant. Course this sweat-box weather here 'nought to make anyone look sick.”

“I said I'm fine," The Lieutenant's voice now getting an edge to it. “Just get on with dishing out the food.”

"Sure, sure, Lieutenant, you know what's best, but take a little extra of these here eggs,” and as The Lieutenant held out his tray, the messhand started to place the fried eggs onto it.

Suddenly, it was no longer the messhand standing there, but a leering and mutilated person; and it wasn't eggs being placed on his tray, but accusing eyes which stared up at him, wide open mouths ready to curse him, and open, running sores oozing pus, all sliced off a bloated body lying behind the counter.

“No!” The Lieutenant screamed, his voice breaking with terror. “Stop it! I don't want anymore! Take it away! Take it!” And with that, the tray dropped from The Lieutenant's hands and, hitting the counter, clattered to the floor, its contents - eggs once again - spilling across both counter and floor.

“Now look what you've done,” The Lieutenant exclaimed, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. “Can't you just do your job? Who asked for extra eggs anyway? Now fill another tray for me and do it with your mouth shut!”

The refilled tray was brought to The Lieutenant, and he took it and walked away. But it was all he could do to control the trembling in his limbs.



The Lieutenant stood watching as the latest load of bodies was carried in. Off in the distance, at the edge of the jungle, a group of villagers trundled their wagon along the road, oblivious to all around them. He glanced at them for a second, and then returned to the business at hand. There had been eight wounded and five killed so far that day. The injuries ranged from a minor shrapnel wound to a leg blown off above the knee when it's owner made the mistake of stepping on on a land mine. Then there was the soldier who, falling into a pit, had skewered himself front to back on a pungi stick - a sharpened stake smeared with human excrement. By itself, the wound was bad enough, but when complicated as a result of its cause, combined with the fact of the soldier having been in the bush for a full day before being properly treated, the outlook was not bright at all. So it looked as if Death's harvest for that day might very well end up being six, with only the lucky seven - if you could call it luck - escaping the sweep of his scythe.

Of the five people who had been killed, four were civilians who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time when the pilot of a fighter bomber had accidentally released his load of napalm, and it was these bodies which had been brought in. All four of the bodies, one of which was that of a small child, were charred beyond recognition. While the bodies were being unloaded from the wagon which had been used to bring them in, the flesh sloughed off the bone, like the meat on a well done shank of lamb. And as The Lieutenant stood watching the bodies being laid on the ground, it seemed to him that the whispering of the wind in the jungle canopy was louder than ever. Then The Lieutenant realized that it wasn't the wind among the trees sighing and whispering secrets, but rather the charred and mutilated remains before him. He tried to catch what they were saying, those four immolated carcasses, but the words eluded him. The Lieutenant strained his ears, but still the words remained inaudible and he wondered why. Then, in a flash, like a burst of pure light piercing his brain, he knew; and he laughed to himself. Of course he couldn't hear them, for they had no mouths with which to speak, their faces just one melted field of flesh. As he turned on his heel and walked up the steps that led into the small, one room building that served as his office, The Lieutenant noticed that the villagers had disappeared into the jungle.

Later, while sitting at his desk filling out casualty report forms, The Lieutenant could still see in his mind the blackened bodies and smell the odor of roasted flesh. As he began to fill in the last report, he suddenly found himself unable to write. Try as he might, he could not make his hand move pen across paper - indeed, it seemed as if his entire arm had gone numb, for he was unable to feel the pen in his hand or even the pressure of his arm resting against the edge of the desk. The Lieutenant stood up, and as he did so, the pen dropped from his now useless hand onto the floor.

The Lieutenant looked across at the figure which occupied the room's other desk – a corporal who was assigned to the office as a clerk. The figure was apparently unaware of The Lieutenant's plight, consumed as it was in the business of filling out endless requisition forms for more body bags. He called across to the figure.

“Corporal, I'm going out for a while. Finish filling out these forms on my desk, okay?”

The figure in the corner grunted its assent without raising its head, and The Lieutenant walked out of the office, his arm hanging uselessly at his side. It would not be till later that evening, when a leering, jaundiced moon rose above the steaming jungle, that the feeling in his arm would return.



