A Jotted Life

A novel (first two chapters) by Steve Ullom (The Jotter)

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All pictures and text by Steve Ullom (The Jotter) © 2012 All Rights Reserved This work is a work of fiction

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“Early morning breakup wind shaking branches empty Still bird takes to wing”

I don't think anyone will believe this.”

He brought his coffee cup up to his mouth, pausing while he looked over the cup at John, shrugged, then threw back the remainder of the coffee. As he put down the cup, his tongue licked his lips free of any stray liquid. “Can't help that. A man lives his life. Whether others believe that, it's up to them. Doesn't change MY life any.” John made a couple notes, then looked at Steven, not for the first time hoping his own head would sport so much hair when he was that age. A whitish-gray, it was at once distinguishing and a bit wild and matched the goatee he sported above a yellow pullover shirt. The shirt sported a pocket which held glasses. Steven smiled and tried to look at the notes. “Did you just quote me there?” “Maybe. You'll see when I get this all typed up.” “Hope I live that long. At the rate we been going, not sure I'll make it.” John laughed, shook his head. “You have given me quite the story. There's a lot to put down.” “So you want the secret words now? And the symbol?” Steven's eyebrows raised up and down as his hand slid inside his coat, perhaps into a pocket on the inside. Nodding, his mouth unable to hide a slight smile, John asked, “What are they, then? It's about time. After all, if you don't give them to me, your, uh, enemies might get to you before you get the words to me, then they will be lost forever. The cycle will be stopped.” “Maybe the cycle should be stopped.” Steven paused, pursing his lips as he looked down. “I'm tired. I may think about letting it end.”

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“Well, I hope not. If what you have told me is true.” Putting his pen down, John stretched, his barely tanned arms reaching out above his head from a t-shirt sporting a picture of Che Guevera. The face was slightly bearded with dark hair, and didn't hide that he looked tired. He wondered how Steven stayed so fresh, never seeming to be the one to call an end to these marathon sessions in the coffee shop. “You're tired. Let's stop here.” Grabbing his cap which sported some rock band's name, Dream Theater, Steven made to get up. “You'll take care of the bill this time?” His face was kind, no assumptions being made, and his eyes sparkled, especially the left eye which looked out above a small scar. The sparkle seemed to draw the line of the scar into a smile of its own. “Yeah, yeah, I'll get it. It's my turn.” He reached into his pocket to make sure he had money. “Give you a call?” Steven put his cap on. “That's be cool.” He nodded that slight man-nod, and turned. John watched him walk smoothly to the door. After all this time he still didn't know how old he was. He'd guess 60 if he had to, though he wouldn't bet his first royalty check on it. Not that his first royalty check would amount to anything because he'd never gotten one and doubted anyone would buy this story. Watching Steven disappear out of sight on the sidewalk he wondered if his own life would be as good as Steven's. Of course, it couldn't. Not with all those stories he told. But if even.... There was a pop then, followed by a scream, from outside. John rose from the table, putting a couple bills on the table and after stuffing his things in his backpack hastily, hurried to the door with other people from the shop. Something in John's stomach made him worry. He tasted bile. Pushing through people and out the door he moved the way he had seen Steven go. And that's when he stopped. In the middle of the street, lay a body, with a couple people kneeling next to it. A body wearing a yellow shirt, whitish-gray hair pooling on the concrete, long legs sprawled beyond the kneeling people. One of the kneelers was on a cell phone, looking around as he talked, the sun catching the moment and spotlighting it strangely, as if for a stage. Walking rapidly, not aware of any noise now, John made it to Steven's side. Steven's eyes were glassy, but open, and slowly seemed to find John. “Take....” he coughed. His hand reached up and Steven saw a piece of paper...it was yellow, lined with thin blue marks. John reached for the paper and took it.

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“Hang on, old man. Hang on.” Steven closed his eyes, smiled, shook his head once. “Take care, my friend. Don't look at the paper until you have finished the book.” There was a long pause. “It's been a pleasure.” John backed up, and opened the paper.

