THE AUCTION copyright2011 m.s.

Thompson showed up late, sporting his dark blue tie that Joan had bought him. In the fourteen years of marriage, she always bought him a tie for his birthday and a dark blue tie for that matter. He stopped at the door of auction room, fiddled with the tie.

“I'm not even sure this tie goes with light pink shirt,” He said and sighed.

From the door he could hear the auctioneer's booming voice, asking for asking for another bid. No takers. Then the gavel banged and he announced that Smith had won the bid.

Thompson made a noise from his throat. “I hope that bastard isn't here,” Thompson ran a hand up and down his face.

He was tired.

If he wasn't out chasing a soul to take to the Otherside, then he was at auctions all over the world buying souls for the agency. Everyone thinks it's only one spirit in a robe and holding a scythe that's Death. Actually there is several agencies out collecting. And there's two things every agent of death hates: one, is for a soul recently deceased to run or go missing. Two: for another agent to steal a soul from underneath an agent.

The last thing is what Floyd Smith was famous for. He hated him, even though they both had worked for Axel agency as partners until Smith started his own agency.

Thompson opened the door to the auction room with an audience of twenty or so agents laughing, clapping, some thumbing their nose, and the auctioneer announcing his presence.

Thompson waved at the other agents, smiled big as if he were a celebrity. He looked around, Smith wasn't there.

“How nice of you to join us, Mr. Thompson. Your seat has only been empty for three hours.” The auctioneer said through the microphone.

“Oh, come on, Gimble,” Thompson yelled out. “I only bid on the best souls.”

Thompson found his seat beside a nervous Calvin, his partner.

“Thank God your here, Stevo,” Calvin was wearing that horrible chex-mix suit, the squares of red and white always made Thompson feel nauseous. “You heard what Ford said on Monday. If we don't snag a good soul he can sell, we're out of a job.”

“You worry too much, Calvin,” Thompson pushed his glasses off the tip of his nose, brushed back a strand on his balding head. “We'll get one. By the way, if you loose this job, you can go back to being a gym coach. Oh, but your wife still thinks you do that, eh?”

“What do you tell your wife, Stevo?” Calvin said in mocking voice.

Thompson turned to auctioneer, tried to pay closer attention to the event. “None of you’re fucking business, is what I tell her.” Thompson smiled to himself.

“Just don't let Smith outbid you,” Calvin whispered.

“He's not here.” Thompson saw the picture of a Senator placed on an easel.

The agent next to them whispered to them,”Smith was here. He was called away for something urgent.”

“Oh, great, what luck, eh Stevo?” Calvin placed his huge hand on Thompson shoulder. Thompson jerked away. The man was a giant, played three years as a center for the Bronco's before blowing out a knee. Now he was an agent of death for the Axel agency, and not a very good one. He and Thompson has had too many lost souls. They slip away and haunt someone or some building, or even an object. Once a deadline to exit the souls to the Otherside is missed they are gone for eternity.

For the Senator, Thompson bid 450, it jumped to 500 credits. Thompson raised his hand. 600 credits. Burke from Denholm agency bid 1,000 credits. Thompson screamed, “1, 500!”

Calvin jabbed Thompson in the ribs with an elbow. Thompson gave him a look, daggers in his eyes. “The agency only gave us 1800 credits!”

“Back off,” Thompson growled.. “I know what I'm doing.”

Thompson heard the bidding close at 2500 credits. His jaw dropped to the floor. “What---what happened?” He cried out.

“The bid closed on you while you were talking,” One of the agents said.

“Which one of you bastards----” Thompson stood, his face beat red with anger.

“It was Smith,” Someone said. “By phone.”

Thompson kicked his chair, cursed under his breath. Thompson placed a hand over his worried face. He was done for. He would surely loose his job, or worse. Be RETIRED.

“This young lady was recently deceased,” The auctioneer said. “As a matter of fact, this last acquirement only died twenty minutes ago.”

Thompson sat in his chair, barely looked up. He crossed his arms, shook his head. They removed the Senator's picture from the easel, and replaced it with a beautiful dark haired woman smiling as if there were no cares in the world.

“This is Jenna Smith. Died from a car accident,” the auctioneer said.

Thompson eyes lit up. He moved his lips to say the woman's name. “That's Smith's wife...” He whispered to Calvin.