The moon rose high above the compound and the encircling jungle. Somewhere, in the hot and steamy depths behind that green curtain, where the moonlight glimmered and died before reaching the ground and drops of water rolled off elephantine leaves to soak into the already dank and mildewed ground, the hunters were oon the prowl. Through the underbrush they moved, stalking the animals which were their prey. Anything that moved was fair game; the only rule was eat or be eaten. Little did the hunters know that one day, they would be the hunted. But even had they known, would they have realized the truth of that knowledge? Or would they, in their all-consuming pride in their overwhelming strength, have laughed it off, as they crushed out between bloody jaws the life of yet another small creature. Even as that small creature breathed its last and the hunter began his feast, an even greater hunter swooped overhead and, with a roar, split the night apart and lit up the jungle with flames red as blood. The roar died in the thick air, but was still audible as a faint rumble back in the compound where The Lieutenant, in his sleep, heard it and, with a shudder, passed into that nightmare world where he was the hunted.

He was back in his home in Kansas, calling out for his parents, but they were nowhere to be seen. Finally, after wandering through all the rooms of the house, he walked into the kitchen. Going to the refrigerator, he opened the door to get something to eat, and quickly slammed it in terror, for he had found his mother. Turning around with a cry, he faced the rest of the kitchen, only to see that seated at the table was a family of mutilated corpses, with plates and knives and forks all set before them. He knew now that he need no longer search for his father, for on that table, laid out before those horrific corpses, was their dinner. As he stared, speechless and paralyzed with fright, they turned as one, fixing him with empty, hollow sockets where once there had been eyes. Screaming, he dashed for the door, only to find that the teeming, malodorous jungle had completely engulfed everything in sight, and was even now devouring his house. Tearing aside the great leprous leaves which blocked his path, The Lieutenant ran out into the early morning sun of the parade ground, only to stop dead in his tracks as the previous night's harvest was dumped, out of the back of a wagon, at his feet.



The sun baked down on the encampment. The stench of death was everywhere. The steaming jungle seemed to crowd in closer than ever, as if, nourished by the odor of death, it meant to engulf the encampment and all in it in a green hell. On the ground, the dead seemed to stare up at The Lieutenant with accusing eyes; it was a stare that burned its way into one's brain and soul, driving out all other thoughts. As The Lieutenant stood there in the burning sun with the corpses staring up at him and the drone of the flies, which buzzed about the stinking, decaying bodies, filling his ears, it seemed as if he could almost hear the corpses speaking out to him; as if their black and swollen tongues were given life once more. First, a beaten old man, next, a dried up stick of a woman, then a shriveled up old lady and her baby grand daugther – more and more of them spoke up until the entire pile of rotten cadavers screamed with rage, venting their anger and hatred upon him.

“You! You did this!” they screamed at him. “You killed us! You, you , you! It was you!”

The Lieutenant covered his ears to shut out the sound of their cries, but their voices screamed all the louder, as if they emanated from deep within him and his hands served only to lock in the sound - focusing it, intensifying it, until it was as a needle piercing his soul. Louder and louder their cries became, as The Lieutenant, clutching his head, tears streaming down his face, sank slowly to the dry and dusty ground. And as he sank to the ground, The Lieutenant cried out: “No! No! It wasn't me! Please, I didn't do it!”

“You! You! You came here! You killed us!” they shouted back at him. “You killed us! You came here! You did, you did! We won't let you go!”

“Please, let me go! Please, please,” begging now, a mere shell of a man. “Let me go. Let me go - I just want to home.”

He tried to remember the golden, sundrenched corn fields of Kansas, where as a boy he had played hide and seek among the cornstalks with his friends, or pretended to be an Indian scout tracking his enemies - ambushing them, capturing them, killing them. Afterwards, victor and fallen alike would run home in answer to the dinner bell urgently ringing out from the back porch - and all around, the flat plains that stretched as far as the eye could see. He tried to remember, but could not. His memories of these things were gone, or if he did remember, it was as one remembers a dream – dim and hazy, only to be guessed at. All his reality, all his world, was now shrunken down to the few square feet of parched ground, where he groveled in his agony, his tears soaking into the thirsty earth, his mind being consumed by insanity. And all around, there was the jungle.

He tried one last time to resist the voices calling to him, but his will, weakened by months of enduring a living hell, was not strong enough, and the voices had a hold on him altogether too strong and terrible to be broken; their claim would not be denied.

“We want you, we want you!” they called to him. "You can't go home. Come to us!”

It was the last wail, the last cry, the last curse. There was no shutting it out, no defense, and in the face of this onslaught his will crumbled as a sand castle in the surf.

Suddenly, a new scream, louder than all the rest, joined in this funereal chorus - the scream of a man who for too long has kept his feelings bottled up as he tallied bodies like the scorekeeper in some obscene game, a man who for too long has endured the unendurable. It was a scream ripped from the very bottom of his being, torn from the very roots of his soul. It was the scream of the damned.



