Tag: Joe Stanley

The Pond part 1

by Joe Stanley

1

“Yep, young man, I saw it,” he said, not taking his eyes off the fly. His gnarled hands looped colored thread around the hook with a speed and dexterity that was quite surprising.
“Well, sir,” I began, watching him add feathers and binding them into the shape of wings with a few deft loops. “I’m William Neals of the County Register, and I’d love to hear your story.”
He hummed slightly as he finished the knots and snipped the thread. He looked up at me at last.

“Not much of a story, I’m afraid,” he confessed, “I was closing up the shop, ’bout ten, I’d say. It was dark and all of a sudden, it got bright. I looked up and saw a streak of fire slam down in the water. Hell of a noise, big column of water shot up and the waves rolled clean across the lake. It was enough to rock the boats around.”
“I’ve been here for thirty years. I moved back here into a place my father built. Things are different now. There’s something in the air, in the water… I can’t really say what’s changed, but look,” he said.
He walked over to the window. The sun was setting and its fading brilliance danced across the water in slivers of gold and silver. He pointed to several colored spots floating in the water. “See them?” he asked.
I nodded and he continued. “I’ve been back here for thirty years and I’ve never seen them before.”
“What are they? ” I asked, “Algae?”
“I don’t know,” he told me, then adding “they don’t belong here.”

After a moment, he added “Mark my words, things are different. Something’s wrong, something’s bad, bad wrong. I’m closing up this shop and getting out of here. I think we all should.”

The tone of his voice was so sincere that I couldn’t take it as anything but the truth as that man knew it. There was worry in his features, a dread that almost gave me a chill. What was on his mind specifically I couldn’t say, but this was a trouble that he’d never faced. I could see the uncertainty of his features. He was a man pondering some impossible task, some unknowable challenge or unanswerable riddle.

There was a look of hopelessness, of doom, in his features. I wanted to say something but just the hint of it was overwhelming me.

“How much for the fly?” I asked.
He handed it to me. “On the house.”
I made my way back to the tiny cabin and stretched out on the bed. I hardly laid there for five minutes before I was up, peeking out the window at the lake. The darkness had swept over it and though I tried, I couldn’t see the blooms.
I laid down again and caught some sleep.
I remember dreaming, though all the details escape me I remember most of it. There was a cook out and the air smelled like hamburgers. There was music and children ran playing along the shore. There were people there that I hadn’t seen since my own childhood, people long gone. For a moment, I was comforted and held a sense that we’re never really apart, as silly as that sounds. I actually smiled with tears in my eyes because I was happy.

Then I turned to the water.

Bodies floated face down, still and lifeless as they drifted. I began to yell for help and turned back, but everyone was gone. The air was cold and I heard a slosh from the water behind me.

I couldn’t… I wouldn’t turn around and I woke up with my heart pounding and my breathing fast.

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June 4, 2018 Add Comment

The Lens

by Joe Stanley

I was something of a handyman around the neighborhood. Mowing lawns, raking leaves, painting and repairing picket fences were all in a typical day’s work for me. I suppose I never really saw much in the world to inspire me to greater ambitions.

So on an early spring afternoon, I found myself digging an expansion for Mrs. Derrick’s flower garden. She was energetic for her age, but the brute work of tilling the soil was a bit more than her old back could manage. I was happy to help her out, her garden was a marvel and had been featured in a local magazine for several years. I even felt a small amount of pride in the tiny role I played in it all. I was smiling when I turned the earth and uncovered something odd.

It was a small bag or pouch, once made of fine leather but now crumbling as I brushed the dirt away. It tore open as I freed it from its loamy tomb. I had dimly hoped that it might contain some rare old coins or something of value and I was somewhat disappointed by the corroded odds and ends that spilled out. After who knows how long in the ground, only a single item had survived.

Perhaps noticing that I had ceased my labors, Mrs. Derrick came outside with a pitcher of lemonade and a glass of ice. Showing her my small discovery, I could see she was as unimpressed as I had been.
“Maybe there’s more to find down there.” she dismissed.
“But what do you think this thing is?” I asked showing her the only intact object. It was a small disc of glass, elaborately faceted around the rim. Though the facets were marked with strange scratches and gouges, the larger faces were smooth and polished. A hole near the edge seemed meant for a chain or lanyard.
“An old monocle maybe?” she speculated, squinting at it, “Looks like a piece of broken glass to me. Best throw it away before you cut yourself.”