Calvin stopped picking his nose and looked up. “Don't do it,” Calvin whispered back. “Please don't bid on her, Stevo.”

“He can't bid on the soul of a loved one, Calvin. If he does, he could be Retired. Those are the rules.”

“Let one of these other jerks do this. For God's sake, Steve. Smith used to be a friend.”

Thompson wrinkled his nose. “Screw him,” he said and topped out the bid.

“Twenty-five thousand!”

The auction room went silent.

“That was all the credits we were allotted for the year...Steve...” Calvin buried his head in his hands.

“If,” Thompson pulled out the company credit card and slammed it on the auction treasurer's desk. “I'm going out, Calvin, I wanna go out with style.”

“But, if you loose this soul, you'll be RETIRED.” Calvin shook his head. “And I will, too.”

“No,” Thompson watched the treasurer swipe his card. “You are no longer my partner. I'll get the paperwork drawn up after I do this.” The treasurer handed Thompson the credit card. With the other hand he signed for the sale. “You wont be RETIRED.” Thompson tried to smile, but it turned into a smirk.

This was Thompson's justice.

He was sick of the business. Taking souls across, into the light or the darkness, it wears on a person's mind. Sometime you even dream about it. He hated Smith so much, he was willing to be RETIRED. Who were they kidding. The committee doesn't RETIRE you, they incinerate you and your soul becomes one those whispering voices in the winds during a storm. Lousy way to go. Well, if he made up something, showed what a jerk Smith was, how many souls he'd stolen from him, they would understand how letting the man's wife become a lost soul was a just cause for revenge. They might let him go and wait for him to die, then his soul would become a whispering voice.

That would never happen.

The auction had given him info on where Smith's wife may be. He tried the hospital. No dice. He tried the school where she had taught first grade. No spirit wandering the school's halls. The last place was a summer home on a Maine beach.

Thompson arrived just in time for sundown. The sun illuminated the overcast sky----bright reds and oranges in a wild pink and blue beyond the horizon. He saw a woman standing at the edge of the pier, quietly watching the waves dance across the elegant river.

She was nearly transparent in her sundress. Her dark hair whipped around her face courtesy of the rolling wind.

“Jenna,” Thompson called out to the woman.

She turned quickly. There was a crease between her eyes to show her confusion. She looked at Thompson as if she only heard a voice and saw no one. Then she smiled slightly after recognizing a person belonged to the voice.

“Oh,” Jenna said. “Your here take me.”

“More or less,” Thompson nodded.

Jenna laughed. “Men are always so vague,” She looked at him. “I was hoping I could get a chance to say goodbye to Floyd.”

“Did you love your husband?” Thompson approached her cautiously. If ran to her, she might jump into the river. But maybe he wanted her to. He couldn't make up his mind.

“Yes,” She said without hesitation.

If Thompson let her go, she would haunt Smith until he died.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Thompson put his hand out.

Jenna bit her lip, reached out for Thompson.

From a distance, a voice called out for her. She pulled back her hand. Thompson turned, saw it was Smith running up the pier.

“Jenna! No! Don't take his hand!” He was coming up fast, waving his hands.

“Please Jenna! I'll taker her across Thompson, you bastard!”

Jenna stepped backwards. All she saw was a blur of a body coming towards her and a muffled voice screaming at her. She looked like a deer caught in headlights. Fear ran across her face. Jenna turned toward the waves crashing against the pier.

“Stay back,Smith! What are you doing! You know you'll scare her away---”

No sooner had Thompson caught Smith by the arms, Jenna was gone.

The current had taken her, enveloped her in it's white underbelly.

Smith and Thompson stood, both at a loss for words. Smith burst into tears.

Thompson, closed his eyes, let go of Smith.

Thompson walked away.

THE SICKNESS copyright2011 m.s.

The rains came and outside my window the steam overtook the world.

As the steam disperses, I can see the dead out on the street staring with their hungry eyes. In my chair, the water rises covering my boots. My Mother waifs through the water from to room dusting the burnt furniture.

I wait for the inevitable.

It's a happy home. Three naked women lay on my bed having my babies, the umbilical cord keeping them together as sisters. They grit their teeth, foaming at the mouth, rabid in their love.