The Lieutenant's screams echoed throughout the encampment, and men, hearing them, listened for a short while, looked into each other's eyes, and each seeing there the madness awaiting an opportunity to devour their souls, quickly looked away. Continuing their journey, the sounds of the screams traveled through the air - drifting around the buildings, carrying over the tents, passing through the wire - until they were swallowed up by the steaming impenetrable jungle.

And if any villagers passing with their half starved families heard it, they gave no sign, but continued on their path, for they are of the jungle and know its way. They know - long having lived with death and war, pain and suffering, madness and insanity as constant companions - when one lives in a world gone mad, there is no awakening from a nightmare.


c Steven Ross

[smr1957]

Season of Beauty
by Steven Ross


It was the time of year when the sun streaks between buildings with silvery shafts of light escaping the clouds, and the chill air takes its first small bites from people's noses and ears. It was the time of year when new coats are bought to ward off the impending cold, and the old, cast off - new coats are bought, that is, by those fortunate enough to be able to buy them. For those less fortunate, anything must do - whether a discarded coat, crumpled newspapers, alcohol, drugs, or just lonely thoughts, spinning and weaving illusions of comfort and warmth in one's head. It was New York in the holiday season - glittering shops, flashing lights; people carrying bags, hustling home along avenues; people carrying bags, shuffling homeless on crowded streets.

The little boy tugged enthusiastically at his mother's arm as they walked hand in hand along the avenue, the mother carrying a large shopping bag in her free hand.

“Mom! Mom! Is it going to snow, tonight?” the boy asked, face flushed with cold and excitement.

“I don't know, Billy,” said the mother, looking down at her son. “We'll listen to the weather when we get home.”

“Can I wear my new coat tomorrow, Mom?” Still tugging his mother's arm.

“We'll see tomorrow.”

“I hope we have three feet of snow and they close the schools and I can go sledding in the park.”

"Silly - tomorrow's Sunday.”

“I know - but if there were three feet of snow they'd have to close school on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday -”

“Now I know you're being silly,” said the mother, smiling at her son.

“Silly, silly, silly,” the boy said, shaking his head around and pulling on his mother's hand.

“Come on, Silly Billy, we're almost home. I'll make you some hot chocolate when we get in, okay?”

“Hot chocolate, I love hot chocolate, with marshmallows, tons and tons of marshmallows, and we could make a giant snowman out of them and then toast him over a fire, and it would melt and cover the whole street and people would get stuck in it when they walked, and -”

They turned onto Central Park South, the boy prattling on in this manner until they reached their home, an apartment overlooking the park.



The man walked slowly, almost shuffling, along the street, warm in the new coat the volunteer at the shelter had given him.

Only a few small tears at the bottom, a torn pocket, couple of buttons missing, otherwise good as new - a real stroke of luck and just in time, too.

As the man headed home, he would stop and look in the windows of the coffee shops and delis he passed.

“- and all the cars would would be stuck in marshmallow and they'd have to get -”

Marshmallows.

I can't remember the last time I've had marshmallows. Maybe I'll be able to score some hot chocolate with marshmallows from the deli further down the street, the one near my home. The man there usually give me something. He even lets me open the door for customers on the chance of a handout of small change.

The man stopped a moment to allow some sanitation men - carrying bags and boxes of garbage to their truck - to pass, and then resumed his shuffling walk. Soon, the man reached his deli and, stopping, looked in and tapped on the window. At the sound of the tapping, the counter-man looked up and, seeing the man, signed to him to wait.

As the man waited, he turned and faced the street, first watching the people walking past unseeingly, then gazing onward to the park, beyond.

At least I'm not sleeping on benches. I've lucked out this year, finding that refrigerator carton and the spot next to the building on the corner, where the vent blew hot air during the day. Had it fixed up real good, padded inside with newspapers and covered outside with black plastic garbage bags to keep out the rain.

“Here ya go” - it was the deli man - “made a ham an' cheese sandwich for ya.”

The man mumbled his thanks as he took the sandwich.

“How 'bout somethin' hot ta drink? Hot choc'lit or somethin'?”

The thought of hot chocolate with marshmallows flashed through the man's head.

No, better not ask the deli man for it. The man's been real good, better not push my luck.

The man nodded his head, and the deli man went back into the shop. A moment later he was out again, this time carrying a plastic lidded coffee cup.

“Here's some hot cho'lit wit' marshmallows for ya. Ya take care t'night, hear? Suppose ta snow an' get real cold.” The deli man disappeared back inside.

The man moved to a spot where heat poured from a vent located chest high in the side of the building, and began to eat.

