The Plague Man

“I bring to you the seven tokens of the flesh to end the blight.”

The Plague Man knelt on the stone floor; his raven mask muffled the sound of his voice, red glass hid his eyes, while his black coat spread out behind him.

The old monastery was nearly abandoned. Only one remained to keep the copper pipes struggling to bring in clean air, free of disease, or to replace the broken glass on the stained windows. The rest had fallen to ruin­­, the gardens now nothing more than a graveyard.

Isaiah reached for them­­: blood, scales, bone, and claws, all carved from the monsters that brought the sickness.

The Plague Man stopped his hand. “Perform your rite Holy Man, but touch them not, or the seven devils will search for you instead.”

Had the man asked Isaiah the same only fourteen days past he could have­­--the plague would have ended right here and now.

“I cannot.” Isaiah replied, and hung his head in shame. “I gambled with the necromancer on the hill, and lost my soul. I had hoped…” Tears blurred his vision as he cut off what he had been about to say. What difference did it make what he had hoped? “I must now give him the tokens or my afterlife will be his to command.”

A specter's wail sounded in the distance, carried by the wind.

“The devils are near.” The Plague Man tilted his head in the perfect parody of the carrion eaters he resembled, listening. “I did as you asked thinking I had finally found the end.”

His cloak folded like wings against his body when he stepped aside, favoring the shadow of a pillar. Isaiah stared down at the tokens, seeing freedom from the plague ruined because of his folly. Because he thought there had been a way to convince the necromancer to destroy the demons.

“Tell me Plague Man, now that you have them could you not seek another holy man with these hidden away?”

“Not with seven devils at your door. My skill is not so great as that.”

The scratching and pounding announced their arrival; with howls to send the bravest intentions to dust with terror at what waited beyond the oaken door.

Before there could be any objection or thought, Isaiah reached out and touched each grisly item. He did not feel fear as he thought he would, but instead absolved.

“I swear to you, for the time you have bought me, when this is done I will free your soul.”

The Plague Man wrapped the tokens in a thick leather case, so as not to touch them again, and let them vanish into the folds of his coat.

"Thank you,” Isaiah whispered to the dark­­, never hearing or seeing the man disappear as the door shattered.

A.J. Vasquez says, "Unfortunately, I’m not funny, and cruel to my subconscious creatures as I toy with their emotions in black and white."

Flushed With Excitement

I know that my grandson is trying to be helpful; he’s that sort of five year old who still wants to learn to do things the right way. However, last night I just had to draw the line. I had to tell him that we just don’t throw used toilet paper in the wastebasket. It’s just not done!

I know! I know; it seems terrible to me too, but I’m nothing if not a sympathetic grandpa. So I asked Te’Juan just why it was he was throwing the poopie -- his word, not mine -- the poopie toilet paper in the wastebasket instead of into the toilet bowl. I should have known that he would have a perfectly good and reasonable answer. He told me that he just didn’t want the toilet to overflow on the floor. A few more probing questions and I began to understand.

It seems that a few days previous to this Te’Juan had flushed this toilet and walked away, presumably done with his business, so to speak. Well, it seems that he had used a more than generous amount of toilet paper -- his mother had warned him to be really clean, so he really was -- and the toilet clogged, backed up, overflowing on the floor. The poor little guy was corrected and warned not to plug up the toilet again.

Well, Te’Juan is nobody’s fool; he’s very intelligent -- takes after his grandfather. He knew that when faced with conflicting requirements -- you know, like getting your butt clean but not plugging up the toilet -- smart people, even smart little people, will come up with a solution. His was to use the wastebasket. Now all of this was well and good and having heard the story I could have had my inventive grandson back on the right track in no time at all, except for his interfering grandma.

It seems that my wife had eavesdropped on my toilet class with my grandson and she just couldn’t contain herself. She had to point out that poop toilet paper in the wastebasket would soon be covered with bugs and was, therefore, a very dirty thing to do. Stupid me; I just thought it was dirty because it was poop! Anyway, she asked Te’Juan if he understood. He said not really. She then reminded him of the dog poop in the backyard with the flies on it. He said he remembered. She then asked if he wanted bugs in the wastebasket. He said that that would be yucky -- again, his word. Smart kid!

So now what? Well, every time that Te’Juan uses the toilet he immediately calls for management -- that’s me, grandpa -- to oversee the flushing operation and to standby with the plunger, the plumber’s helper. We haven’t needed it yet, but I guess it’s comforting to him to be so cautious. Somehow this all seems tied back to grandma’s interference and I can’t help but think that I was handling things better before she introduced bugs, dog poop and flies to the lesson.