In the dining room a man in a black tuxedo play piano rolls on a Steinway. His monkey performs voodoo on the Priest giving me my last rites. The Priest found a match finally, but the candle will not light.

So I lift my shirt, black throbbing sores whisper to me their hopes and dreams. The dead have finally entered my house, crawling through the flooded floors to feed from my sores, the sickness controlling their small minds while everyone bear witness to the coming dawn.

IN THROUGH THE OUTDOOR copyright 2011 m.s.

Mick Ronson was sitting at the bar In through the outdoor having a Tom Collins, holding a small piece of paper in his hands. Bull rolled his eyes, kept wiping the beer mugs with a damp towel. Ronson smiled at Bull as the paper caught fire.

It was what Mick Ronson was good at.

All he has to do is think about an object and it catches fire. A beautiful blue-red flame with tinges of yellow enveloping the object.

Ronson loved it so. He wasn't just an firebug. He thought of himself as an artist. From the time he was nine years old and he thought of how he'd like to burn that mean old Mrs. Avery's house down for telling on him stealing gum from the store, to the time he caught Mr. Donner's pants on fire in history class in the tenth grade, Ronson knew he was special.

Think= fire.

In his hands the paper caught fire without the aid of a match or lighter.

Bull poured Ronson another Tom Collins.

“Oh by the way, Mick, this is Cora. If you got a twenty she'll make your world move.”

Ronson looked up and a tall, blonde in a green sequence dress, was standing in front of him. Ronson smiled a toothy grin.

“Bull's just mad cause he can't make as much money as me. Not enough sickly old men that like bald ugly queens like old Bull.”

Bull growled. “If you weren't my sister,” He showed Cora his fist. Then he went off to tend bar for three drunk sailors that just entered, falling over each other.

“You really Bull's sister?” Ronson placed the flaming paper in an ashtray.

“Afraid so, came from same mother.”

Ronson stared at Cora, chewing on an ice cube. She sat the stool beside him, not so much lady-like, but enough to get Ronson's eyes moving toward the open flaps of her dress.

“So what do you want?” He said.

“Conversation,” Cora leaned in with a cigarette and lit it by the burning paper in the ashtray.

“You could have that with those sailors over there.”

Cora sighed. “Not my type. Never had a good situation with military guys.”

“That put's a kink in your kind of business, don't it?”

“What does?”

“Being picky.”

“That was a neat trick,” Cora said with a giggle.

“What trick was that?” Mick raised an eyebrow.

She pointed at the ashtray.

“Oh, that,” He had a toothy grin on his face. “That's a trade secret.” He chewed on an ice cube.

The sailors were hootin and hollarin' at each other as they took shots for quarters.

“Why aren't you talking to them?” Mick threw a thumb toward them.

“Not my type. I like guy's in white suits.” I said.

“You do do you?” His eyes grew wild. “If you only knew me......”

“I would like to,” I placed my hand on his leg.

“What were you burning?” Cora picked through the ashes, took piece that hadn't burned.

It read:

Dear Mick, I can't see you anymore. Peter has found out.....

The rest had turned into soot, then the paper ends.

Cora nodded. “Oh,” She carefully placed the paper back in the ashtray. “I see. I hate it when that happens.”

At that moment the bar door slammed open. Everyone stopped to see who it was.

Peter Barnes stood in the doorway, looking every bit intense, and intending to do harm. He wasn't a big man as much as he had those crazy eyes that drilled a hole through you. He was there with two men much bigger than he, and faces only a mother could love. His suit was so red that Bulls in Mexico were looking for him.

“This, boys, is the kind of place where you're served drinks that burns a hole in your stomach,” Barnes said. The two men behind him chuckled. “Bull, baby. How are you?”

Bull became very nervous, the beer glasses shook in his hands. “Mr. Barnes.... I'm not late on my payments am I?” Bull let out a whimper as Barnes and his men ambled to the bar.

“Bull, sweetheart, don't be nervous,” Barnes patted Bull on the hand several times. The drunk sailors were staring, their mouths left gaping. Barnes snarled at them. “You bums beat it!” He barked at them. They exchanged bug-eyed looks and scattered out the door.

