Mr. Ned

Mr. Ned

 

Mr. Ned

 

I was born on June 8^th, 1962, in Broadhurst, Nevada.  I came from what I guess could be called a normal family.  I had a Mother, Father and an older Brother.  We had a dog and two cats.  Mom used to have a bird; that was before I was born, and old Ned the cat took care of getting rid of the bird.  Mom talked about the bird as if it were a sister of ours.  So pretty this, so smart that.

 Anytime Ned did anything to draw attention to himself, Mom would jump into telling the story of her precious bird getting killed.  Dad would try to sidetrack her a couple of times, and then he’d just roll his eyes and leave the room.  My brother and I were prisoners of the story and had no means of escape.  I’ve heard the story thousands of times, and it was abundantly clear to me that she loved that bird much more than me.   I used to lie in bed at night and dream about killing that fucking bird.  I’d move oh so slowly, creeping without a sound, closer and closer until I could get my hands around the little fucker’s neck.  But he was already gone, so I did the next best thing and wrung Ol’ Ned's neck. 

I ran all the way home one day, knowing that Mom wouldn’t be home and Dad would be at work.  He was an old cat, but he put up one hell of a fight when he realized that I wasn’t just petting him and my fingers closed the fur bags air off.  I’d been scratched enough times that I knew good and well to approach this job from behind.  Slowly stroking his fur and then crossing my thumbs behind his neck, I wrapped my fingers around and squeezed for all I was worth.  I shook him like I’d seen Mom so many times shake out the front door rug.

 I learned a very good life lesson with that old cat; you never want to leave your workings just lying around after all the fun is over. 

When Mom found that cat, all hell broke loose.  I think Dad was happy to have the damn thing gone, but he wouldn’t say anything if his ass was on fire.  Since I was found to be the perpetrator of the crime, I got stuck with burying the damn cat.  I picked a spot in the flower beds where I was sure Mom would be digging this next spring, planting the darling bulbs she was so fond of.  Deep enough that the dog wouldn’t dig him up, but shallow enough for a little surprise this next planting season.  Mr. Ned went into his hole almost as it was meant to be.

Fall went to winter, and spring is well on its way.  I watched the seasons pass slowly, waiting for the hint of blossoms on the trees.  The heavy rain changed to showers, and the ground slowly began to dry.  I knew it was almost time.  One Saturday morning, I watched from my upstairs window as the garden tools came out of the shed, finally planting time had arrived. 

The screams coming from the side yard were a blessing to my ears.  Vengeance be mine, payback time has arrived.  The screams and cries lasted only a very short time.  This wasn’t half of what I was expecting.   Straining to hear, I decided to go have a look and see why my victory songs were cut so short.  Leaving the house from the back door I walked with purpose around the corner and lying on the grass next to the secret spot was my mother.  Even standing where I was, I could clearly see half of good Ol’ Mr. Ned laying half way out of his hole.  Mother’s spade was still sticking out of his decayed side after she wrenched him from the shallow grave. 

I could feel the pressure building as I stood there looking at the wrecked cat and Mother out cold on the lawn.  It started as a giggle and soon turned into a full grand maul laughing fit.  Falling on the grass and rolling into a ball in fits of uncontrolled glee, I nearly peed my pants.  Gasping for air, I crawled the few feet to her side and rolled her over.  Sticking straight from her mid ribs was the weed puller, the one with the little “V” at the end, sharp as hell, and she was quite dead.

I used her gardening tools and buried Ned a good bit deeper than he had been, covered him up, leaving a small area still dug as if ready for the bulbs lying nearby.

The Police said it was a tragic accident, and it was, kind of.

From the Ramblings

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It started with a whisper

It started with a whisper.

I remember it like it was yesterday.  It started with just a whisper.

We were on patrol, just south of the main line of defense of the Western Alliance.  I got pulled into this war young.  My parents didn’t have to lie and write that I was of age.  Their dead, killed early on during an air raid.  Mom sent me to fetch an order from the local grocer.  I heard the explosion.  Somehow I knew my life just changed; I felt my parents souls leave.  I hope they went to heaven.  I have no family now; we had moved from a place my Mom called “A place of living Hell” to this place when I was just born.  The Northern Alliance is all I now know.  It is both my Mother and Father.

 

I was second man behind our bands leader, John Johns.  No one believes that is his real name, but that is the name we know him by.  He is a good leader and we’ve lost few fighters under his leadership.  He is a heavy bearded man, dark black hair seems to come out of any opening in clothing, pours from rips, it seems to have a mind of its own and wishes to escape it’s bonds.   His voice is soft and deep.  I’d like to remember my Father’s voice being the same, but I can’t seem to remember.  It is a sin to forget the face of one’s Father; I’m very blessed to possess a picture of my Mother and Father.  It was given me when I was taken to join John Johns’ unit.  Given to me by John Johns’ himself.  He told me to keep it close to my heart and I have every minute since.

 

I heard a slight whine, more like an arrant bee fly past my ear, just a whisper.  The world turned red, fighters were falling all around me.  The crack of rifles shots came after; after I and five others had hit the dust.  Blood poured from horrendous wounds turning the dust to red mud.   The skies filled with screams, bullets and choking dust.  I lay where I fell, watching those around me gush life giving blood into the greedy dirt.  Our medics were checking each quickly for any signs of life.  I felt hands on my body, cloth ripping allowing openings to my wounds.  “This one’s gone” I heard; but I’m not gone, I’m still here.  I can hear what’s going on, what’s being said.  The sounds of the battle loud in my ears.  I see comrades pulled up and carried away to be saved or prayed over until death.  John Johns is in my face, he looks closely into my eyes.  He must see something “God is great” and then he’s gone. 

I lay face half buried in dust for hours; the pain at first horrible but now less.  My fingers and toes once numb now can move just a little.  I’m getting stronger and stronger.  The battle is far over and I can just make out explosions in the far distance.  The time has come for me to try and set up; oh the pain is much but lessening quickly.  I stand; I must return to my Unit; slowly at first then with as much speed as I can muster.  I run like the wind, my Unit have need of me greatly.  John Johns counts on me.  The battle is raging in the near distance and I ask fighter after fighter if he knows of my Unit.  Finally I catch sight of John Johns waving our men on into the fight.  I race up to greet him.  John Johns jumps back, face twisted in fear “No no you’re wounds were great”  “You had no life” He swings at me and runs into the hail of bullet screaming, but not the screams of battle cries.

I’ve now joined my seventh Unit.  I’ve been martyred the sixth time and I will continue until our God calls me to heaven.  God is great!

From the Ramblings