I’m certain that somewhere in this story there is a moral or life lesson, but for the life of me I’m not certain what it could be. Perhaps it’s as simple as the fact that sometimes our best intentions overflow with unexpected results; or, maybe it’s that life is filled with choices: clean butt, clean floor -- take your pick. Oh well, next time I’m just going to flush the toilet when grandma starts to speak; I know what to do with poop.




Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (the hormonially-challenged) teacher. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large.

Flood Victim

While Arky sat leaning against the porch post, studying the raw sewage floating by, overhead a snake, coiled and ready, pondered a big mosquito that landed on the back of Arky’s neck.

Sookie, watching it all from the swing, put her knitting down in her lap and wondered out loud. “Arky, Hun, there was something in the paper this morning ‘bout the flood bringing in diseased skeeters. You think if a snake was to eat one of ‘em, it’d die from it? ”

“I reckon it would,” said Arky.

“Well then,” Sookie said, and she went back to her knitting.

Jerry H. Brown is a fiction writer living in Memphis, TN.

The Happiest Place

You park in a labyrinth. Do you have everything you need? Lock the doors. Level H, row nine. You are here. Cartoon Mark Twain. Animatronic Lincoln. Cartoon Thomas Paine. Cartoon Bob Dylan. Everyone wears a name-badge stating where they are from. Gregory from Los Angeles. Alcohol is forbidden on the premises. There are security cameras in the parking lot. Please keep your arms and legs inside of the tram at all times. Please do not climb the rocks. “On good days you can see clear out the park.” The lady next to you is foreign. She has waited in line for the tram; waited in state-wide gridlock; waited in line at the gas station—she has waited her whole life for this day. Everyone has. She cannot wait to pass the gates and wait further. Everyone who waits gets a turn. First-timers get badges. People with canes are provided with chairs: Everyone is in this together. There is always more than one line but both remain the same length and move at the same speed. The illusion of choice. Children must be taught how to behave while in line. Most are not. Old-timers say that the lines aren’t like they used to be. Get your “Waiting in line” expression on. True American food. Get your churros. Get your popcorn. Get your customized pretzels. Get your cartoon J.D. Salinger holding a nine dollar craft brew. Single-serving turkey legs. If you choke the next one’s on us! On good days you can see clear out the park. The fastest ride has the highest peak. Lockdown seating only. Three, two, one—zero to sixty in one second. Everyone grins. Then the drop. People scream. Get your scream time in. Everyone digs scream time. Dig your cartoon Michael Jackson singing through the speakers. Now the loop: grind your teeth pry open your eyes. It’s the happiest place. Everyone grimaces tumbling through the loop. Necks were misaligned; mistakes were made. If you open your eyes at the apex of the loop, if you turn your head towards the setting sun at the exact right moment you can see clear to the Pacific. Oh Beautiful for spacious skies. Better luck next time. Balloons within balloons. Plastic chains and plastic spoons. Get your “It was so worth the wait” face on. Got my souvenir cartoon John Lennon peace sign shot-glass. Whiskey’s in the car. Absolutely no cutting in line. Absolutely no flash photography. Parties of twelve or more will be charged eighteen percent gratuity. Get your novelty toothpicks and discount breath-mints. Everything you want. The illusion of abundance. Freedom isn’t free, nor happiness. Prices may vary. Come again soon! Freedom-Land. Annual pass holders save money in the long run. Chaos isn’t free. No one is frenzied, everyone is happy. Consumerism is such cliche. The happiest, happiest place on earth. 

Gregory Nordquist lives and writes in L.A, where he is either too hot or too cold.

Family Manners

Beyond the free-for-all approach to large family get-togethers for in-laws and outlaws, her family no longer has any manners at table. There is no formal prescription or proscription of actions surrounding holiday get-togethers, except for the one great shared meal each Thanksgiving. Rules apply then. Animosities must be held in abeyance. A hierarchy of age is instituted for serving and seating. The smallest children are banished to another room, at least to another table, usually a card table, or TV trays. Adults are left to their strained relationships, but everyone is expected to be on their best behavior: no discussion of politics, religion or sex, by tacit, mutual agreement. All three subjects, therefore, become focal points of riotous disagreement within the first few minutes. It had been her deepest hope that it would work this year, but she knew it might be doomed and had planned for it.

She realizes one result of not allowing the youngest children at the main table will be their postponed acquisition of profanity until preschool. But the best result is that the children are not served from the turkey she prepared especially for the feuding adults from her own very special recipe.


Rick Hartwell believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like William Blake, that the instant contains eternity.