Barnes was now standing directly behind Ronson, staring a hole in the back of his head. Ronson didn't flinch. He kept drinking his tom Collins, chewing on an ice cube. Cora began to breathe uneasy. She stood, Barnes put his hand on her shoulder.

“No reason to leave, honey,” He said. “Finish your drink with Mr. Ronson. I'm only gonna talk to him, me and the boys.” Like good soldiers, his bodyguards stepped forward to put an exclamation mark on his statement.

Ronson turned to Barnes, gave him a huge smile, pushed his panama jack up on his forehead. “What's shakin', bub?”

Barnes leaned in, whispered, or maybe it was growl, no one was really sure.

“You fucker,” Barnes laughed. “You promised to do a job. You were paid. And you didn't fucking come through. Then YOU got the nerve to fuck Violet?”

“Language, Barnes. There's a lady present.” The smile on Ronson disappeared.

One of Barnes men placed a hand on Ronson's shoulder. His hand burst into flames. The six foot-seven inch man full of muscle and a large belly, ran screaming to the bathroom. The other bodyguard pulled his .38 from his holster and placed the barrel between Ronson's eyes. The man's head, which was a square box of meat, was now engulfed in a blue-red flame. His ear-piercing scream could be heard as he ran out the bar's exit and into the street.

Ronson took another sip from his glass. Everyone was flabbergasted. Cora was motionless. “Oh, God, oh,God,” She said over and over under her breath. Bull kept batting his eyes,but he knew what Ronson was capable of. This though, was the worst he'd ever seen.

Barnes backed away from the bar slowly. “What-what are you? Some kinda genetic freak?”

He backed into something soft by the exit. He screamed, turned. It was Violet. Dyed red hair, bad makeup, but still had the body of a stripper from years past. She threw her arms around Barnes, kissed him wildly. “I thought it was too late! I meant to warn you, baby. You don't know what he is....” She pulled away, still holding Barnes hand. “You're a monster!” She pointed at Ronson.

Ronson sniggered.

“Look what he did to Snake and Terror.” Barnes walked out with Violet, as if he was being led by his Mother.

“I know, honey. I'm sorry I cheated on you with that THING.” Violet said.

“Hey, Barnes!” Ronson yelled after him, not once turning to see if he stopped. Barnes poked his head back in the door. “I'll be visiting you in the morning. Talk business.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Barnes said nervously. “Sure thing, Mick.”

Barnes disappeared. But one of his bodyguards showed up, with his shirt wrapped around a deformed lump of flesh attached to his wrist. He stopped, looked at everyone. He ran for exit as fast as his feet could take him.

There was a long silence, save for Bull wiping Beer glasses. Cora couldn't move. But her eyes would shift toward Ronson once in awhile.

“Whew!” Ronson said, removed his panama jack to reveal two small red knobs protruding from his head. He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Boy, it's hot in here.”

Cora began to panic again.”Oh, God, oh, God,” she said.

Bull dropped a beer glass. The sound of it shattering echoed in the bar. He nearly fell over on the liquor wall.

Ronson stood, threw some money down. “Well,” he put his panama jack back on his head, fixed the brim. “I have to get going. Got an appointment.”

“Hey Mick,” Bull swallowed dryly. “Um..if you don't mind me asking. What was the job.....you know...what you had to burn?”

Ronson smiled a toothy grin. He pointed at the floor. “Here,” He started for the exit. “In through the outdoor.”

A NAME copyright2011 m.s.

Dana Grossman of 52 Fork Rd., raised a crooked finger to the phone book and touched a name with her long, jagged black fingernail. She smiled, her crooked teeth extended over her discolored bottom lip.

“Peterson, Alva......32 Lorre street......” Mrs. Grossman paused, sniffed the putrid air that circulated in her dim apartment. Very little sun crept in through the molded blinds. From the far wall of her kitchen to her desk, where she always sat, were old dusty books piled nearly to the ceiling. “I think Mr. Peterson should have very bad bowel movements for next year and a half.”  She underlined the name with a marker, then copied it in her notepad.

She stood, her bones creaking with every movement and carried herself slowly to her black cauldron that sat upon her kitchen counter. The hump on her back moved up and down under her black tattered dress. She looked inside her cauldron and grunted. She reached inside her cupboard and took a tiny gray mouse from it's trap. It squirmed in her gnarly hands until she sliced open it's throat with a long, skinny razor blade.