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Chapter 1. I really don't know anything of my birth. The time, the date, the place...oh sure, I was told those things. In passing, really. As facts. Not in a story. Not formally. Not in a drawn out conversation over dinner with interruptions of “Hold on, hold on, tell me more about...” So, you see, I don't KNOW those things, things about my birth, the real story, the real feeling of it. And the facts, well they seem, somehow, false or meaningless. As if there was a real birth at some other time, some other place, some other method. Perhaps that is why when I visited Europe, southern Germany and the Alps there, that I felt as if this was home for me. A homecoming however fleeting. When are we really born, after all? What is being born? Is it when we are pushed out of some soupy dark cavern in the midst of pain and hope? That physical thing of fact? Or is it when we first gain our own thoughts, an idea of our future identity? Perhaps it happens instead when we are walking through some field of uncut green grass that almost paper cuts us at our bare knees, but who cares because you are under a blue sky and ponder vague dreams? Why, in fact, we should not stop there and declare that it would probably be when God breathed into us somewhere, with some hot breath of divine purpose stirring lungs and heart into action, activating the complex wiring and electrical activity in our brains, then to send us off, a spark from heaven sent to experience creation. Unfortunately, I don't know of ANY of those moments. What I do know, for me, is a series of half-remembered sepia moments. Some dark, some light, some … out of reach, really. Just fragments. Half-held shadows that move when you look at them. A square brick one-story house with detached garage. A hallway from bedroom to kitchen. A nightmare – not the events within, but the nightmare fact itself. A longer memory would be red cardboard building blocks. They were about 6 inches high by 12 inches long and four inches deep. Deep russet red, with black straight bold lines on them, as if the block was really a series of bricks. They were magical. In my shorts and white t-shirt and bare feet I would go into the basement and pull these out from the corner where they stayed neatly stacked, devoid of story until they were touched by the hand of a four-year old. The hand and the mind of the child , that is. Then they were red dynamos of imagination, inanimate only if you were above the age of nine. One day they would build a castle, piled one on another, their four foot height in the basement multiplied by a factor of a hundred on the impending battle field in my head.
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On another day, building a house, a fort, who knows what now, using a blanket for a roof, and being inside, hidden from the prying eyes of the adult-world, I think then is when I must have first sensed it. Perhaps we go through a series of such awakenings. Scientists tell us that there is a point in the life of an infant when it realizes that there is a voice “out there” and an awareness “in here”. An awakening that we are part of a world that includes “others.” For some there is a second awakening. An awareness that there is still yet another world beyond this. Some might call this religion, a spirit world, an afterlife. Many realize that there are “others” in this other world. Angels, a God or Gods. But a few have an awakening that this other world may sometimes come a bit close and even into this world. This day, when I was under a blanket-roof, behind the magic barrier of russet red building blocks, I had the awakening, though I did not then realize it. For at some moment, I started to wonder if there was something in the room with me. I couldn't tell you why, if it was something I heard, or if there is some sense that kicks in. That sense that tells us the shadow across the street at night is watching us and contemplating if it is worth the effort to cross and attack us for what is in our pockets. I suspect now that really nothing was there. At any rate, then, at the age of four I froze. Didn't move, didn't breathe, as only a child can do when they know that something new is in their world. No fear, necessarily. Just carefulness mixed with curiosity. Stealthily, I got on my knees and crawled to the edge of my fort, the door simply an open space between bricks and open to the basement, but a protective barrier nonetheless. As I held my breath, I listened, watching the area of the basement through the opening of my fort. Of course, despite waiting forever, which in the world of a 4 year old is five minutes, seeing nothing and hearing nothing, I think this is when the feeling became attached to me. Odd, is it not, that a false moment was the first moment of something great and terrifying and life-changing? At any rate, I don't want to spend time here, on moments that I cannot string together really for a story. Let me start a year or so later. We had moved to another city...really, a house outside of a city. It perched next to the road about a hundred yards from a street corner. There was field from my house to the corner. Across the street was an elderly lady. Friendly enough to play the odd game of checkers or cards when she babysat me. Mabel was her name and she wore faded blue smocks and her hair was always in a bun, held in place by a hairpin. Next to her house was a bar. Across the street from that was a field and a hill, Baumgautner Hill, it was called, after the owner of the land. A hill I shall come back to as it was the scene of thrilling toboggan rides. However, we are touring the lay of the
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land of this house, the first house of memories. At the bottom of Baumgautner Hill there was a creek. It had no name that I know of. It ran into a culvert under Finkel road, the road I lived on, and on that last quadrant of the corner was weeds sprouting up through broken concrete. A secret place we must come back to, for it had a basement that could be explored, open to the elements as one wall was gone, but it was still underground. My own house, a white wooden two-story sitting on brick foundation, was next to a parking lot and across that parking lot was a church, cemetery, and education buildings. The church was an old country church, a wooden building painted white with a very impressive steeple and cross, and a bell I used to thrill to hear. It is from here that we will start our story proper. (Author's note: I place this mini-chapter here so you get an idea of the philosophical nature of Steven. I should say, as he told me his story, which he told, oddly, in nearly perfect start to finish sequence, as if he had written it and edited it in his head. There was no, “Oh my, I need to backtrack and tell you something about X so you can understand this.” No, he laid it out perfectly, and the parts where perhaps he didn't give full meaning were done to increase the meaning and interest of his story. He was not at all concerned with facts, I suspect. He told me that he learned this from the writers of earliest Isreal. That the facts could be kept to, if it worked, but that there was a story which held more truth than mere facts themselves could portray. Thus, the philosophical comments and underpinnings to Steven's life and mind were important. And included where appropriate. Most of this story was told over coffee and donuts in a coffee shop. I have become addicted to them both, as they were favorites of Steven and required for the interviews to continue. Good reading! - John)