First that box, then the coat, and now a sandwich and hot chocolate with marshmallows. I've been real lucky.



The mother put the steaming mug down in front of her son.

“Hot chocolate with marshmallows! Wow!”

“What do you say, Billy?”

The boy let out a loud belch, and started laughing and giggling.

“Billy!”

“What, Mom?” in between laughs and giggles.

“What do you say after you do that?”

“Excuse me, Mom,” still giggling.

"Good. And what do you say for the hot chocolate?"

"Thank you."

“Good, you're welcome,” the mother replied as her son took sips from his mug of hot chocolate.

“Mom? Can I see my new coat again/”

“Okay, Billy. You can look at it but don't you dare come near it with that chocolate.”

“I'm going to spill it all over the coat and it'll be all nice and brown!” Giggles.

“Do that, and I'll send you back with the coat.”

The mother reached into the bag and took out the carefully folded winter coat.

“So,” the mother said, holding the coat up, “what do you think, Billy? You like it?”

“It's great, Mom, thanks.”

“I'm glad.” As she said this, the mother's face was a a perfect mirror of the joy lighting her son's. “Now just let me check it again, before I remove all the tags.”

"Sure, Mom. I'm going to play my game now, okay, Mom?"

The boy started to get up from the table.

“Sit back down and finish your hot chocolate,” the mother said as she looked over the coat, “then you can go play.”

“But Mom -”

“First finish your hot chocolate,” the mother repeated, looking up, now.

“Okay, Mom.” The boy sat back down.

The mother returned to looking over the coat. At the very bottom, on the hem, there was a thread hanging, but after looking closely, the mother decided it wasn't anything that would unravel – it just needed to be cut.

“All finished, Mom,” the boy said, again getting up from his chair. “Can I go play now?”

“Okay, but put your cup in the sink, first.”

“Sure, Mom.”

The boy carried the cup to the sink and placed it in. As he turned to go, his mother spoke.

“Billy? Please get me a can of soda from the refrigerator before you go.”

“Okay, Mom.”

The boy opened the refrigerator and reached in.

“Hey, Mom?” closing the door and walking over to where his mother, now removing tags from the coat, sat.

“Hey is for horses. Thank you, Billy - just put the can on the table.”

“Mom, too bad we didn't keep the box the refrigerator came in. It would have made a neat fort, or something.”

“And where would we have kept it? In your bedroom?”

“Yeah, Mom!”

“Yes, and we could've gotten rid of your bed and you could've slept in the box.”

“Neat!”

“Anyway, too late now - its been taken away with the rest of the garbage. Now go play before they take you away, silly.”

“Okay, Mom!” And the boy ran off, giggling, to play.



The man finished drinking his hot chocolate. Turning the cup over, he shook it a few times, then - using the paper napkin from the sandwich - he wiped the inside, so as to dry it. The cup would replace the one the man now had for holding change, which had become bent and crumpled with use. Walking away from the building, the man placed the paper napkin and cup's lid in a trash can and turned, shuffling for home.

While the man had been eating, the sun had set, the clouds had thickened into a solid layer, and darkness had begun to cover the city like a cloak. Now, lights were on, bathing the streets with artificial luminescence. Walking along, the warmth of the hot chocolate spreading through him, the man looked forward to getting home and nestling up in his box for the night. As the man passed a small alleyway, two teenage boys accosted him.

“Hey! Pops!” The taller one.

“Where'd ya get the coat?” The other one.

The man ignored them, and tried to shuffle past.

The taller one stepped in front of the man, blocking his path, while the other one moved around behind the man, cutting off any retreat. On the street, people just kept walking past, not seeing or hearing.

“Talkin' ta ya, Pops!” said the taller one. “Don't ya know ta stop stop when people talk ta ya?”

“Yeah, man!” The other one, now, grabbing the man's coat and turning him. “Don't ya got no manners?”

The man tried to mumble an excuse, apology, anything, just so the two would leave him alone.

“Hey Pops!” The taller one talking over the man's mumblings. “Where'd you get that coat?”

The other one - “Yeah! Looks too good fer ya!”

The taller one - “Ya steal it?”

The other one - “Must've!”

Taller one - “That's it! Ya stole it, man, din't ya!”

Other one - “Yeah, that's what he done!”

Taller one - “Thought it looked like Ratsy's coat!”

Other one - “Yeah, yeah!”

Taller - “Can't let this bum get away with stealin'!” A push.

Other - “No way!” Also pushing.

Taller - “I say we take the coat!”

Other - “Yeah! Return it to Ratsy!”

Both pushing, towards the alley.