As I walked toward the trashcan, the phone inside began to ring. As she hurried off to answer it she told me to help myself to the lemonade. But instead of tossing the thing out, I went to the water spigot to wash it and my hands. But seeing it free of mud only made it stranger still, the glass was dark and smokey.

How anyone could have used the lens was beyond me, I doubted that anything could even be seen through it. As I enjoyed a cold drink, I surveyed the yard. The image was darkest around the edge where little could be seen, but toward the center the cloudiness faded, though everything seemed to linger in some gloomy twilight that distorted much of the periphery. This I might have guessed to be some weird optical effect, but the effect on what was in focus was something I didn’t dare try to explain.

The first thing that caught my attention was the small colorful bud of a wildflower. As I looked at it, I was seized by a sensation much like awe or reverence. I felt a deep connection to it, transfixed by its simplistic beauty. A vision of its blossom unfolding to perfection filled my mind. I sighed somewhat sadly at the thought of this future it would never live to see. I was already scheduled to mow the lawn and it would be lost to a roaring, hungry maw.

For a while I took in the world through this fresh perspective. Everything seemed new and fascinating. I could go on and on about the birds which sang from the trees, or about the confounding order in the random shape of branches and leaves. But turning toward the house, I saw something I wish I had never seen.

Through the window, I saw Mrs. Derrick as she chatted on the phone. But the warm and happy woman, as seen through the lens, was cold, hollow, and empty. Her skin was lifeless, like so much pale blue wax. I turned away, instinctively repulsed by the undeniable presence of death.

Within the week, she had passed. According to her son, who arrived to see to her property and belongings, it had been a sudden, massive stroke. I offered to keep up the yard until other arrangements could be made and he graciously accepted.

The grass had grown long and tall in those few short days. I took some measure of satisfaction restoring things to the way she would have wanted them to be. I stopped only once in the work and let the mower fall to silence.

I was stunned and shocked by a sight that should have meant nothing at all.

With an angry denial, I restored the engine to life and moved on, though I could not shake the outre claws that clutched at my heart.

And all I had seen was a wildflower, reaching up to offer its perfect blossom.

The Lens part two

The Ghostly World Fictional Ghost Stories

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May 28, 2018 Add Comment

The House on Maple Lane

by Joe Stanley

My name is Ernie Rogers. I’ve been in real-estate for over forty years. In that time, I’ve had the privilege of seeing many of the beautiful and historic homes that can be found throughout the region. Sadly, I must also state that I have seen a number of houses which can only benefit from a wrecking ball.

I am not speaking of places in need of a new roof or even a complete renovation. Truly, I’d rather see a house restored than to see it rebuilt. To me, preserving the past is a noble goal, and one which is personally special, so I would not call for demolition if there was a hope of conserving the history all houses seem to contain.

A good house seems to hold the residues of smiles and laughter. The mood is light and seems to encourage joy and happiness. I’m reminded of the fertile ground of a garden, where blooms of any kind or color might grow. These good houses are not the only ones, however, and others feel as though they hold history of another sort.

Perhaps it is the ‘other’ history that fouls these places. Of those I have found, most possess an atmosphere that is dark, heavy, and cold. I have watched potential buyers closely when I show them such a location and have witnessed the subtle effect wrought on them. In their comments and questions, I have heard the echo of my own experiences.

I’ve seen the energy just leave them. Enthusiastic shoppers fall quiet and contemplative. I believe they struggle with an experience they cannot comprehend. They become distant and confused, their happy smiles replaced by an impatient grimace. They complain about the stuffy air, even though the windows are wide open. They clutch and massage their temples and foreheads, as a sudden headache cuts short the showing.

Keep in mind that I often get questions about ghosts or haunted houses, that’s just a part of the job. I typically turn the question back and ask of their experiences. Mostly these are open-minded inquiries and my impression is that if I suggested that a place might be haunted then I might make an easy sale. But my goal is to help people find the house that makes them happy, so I show them as many places as I can and never endorse any house over another. Even when I’ve been saddled with a house that simply will not sell, I just wait with the idea that the perfect buyer will come along sooner or later.

The house on Maple Lane was just such a place. It had sat empty for decades, falling slowly into a sorry state. An investor, seeing the marvelous potential, had done some brilliant work in bringing it back from the brink of decrepitude. The house and grounds were beautiful, the location was excellent, and though the asking price wasn’t cheap, it was very reasonable. Those of us in the business were astounded by how it remained empty year after year.