The blood from the mouse dribbled in the cauldron into a white murky liquid, causing a slight flash and smoke rose and fell as she spoke in very bad Latin.

“Ah …....” She said to herself. “That should take care of him.” She slowly walked back to her desk to pick out another name.

The doorbell rang.

Mrs. Grossman cursed under her breath. “It better not be those horrible Calladi children,” Her heavy black boots pounded the floorboards hard, still not reaching the door any faster. “I'll cook and eat every one of their fat little bodies and pick my teeth with their bones.”

She looked through the peephole. She saw a tall dark haired woman dressed in a business suit, her hair pulled tightly back and very white clear skin. It was her daughter Clarissa.

The door opened quickly. A hand grabbed Clarissa and pulled her inside the apartment. She winced as she whirled inside, knocking a few books over, loosing a high heel in the process.

“Get in!” Mrs. Grossman screamed in a hoarse voice.

“Mother!” Clarissa cried out. “What are you doing?!”

Mrs. Grossman was looking through the peephole, mumbling to herself.

“Mother!” Clarissa found her left heel and sat in a chair filled with musty books. She carefully placed her foot in and stamped against the floorboards.

“Oh. Hello, Clarissa. I don't want those horrible children near my door.”

“God, are you still terrorizing those poor innocent children,” Clarissa crossed her legs. “You could get into terrible trouble.”

“Those are not good, kindly children who help the elderly across the road,” Mrs. Grossman ran her black fingernails through her stringy white hair. “I'm telling you, Clarissa. Those are little demon-spawns.”

“Then they should be right at home with you,” Clarissa picked up a book entitled FERRAH'S DAEMONOLOGY: HOW TO ENTICE AND ENSLAVE THE MODERN DEMON. “Still dabbling in the a-cult there, Mother?”

“Occult!” Mrs. Grossman snapped. “And yes....and yes it's just as real as that accounting job you have.”

“Hey, I didn't say giving people curses wasn't. And I like my job. It took me a long time to be head accountant.”

Mrs. Grossman took a few steps past her daughter. “You meant it was silly. Would like some tea?”

“Well, it is that. Wait....do you still keep mice in your cupboard?” Clarissa raised an eyebrow.

“Of course I do!” Mrs. Grossman dragged her boots across the floorboards, causing an unpleasant sound inside Clarissa's already aching head.

“No thank you, Mother.” She made a face at the thought of mice and different bugs crawling over her Mother's food in the kitchen.

“I'm having some anyway. What brings you here today, Clarissa?” Mrs. Grossman called from the kitchen. “It's not Saturday. You never visit on a weekday.”

Clarissa shrugged. “I've come to bring your glasses,” She took out a pair of silver coke-bottle frames from her purse.

Mrs. Grossman returned to the living room knocking over a stack of books. In her hands was a cup of black, murky tea as thick as mud. “There's nothing wrong with my eyes,” She sulked. Her upper lip curled up. “My eyes----”

“Are terrible,Mother, and you know it. Last month Dr. Sheridan told you your eyesight was one of the reasons for your fall. That's why I bought you these.” Clarissa stood and bounced toward her Mother's desk, placed them on the phone book. Clarissa's face fell. “Oh no!” She quickly turned to Mrs. Grossman. “You're using Aunt Della's phone book again, are you?”

“Look, Clarissa, don't give me any speeches.” Mrs. Grossman looked troubled, more wrinkles crossed her brow.

“Mother.....I found you hovering in a dark corner without your clothes on last year blubbering about that book trying to kill you. I thought I burned it.”

“You can't destroy it,” Mrs. Grossman giggled, slightly off a note.

“I know, I know,” Clarissa threw her arms up. “Once you use the book, you have too keep doing it's bidding.”

“I guess I never should have taken it at her wake thirty-five years ago.....but I was so eaten up with getting revenge on your Father. He ruined us. Took all the money he made with the Syrup company. Left us for that woman--”

“Yes, Mother. It happened. And we made it out okay. You raised me perfectly. With the exception of mistrust of men......Mother?” Clarissa lowered her perfectly drawn eyebrows, puzzled.

“Yes?” Mrs. Grossman barely took herself from the thoughts of yesteryear.