Taller - “C'mon! Grab him!”

A couple of pushes, a short scuffle, and the two toughs were running down the street. In seconds, they had disappeared around the corner, the man's coat with them.

The man lifted himself from the ground where he had been pushed. Looking around, the man located the new cup he had dried out only minutes before. One side of the cup was dented in, but it was still good. Picking it up, the man carefully straightened the dented section. Then, holding the cup carefully so as not to damage it further, the man placed his hands in his armpits to ward off the cold.

Once in my box, curled up in the newspapers and with the lid pulled shut behind me, I'll be warm.

And so, turning out of the alley way, the man again started for home.

As he did so, the first few flakes of snow began drifting lazily down from the sky.



“Mommy!”

The mother looked up from where she was seated, reading a magazine.

“What is it, Billy?”

“It broke! My toy broke!” Walking over, holding the broken pieces of his toy in his hands.

“I told you to be careful with your toys,” the mother said, putting down her magazine and looking at the broken pieces.

“I know - I'm sorry. But it was an accident. It just broke.”

“Well, maybe Daddy can fix it.”

“How? It's broken!”

“Don't worry, Billy. If Daddy can't fix it, we'll get you a new one, okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

Smiling, the mother leaned forward and tousled her son's hair.

“Leave the pieces here, Billy, and play with something else.” Then, looking up at the window - “Billy! Look outside!”

The boy turned, and then dashed to the window.

“It's snowing, Mom! Just like I wanted! And tomorrow I can wear my new coat, and we can go to the park and build forts and castles and snowmen, and have snowball fights and go sledding and playing, and the snow will be real deep and we can make tunnels in it and igloos like the eskimos and do all sorts of things!”

“We'll see how much snow there is in the morning, Billy.”

“Can I wear my new coat, Mom?” Turning away from the window to face her.

“Yes, tomorrow you can wear your new coat.”

“Can I wear it now?”

“Don't be silly, Billy. It's too warm in here - you'll get baked like a potato. And then what would I tell your father?”

“I don't know.” The boy turned back to the window and resumed watching the snow fall.

In her chair, the mother smiled and returned to reading her magazine



Gone! It's gone! My home, someone's taken it! Everything's gone!

The man stood, staring at the spot next to the vent - no hot air blowing out of it now that day was done - where his cardboard home had been. And as the man stared, he remembered the sanitation men he had seen earlier, laden down with boxes and bags of garbage, all to be discarded in their truck.

Still clutching the cup from the hot chocolate, the man slowly turned and walked away.

The snow continued falling, now faster and heavier in the darkness.



The boy lay tucked in beneath his blankets, the light off, his mother bending over and gently smoothing his hair back off his forehead. In the background, the television weather report could be heard.

“- expect eight to twelve inches of snow. Clearing by morning, with temperatures plummeting into the single digits.”

“Will we play in the park tomorrow, Mom?” the boy asked sleepily.

“We'll see. Right now go to sleep.”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Billy. Good night.” And she leaned over and kissed his forehead.



The man sat on the park bench, his paper cup still clutched in his hand. Already, snow was accumulating, and not just on the ground and bench, but on the man's shoulders and head, as well. The man shivered occasionally from the cold, but less, now, than before. Almost, it seemed to the man, to be warmer, now.

The man sat and stared at the falling flakes, the snowfall a gossamer curtain before his eyes. The black and grey of the city, the filth, the dirt, and the grime, it was all hidden, now, transformed by the snow which covered it. How beautiful everything looked, thought the man.

The man felt drowsy, felt himself drifting off to sleep. He was warmer now, he thought - the cold wasn't so bad after all. Finally, the man lay down on the bench, resting his head upon his hands, careful not to crush his paper cup.

The snow continued falling, and as the man lay there, it settled softly upon him, gently shrouding him in a blanket of immaculate white silence.

After a short while, the paper cup slipped from the man's hand and fell to the ground, where it slowly began to fill with snow.



“Mommy! Mommy! Look! Look outside!”

The boy was staring out the window. Outside, beneath a bright blue sky, all was covered deep in snow.

“Yes, Billy,” said the mother, walking up and placing her arm around the boy as she, too, looked out. “Doesn't the snow look nice?”

“Yes, Mom!”

“And look how beautiful the park looks.”

“Yeah, Mom, it's real beautiful! Can we go there to play?”

The mother gave her son a hug.

Below, the park lay enshrouded beneath a still pure and unsullied white blanket, snow totally covering everything. Everything but for a discarded paper cup, its rim sticking up from the snow, beneath a bench with a misshapen mound of snow upon it.


C Steven Ross