It became something of a legendary beast, its sale was to real-estate what a white whale was Captain Ahab. It would have been a majestic plume to put in one’s cap. I showed the place to a few viewers myself. Ultimately, I’m glad I never sold it.

Unlike the other ‘bad’ houses, the house on Maple Lane was a delight to behold. The original owners had invested in fine materials and tasteful embellishments everywhere. The work to restore it had added virtually nothing new. In my own walk-through, however, I could not get over the sense that something was amiss. It took me years of reflection before I could spell the problem out.

You see, the beauty present everywhere was a facade. Below that surface there was an emptiness and hollowness that rendered such splendid details meaningless. It was more than being “just for show”, that is, beneath the superficial layer, there was really nothing there at all. That nothingness, that hollowness, emptiness, or void seemed to draw into itself the happiness that would otherwise go to making a house into a home.

As I said, I showed it a few times over the years. The last time I did so, it was to a young couple just getting their start in the world. They were, so far as I could see, very happy and in love, with the vast potential of life spreading out before them. They even mentioned building a large family and this was why they were looking at places which might be a little more than a couple would need.

Maple Lane had such a place and it was offhanded that I suggested a visit. Though I didn’t expect to sell the place, one never really knows who is suited for where, and it seemed prudent to show them every option I could. It was a mistake to take them there, one that has bothered me ever since.

The showing started with promise. They were wide-eyed and in disbelief that such a place was in their range, though I had explained that the price of a house often comes down when it’s been on the market as long as this one had been.

Then one of them, I don’t remember which, made a joke about ghosts scaring people away. This was apparently a sensitive subject between the two and may have been more ill-spirited teasing than comedy. As we continued the tour, they began hurling these little barbs back and forth. It might have been quite funny if things weren’t so serious. Then they began to openly bicker and I felt more than a little awkward at being present. I couldn’t even complete my pitch, having been forced to excuse myself to the car when they started arguing louder and louder.

The two people that left the place were not the two that had arrived. While I have not use for or love of gossip, I heard that the two had broken up and gone their separate ways. I hold a bit of guilt having wondered if my showing them the house was somehow responsible for this. I console myself in thinking that they hadn’t bought that first house together, so an eventual break up might have been worse than for things to end that way. Perhaps I’m just kidding myself. And their tragedy is a small price to pay for how much worse things might have been.

The house was eventually sold to a family from out of state. Sadly, less than a year would go by before the place was empty again. After months of fighting, things ended in a bloody and unspeakable nightmare from which no one would emerge alive. In hindsight, I might say that this was far from unpredictable, but I’ve not yet found a way to deal with the notion that such a horror might have been prevented.

Sensational stories now surround the house on Maple Lane. It is considered common “knowledge” that the place is cursed or haunted. Young neighborhood boys test their courage by daring to walk up to the door and knock. Those too frightened stand back and hurl rocks at the few windows which still have panes. It now looks as it should, ready for the wrecking ball, sadly one family too late.

In the stories that came out, we learned that the demolition should have actually happened long ago. For the last family that died there was the second and not the first.

-end-

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May 24, 2018 Add Comment

The Hungry Ones

by Joe Stanley

I was abroad when the news reached me that my father had died. My reaction was mixed, part of me grieved but part of me was unmoved by the thought of his passing. I have no doubt that admission will seem heartless to some, but it is honest… and appropriate. I feel no need to exaggerate the share of sadness, like so many others do upon hearing of a death. To me, such lies are far more damnable and make one as loathsome as a body may be.

The contempt I felt was more than justified. I will spare you the details, for nothing can come from dwelling upon the inequities of the past and the charges I could lay are ones for which he has no means to defend himself. I will simply state what I have observed and know others to realize, that parents often have favorites and their treatment of their children can vary by remarkable degrees. Further, on having drawn this to his attention many years ago, he simply waved away this truth and dismissed me as suffering from jealousy.

Is it any surprise that I, in turn, dismissed him? He was willfully ignorant of many things and took delight in the cruel effect of his callousness. I will not make a saint of the man merely because he has died. Indeed, all I can truly thank him for is demonstrating the sort of person I have strove never to be.

Let it be repeated that his passing did bring me grief, but not for the loss of who he was. Instead, I grieved for having failed to inspire him to rise above that thing. I mourned the loss of all opportunities for reconciliation. The few tears I shed fell because I would never be able to seek his forgiveness, nor could I ever grant him the same from me.