“You copied this name from the phone book?” Clarissa picked a yellow notepad. She showed it to her Mother.

“Yeah, so what?”

“The name you wrote down is not Alva Peterson....but Alan Pratterson of 42 Shore street. God, Mother! Use the damn glasses if your gonna do this stupid curse thing!” Clarissa slammed the notepad back on the desk and picked up her purse.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Grossman whined.

“I'm late getting back work. I only came on my lunch.” She rushed to the door, opened it.

“I love you, Clarissa,” Mrs. Grossman said.

“I know you do, Mother,” Clarissa turned to her, thought a moment, smiled. “I love you, too. I'll try to come over Saturday.”

Mrs. Grossman smiled back, her rotting teeth were like barbwire on fence posts. “Be careful out there, darling.”

“Bye, Mother.” Clarissa closed the door, and she was gone.

Mrs. Grossman had to quickly get her mind back on her work. She went to her desk, sat down. She picked up her glasses, mulled over what Clarissa had said. She threw them in her trash can. “Nothing wrong with my eyes,” She scoffed.

She took a crooked finger and flipped through several pages of the phone book. She heard a voice moan. “All right, all right,” She said to the phone book. “A name is coming up..........Daniele Gestling.....25 Fredrick’s Rd........hmm...let's stop her heart.”

She checked off the name by underlining it with black marker. Then copied it on her notepad.

She went to cauldron on her kitchen counter. From her cupboard, Mrs. Grossman removed a jar of crushed wasps and poured half them into the white , murky liquid. The cauldron sizzled, then bubbled up.

Mrs. Grossman dropped the jar of crushed wasps. It shattered into a thousand pieces under her feet. She clutched her chest with her gnarly and stopped breathing just as she fell to the tiled floor of her kitchen.

In the phone book, a name underlined with black marker, was Dana Grossman of 52 Fork Rd.

DIG ME A GRAVE copyright2011 m.s.

                 Crawford was holding the shotgun closer to Kiln's back.

“I don't know why you think this is such a bum rap, “ he said, laughed rambunctiously.

George Kiln was digging ferociously, dirt flying everywhere. He was three feet into it, and the heat was making him dizzy. If only some of the dirt would hit Ben Crawford in the face, he might have a chance at getting the shotgun. He brought out in the desert to dig his own grave, in the sweltering heat, and several buzzards circling above.

He had showed up at the Crawford's General store half-starved and no where to go. They fed him, gave him a job delivering groceries to their customers and a place to stay. Now he was digging his own grave, five miles from the store, out in the desert. A shot gun pointed at his face.

All of this over a woman.

“I think I have lots to be upset about,Bill,” Kiln bellowed. “I'm not guilty of anything, my friend.”

“There you go again,” Crawford breathed deeply. “Trying those mind tricks.” The sweat dripped from his cheek to his shirt that was already sticking to his round body.

“Ain't no trick, boy!” Kiln kept digging wildly, not missing a beat. “Me and Heddy.....we ain't nothin' but friends.”

“Just how friendly, Kiln, is what has riled me. Now shut-up and dig faster!”

Kiln stopped for a moment, tore his t-shirt off. He stared at Crawford.

Crawford burst into laughter. “Get those ideas out your mind, Kiln. That grave is for you.”

Kiln's face fell. He wiped sweat from his face with a hand. “I'm tellin' you,” His voice broke. “I never as much had words with her. C'mon Crawford! We only talk every few minutes or so.....like when me and you had a few beers......Oh what's the use!You gonna believe what you want.” Kiln grabbed the shovel and commenced with the digging, only slower, more graceful.

Crawford stepped forward, the edge of his wingtips hanging off the edge. He cocked both barrels. “That's enough, Kiln.”

Kiln threw the shovel out of the grave. He turned to Crawford, stone faced.

Crawford was leering at him. That shotgun was almost touching the tip of Kiln's nose. Crawford laughed. The thought of breaking down and crying, begging for his life crossed his mind. But that sad, sickening smile of Crawford's........that laugh.......like he had the world in his hands. Kiln didn't break.

“Got any last words, Kiln? A man about to die should always get his say so.....in the end.”

“Yeah,” Kiln nodded. “Only.....Only....”

“Well spit out!”

“Only if I'm guilty of what you say, I sure wish I had fucked your wife!”

“You son of a bitch!” Crawford screamed. Crawford took another step and fell. While in mid-air the shotgun went off, both barrels in his face. He toppled over onto Kiln, knocking him to one side of the grave before dragging him down. Kiln found himself on top of Crawford, staring down at a bloody mass of flesh that was once his face.

Kiln screamed, clawed his way out the grave, dirt clogs tumbled down the side and on Crawford. Even when Kiln reached level ground, he couldn't stop screaming. A few minutes later, he'd calmed himself slightly, his heart still pounding against his chest.

But Kiln looked over at the pile of dirt, then at the open grave where his persecutor lay. He began to laugh uncontrollably. He grabbed the shovel, pushed over some dirt on Crawford.

“How about some dirt to go with that humble pie, boy?”

Ellie was sitting outside on the porch of the General store. As usual, there were no customers. She was sitting in a plastic chair too small for her, fanning herself with a page from the newspaper. When she saw Kiln she flinched and immediately stood. As he staggered across the desert plains, he waved to her.

“Your alive,” She cried out, more surprised than relieved.

“What happened?” He stood on the porch, swallowed hard.

“He's dead,” Kiln was blunt in his statement. He didn't owe her any more than that. No reason for any sugar-coating.

She bowed her head. Was she praying? Kiln couldn't tell. She looked up. They stared at each other for a few minutes. The silence was appreciated.

“What was it all about?” She said finally, almost emotionless.

No tears? These people are strange. Kiln's nostrils flared. “You don't know, eh?”

“No, I don't. He was so angry this morning. He seemed angry because I wasn't in bed when he woke. I told him I couldn't sleep. It was too damn hot.”

“Why didn't he believe you?” Kiln stepped closer to Ellie.

“I-I don't know.” Ellie took a few steps back. She looked away nervously. Kiln came closer, backing her against the door to the General store. “I never gave him a reason to mistrust me.”

Kiln leaned in, smelled Ellie's neck. The blossom fragrance invaded his nostrils, and Kiln breathed it in. Ellie closed her eyes, repulsed and excited by Kiln closing in on her.

“Somehow,” Kiln's voice rose and fell in a blistering whisper. “I don't believe you.” He wanted to kiss her at that moment, but something more stirred inside him. He grabbed Ellie by her blouse and tore it to her waist, exposing her breasts in a pink pushup bra.

She flinched, but didn't scream.

Kiln pushed her aside, opened the door to the General store. He took Ellie by the arm and flung her inside. She fell to the floor hard. Shocked, she cried out. The flap to her skirt rose up and Kiln froze just inside the doorway gleaming at the opening, seeing the pink flowers on the front of her white panties. He shut the door to the General store, made sure the closed sign was in the window, He turned the lock, and their eyes met. She was like a frighted deer caught in headlights of a vehicle. Kiln had the look of a tiger about to pounce on his prey.

Kiln wasted no time.

It was later that the beating of the rain on the windows and the howling wind woke him. He looked around, saw the shadow of Ellie, naked, with the window open . She was feeling the beads of raindrops dancing on her body that the wind brought in.

“What's going on?” He said in a daze.

“You’re in your room, behind the store,” Ellie closed the window.

“So.....”

Ellie walked toward Kiln, carelessly wrapping in her robe. “So....”

“All of this was not a bad dream then.” He sat up, turned to sit on one side of the bed.

“Oh, I don't. Not all of it is bad,” Ellie sat next to him. She took a cigarette from a pack that was laying on the table by the bed, along with low-lit lamp and several empty bags of peanuts. She blew smoke rings that lingered in the air and disappeared.

Kiln was caught by surprise by Ellie's remark. “You don't seem to be sad about the current stream of events.”

Ellie shrugged. “Sometimes things happen. It's life. You just roll with it.”

The rain continued pound the roof and the wind screamed outside. The lights flickered, thunder echoed in conjunction with flashes of blue and pink lightning.

“It hasn't rained like this in this stinking desert for next to a year,” Ellie blew more smoke rings watched them float around Kiln's head. She imagined one would create a heart shape one day, when he felt the way she felt for him. “When it does, it always comes hard like this.”

“How long you been in these parts?” Kiln breathed in the smoke and coughed.