So, weeks after the funeral, I found myself returning to a place I had not seen for many years, a place I vowed I’d never lay eyes on again, a place I once called home. The vision of this forgotten but familiar abode stirred my heart to recollect what bitterness had long forbade me to recall. I found it to be so bittersweet that I resolved to keep my visits with family short and to be gone once I had paid my respects.

I wore my dress uniform and took a solitary journey to the cemetery. I brought a wreath to place on his grave. As I placed it there, I saw I had not been the only one to leave such a token. There was a single flower laid across the stone. Something about it dimly troubled me, but I had more to worry for and put this out of mind.

The soil was still heaped, though the grass was growing nicely atop the mound. But, here and there, were the marks of some small creature which had attempted to dig into the grave. This filled me with anger, the thought of the place being so neglected that such vermin may come. I thought to myself that I must have words with the caretaker and ensure that this be resolved. But this, too, could wait and I took a seat beside the tombstone.

For a time, I hardly knew what to think. So often when I thought of him, I knew nothing but rage. Now that he was gone, such thoughts seemed only a waste, so I tried to focus on what few pleasant memories I could summon.

It must have been hours I sat and pondered my life. It was to escape his house that I took up military service as soon as possible, it offering me the promise of distant places. But if I thought to escape human cruelty, I had surely failed. For I had since seen blood and death and realized that there is abuse enough to be found worldwide. I must suppose that was why I lingered there, in the hope that some peace would come. But all I found was exhaustion and weariness.

At some point in the afternoon I nodded off.

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May 1, 2018 Add Comment

Worm Food

by Joe Stanley

Home was a horrible place. It wasn’t his home, she made that quite clear very often. He knew it was abusive, but he didn’t know who to tell that to or how to say it.

It wasn’t always physical abuse, but the things she said were always cruel. Sometimes he thought he would rather just be hit than to be called names, insulted, degraded and taunted. He tried his best to be good, but he didn’t even have to do anything wrong.

She loved to make traps out of questions. No matter how he answered them, he was always wrong. He was worse than wrong, really, she always found a way to make him bad. Then she could punish him. He didn’t understand how it made her so happy to hurt him, he just guessed that she was hurting too.

Somehow, she just didn’t want to be happy. She didn’t want to be friends or to have fun. She must have hurt so bad inside that there wasn’t room for anything else. There was so much hurt down inside her that it spilled out of her mouth. He could almost feel sorry for her, but she was just so mean. The way she smiled when she knew that he was hurting proved that she was a bad person.

She would work him with chores all day, telling him the whole time that he wasn’t doing a good job. Then she would make him do it over and over, never telling him what he was doing wrong. She wouldn’t let him watch the television or go outside. He was never allowed in the backyard, that’s where her garden was. If she loved anything in the world it was her garden.

When he had no work to do, she would make him sit quietly in a chair. He could hear the other children in the neighborhood laughing and playing. He wished he could be out there too, but he could only watch the sky darken until she sent him to bed.

He would lay in bed, afraid to fall asleep because if he had a dream it was usually a bad one. Sometimes he would see his mother and sister in his dreams and it always made him sad.

He could remember that day. His mother seemed sad, but she told him they were going to see his grandmother. That had made him happy. He had been happy right up to the accident. He remembered the rain and the squealing tires. There was a big crash, he remembered the big boom sound. Then he could only remember little pieces. There were policemen and firefighters, and an ambulance, but that part was fuzzy.

He saw his grandmother a few times when she came to visit him in the hospital. She tried to tell him about his mother and sister, but she always cried too much to talk. He knew they were gone, but he couldn’t talk either. He couldn’t tell her that he knew. She sounded sick, and one day she just stopped coming. He knew that she was gone too.

Then one day the doctors got excited. They said it was a miracle that he had woken up. He told them that he hadn’t been to sleep, but they laughed and said “You’re okay now!” It was hard to move and he couldn’t walk for a while. The nurses were pretty and nice, and the man who helped him learn to walk again was funny and always made him laugh.

Then he had to leave the hospital. First they put him in an orphanage and he didn’t like it there. Everyone was mean and sad. He thought it was bad there, but then they made him stay with Ms. James. Then he knew what bad really was.

She told him that it was her home and that she was being very good to let him live there. She told him that she was going to heaven for being so good. She told him that he couldn’t go to heaven unless he was very, very good, and probably not even then.