“Ever since I married Ben. Six years. I met him on one of his business trips in Dallas. I was a waitress in a bar. And out of the five hundred guys who asked me out, I let him take me out. I don't know why...as you could see he wasn't good looking. I guess.....I guess he seemed ...kind.”

“Did you love him?”

“No,” Ellie took a long drag from her cigarette. Their eyes met. She could see in his eyes his next question. “I was fond of him and he could provide for me. This store that had been in his family for years.”

“Now it's yours,” Kiln said.

Ellie touched his arm, running her fingernails gently across the blond hairs. “It's yours too.” She whispered. Kiln stroked her chestnut hair, then slowly her long, white swan-like neck.....touching the soft skin with his fingers. She closed her eyes, sighing at his touch.

Three loud crashes came from the store.

Kiln jumped, removed his hands from Ellie. He cursed under his breath. They looked at each, wild-eyed. Ellie swallowed hard. There was another loud crash. Kiln stood.

“It's coming from the store.....” Ellie barely managed to say it. She felt hard pangs in her stomach. She winced with each pang, grabbed Kiln's arm.

He pulled away. “I'll go see,” He moved slowly to the door of his room. He opened the door cautiously. He could see several displays knocked over and the front door to the general store was left wide open. The window was blowing rain inside and keeping the door flapping against cold soda display.

“Stay here,” Kiln told her.

Ellie nodded, her head bobbed up and down very fast.

Kiln stepped out of his room almost in a leap. He turned fast, left, right---behind him. There was a lull in the storm. It grew very quiet. He took in some air, tried to keep his hands from shaking.

He heard a grunt from behind and felt a hand snatch him by his hair. He was flung to the floor hard. A stinging passed through his upper body. He shook it off, got to his knees.

Standing in front of him was Crawford. Covered in a mixture of mud and blood from head to toe, and the right side of his face had two huge fleshy holes with skin hanging from his cheek. He was grunting, trying to breathe through a nose that was no more.

“Thought you could get away with it!” Crawford spit out. “Take my wife! Take my store! Take my....life!”

Crawford leveled the shotgun at his midsection, placed the barrels at Kiln's forehead. Crawford swung the shotgun as if he were swinging at a baseball. The barrel caught Kiln on the right side of his head. Kiln fell backwards. He blacked out momentarily. He saw Ellie standing behind Crawford, holding a .38. she fired twice, the bullets tore through Crawford's back and out through the front. Sparks appeared at the top of the register where the bullets ricocheted and hit the floor.

Crawford fell over on his face and gurgled.

Ellie collected herself. She went to Kiln, helped him up. He wobbled, saw everything in double vision, shook it off. He looked at her, mouthed the words before he actually said them. She waited patiently.

“K---k---killed that bastard twice....”

“Come to bed,” Ellie spoke fast. She swallowed hard, felt the pang in her stomach again. “In the morning we'll put him back in his grave.”

Neither of them slept.

Ellie held a tight grip on both the gun and Kiln's hand. Not once did Kiln take his eyes off the door to his room.

The storm had seemed to call it quits hours earlier. The clock said six-thirty before they decided to get out of bed to take Crawford back to the desert. They dressed quickly, did not hesitate to talk through the plan. It was known what to do.

Before opening the door, they both took one long gaze into each others eyes. Ellie leaned in and kissed Kiln hard on the lips. He tasted where her lips had been, briefly smiled.

Kiln threw the door open, stepped into the General store. “He's gone,” Kiln said dryly.

Ellie pushed kiln out of the way. “What?!” She screamed. She threw her hands up. “How could this happen?”

No trace Crawford had been there. No muddy footprints.

The displays were not turned over. No product on the floor. No puddles from the rain on the inside doorstep. Everything was as it had been left the evening before.

Kiln headed for the front door.

“Where are you going?” Ellie barked at him.

Not even turning to her, he said, “I'm going to check the grave.” Kiln placed his hand on the doorknob. “Maybe this was a bad dream----”

“No!” Ellie cried out. “Don't!”

“Why not?” He turned to her and took a few steps away from the door.

Ellie was kneeling by a potato chip rack, her hand underneath. She pulled her hand out, gripping something. “Don't bother,” She said, stood up. She showed Kiln the shotgun.

Confusion, then fear ravaged his face.