He told her that his mother was in heaven, but she laughed at him. She called his mother bad names and said his whole family was bad. He told her that his sister was in heaven too.

Then she laughed really loud and said his sister couldn’t go to heaven.

She said his sister was worm food.

He cried and she kept laughing, telling him that he was like a little girl. Then she got angry and told him to shut up or he’d be worm food, too. He was afraid, but he couldn’t stop crying so she slapped him until he fell down.

He tried not to cry anymore since then, but she always knew what to say to make him hurt. All he could do was try his best and that was never good enough.

She made him go to church every Sunday. She made him sing, though he didn’t want to. She acted like she was good, but she wasn’t. She used bad words all the time and talked bad things about everyone on the phone.

He wondered who would want to talk to her.

He liked school because it meant he didn’t have to be around her. He liked gym, though he wasn’t very good at it. His favorite was the library. He loved to read and look at the pictures. Once they let him take a book home, but she got mad when he was reading it.

She said it was a stupid book and that he liked it because he was stupid, too. She took it from him and ripped the pages out. He knew it was because he liked it. She told him that she would tell the principal that he had ruined the book. Since then they wouldn’t let him take books home anymore.

Books gave him new things to think about. When he couldn’t have them anymore he was forced to think about old things, things he didn’t want to think about. If he thought about them, he might dream about them, and he didn’t want that.

One night in a dream, his sister cam to see him. At first he just turned away. He wanted to see her, he missed her, but looking at her made him think of all the things he had lost. It hurt more than all the slaps and bad words put together. He was ashamed of it, but all he wanted was to run away, or wake up, even though he knew how rare and special a chance like this was.

He wanted to tell her to go away, but he was crying like his grandmother had, and he couldn’t speak. He hated that he couldn’t talk, it made him angry because he felt so weak. He tried to run away.

He felt her little hand take his.

He fell to his knees and cried harder than he ever had. He thought the tears would never stop. She put her arm around him and gave him a strong hug. In time his tears began to slow but the pain wouldn’t stop. Then he noticed she was crying too, but he understood that she was crying for him because he was hurting so much. She was so brave that it made him brave too.

For a while they just held each other. Then she said, “I know it’s very hard for you right now. I know that you feel alone and everything hurts. You’re not alone, though, even if you can’t see us. We’re with you and nothing can ever take us apart. We will all be together soon, and nothing will ever hurt us again.”

Then she let go and began to walk away. He was sad to see her leaving but she turned back and said, “You are very good and very brave. You make me proud. I love you.”

The next morning, he felt different. He didn’t feel bad and wasn’t afraid. Even when Ms. James tried to trap him, tried to hurt him, it didn’t hurt anymore. When he didn’t cry she got even more angry.

She made him do laundry and made him fold the clothes over and over. He didn’t cry, but she wouldn’t give up. She made him carry laundry stacked up to his eyes, from the basement all the way up to the second floor. When he got to the top, where one of here plants was on the railing, she bumped him into it.

The black soil fell all over the white towels and sheets, and all over the floor. He fell down too and all the laundry was ruined.

She grabbed his arm and yanked him up off the ground. “Look at what you did!” she yelled at him, shaking him roughly, “Look at what you did to the laundry! Look at what you did to my flower! You killed it!”

Still he didn’t cry. “That plant was a living thing and YOU KILLED IT!” she screamed, shaking him harder and harder. “DO YOU HEAR ME?” she squealed.

“No.” he said “You killed it.”

A hateful sneer spread across her face.

“You’re mean to me, too.” he said as her face became purple, “but I forgive you.”

He held up his arms to hold her, but she shoved him back into the railing with a backhand slap. He fell down, tumbling on the stairs like a doll. He was still and quiet at its foot. Though his body was broken, he felt no more pain.

She called down the stairs, but he didn’t move. She thundered down them towards but he was still quiet. “Get up!” she screamed, but he couldn’t. Then she saw his blood.

For a moment, she felt sorry.

Her heart was too mean to feel guilty. She was afraid because she thought the doctors might find more than the fall. Then the police would put her in jail. She got angry again, saying it was his fault. She said she wouldn’t go to jail for him.

She went back upstairs and cleaned up the laundry. In her mind she was making plans, thinking of lies to tell. She looked outside to her garden and thought she knew what to do.

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April 16, 2018 Add Comment

la Playa Blanco

by Joe Stanley

The island of la Playa Blanco is a tiny speck off the coast of South America. Little is known of the people as they were before the Spanish Conquistadors crushed them in their search for El Dorado. Their culture was unique among those of American natives, though most was lost to the bloody oppression of the foreign tyrants. The last shaman-king to lead the natives of la Playa Blanco spoke a curse to the Spaniards at his execution, promising to return from the grave to free his people and punish the wicked invaders. He was publicly tortured and hung with a short rope, suffering greatly before he died.

The fortresses and ports of the conquistadors soon lined the white beaches and the people were wed to the Spanish in the decades to follow. In less than a century they were all but gone, converted to a civilized, catholic culture. In the forests and the fields, however, remnants of the native practices were kept alive at the peril of life, though these were just fragments of what had been.

The people of la Playa Blanco, like most, suffered in poverty but retained a character that marks the greatest good humanity can achieve. They were deprived of their traditions, of their land, of their freedom to choose their future. Yet they shared their kindness and hope with each other and any in need. The Spaniards did far less well, as all that remained of them were ruins perused by tourists in search of history.

***

Father Pedro took his place before the crowd of the faithful, who waited in silence for him to begin. The little cathedral was filled beyond its capacity, with people standing along the walls when the pews were full.

He had always been popular with the people for his knowledge of their original cultural beliefs. If he had not joined the clergy, a dream since childhood, he would have made an excellent archeologist. He had traveled all over the island and had studied the sites of his ancestors with keen eyes and a sharp mind.

He had gathered the remains of their lost traditions and began to piece them together. He found two images which were believed to be deities, one of light and the other of darkness, which recurred almost wherever he searched. It was a tradition of the church to incorporate these with their own beliefs, that the light represented God while the darkness represented Satan. That the two were considered halves was offensive to the Spaniards for the implication that God and Satan were equals. It was enough for them to label the natives of the island as devil-worshippers and to outlaw their practices.

While on an expedition, in the heart of the forest, Pedro had found another interpretation. “I stopped along the trail, where the forest canopy had been broken, and saw the moon full and bright. It… she… was beautiful, a shining globe of silver-gold floating in the night sky. I sat down to rest, because the steep trail had tired me, and soon I fell asleep. In my dreams an angel came to me to tell me what I must do, and explained to me many things that had been forgotten.”

“She led me to a cave, where I found shards of pottery. I knew it was a place of our ancestors. I knew it was a place for speaking to the past and learning of the future. The pottery was used to carry souls here to this place, the well of souls. They were cast down and shattered on the stone floor, freeing the soul to join with the ancestral spirits that dwell there. They had waited so long to be remembered and they whispered to me in a language I do not know but understood all the same.”

“I listened until the light of morning began to break the darkness, when the voices began to fade. They told me to return to the people and to bring them hope. I am to work their will to show those who still believe that the time is near for the return of our king. That to all the poor, the sick, the powerless… the time draws near to rejoice.”

The people did not come for his story, but for the stories of others. He never made any claims or offered any service, but so many praised him for the wonders they attributed to him. He is said to have cured the sick, even the dying, returned sight to blind eyes, and more. They called him a Saint and came from all over the island to seek his help. He turned no one away, and tirelessly met each, giving of his own time.

However, the sermon of tonight brought them news to break their hearts. “I have listened to so many and yet I hear the same story again and again. I hear of poverty and suffering, and this pains me. Worse though, are the stories of fear and desperation. Some see no way to escape their misery except to take a gamble on crime. Young men turn to the city gangs, young women turn to prostitution. Brave officers and children in crossfire are gunned downed over the Cartel’s scraps. Those who work the drug fields share in this shame. You may never touch a gun, but your labor for pennies(?) are drawing blood and ending lives just the same.”

“I see this even now, the fear in your eyes when I mention the Cartel. I want to help you, but I can’t save you from yourself. I can not give you courage, you must find it inside your own heart. Ask yourself if the little you gain is worth all that is lost. You have lived in fear, and so lived the life others choose for you. Your children see your compromises, they watch your integrity fail. I know you love the children, so please, for them, make a better choice, before they follow your footsteps.”

“I tell you tonight that I am not afraid. I know that death will take me soon, but I will die for what I believe. When I am gone you will see that I have placed my faith well, in things of greater purpose than my own being. You will see the sign, and you will know. It will be up to you to find the courage that I know, this is not my message, but the message of our ancestors.”

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April 12, 2018 Add Comment