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Chapter 2. It was another time and another place altogether as I just described, but my meaning is a bit different as I hope you will see. I was a slight boy, with typical hair for boys growing up in the sixties. Sandy brown (well, that wasn't the typical thing, but this is), short in back and the sides, a bit longer on top, and combed straight. For pictures, it was wet down and put in its place, but at other times it wasn't quite so subservient. I wore Ked's tennis shoes, jeans, and t-shirts. A habit learned then which I don't think my wife appreciated completely later in life. Play was my life...and next to the door, on some shelves built into the half-wall, but hidden from the door, until you came in and went around to the other side, I was allowed to keep some special toys. It was through this door that my father had come home one evening, and seemed to have a special smile on his face. He wore a suitcoat, as was required for his work (and standard at the time for most men in the city) and there was an unusual bump in his suitcoat pocket. Indeed, the whole suit seemed to be alive with movement. Being a kid, of course, five years old, well, what did I care? Parents always have something weird going on, or at least something which won't be explained to a kid even if they tried, so I returned to the Battle of the Bulge, being played out in a corner of the living room with 200+ pieces of green plastic miniature models. Tanks, soldiers, planes. Historical accuracy? Not in the lexicon OR wheelhouse of a five-year old. It was, however, “on”. So it took me a minute to process the voice. “Steven! Come over here!” The voice was my dad's, a bit insistent as he was probably registering the fact that he had to reach through the haze of a few years of imagined history that stood between him and his son. “Just a minute...” I completed the raking of a division of German tanks with a jet (which even a kid could tell was probably a later Korean or Vietnam War era jet...but what can be done about it?) and got to my feet and ran to my dad. “What?” “I just thought you might like to play with something new. Are you interested?” Interested? As a boy did I miss the toilet when I peed now and then? Yes! Of course my interest was perked. If I would have been 30, I would have said, “Go on...” but as I was five, I said, “sure. What is it?” He reached into his suit pocket and delicately pulled out a small dog, sleek black short
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hair, with brown around the muzzle and on the top of the paws. Wet eyes pleaded and a tail wagged amid a struggle for control as the puppy tried to launch itself to me. “WOW! Really? A dog? Is it ours? What's it's name? Is it a boy? Can I pet it?” My dad knelt down and put the dog on the floor as I dropped to all fours and put my head right next to the dog's eager face. One big lick later, I was giggling. “He likes me!! Can we keep it?” There was adult chuckling going on. “Of course we are keeping him. He is a boy dog. So, what do you think we should name him?” I had both my hands on either side of the dogs head...rubbing, scratching. The dog jumped and I rolled over with the dog on my chest now. “I don't know!” I giggled. “Doesn't he have a name already? Is that something we have to do?” “Well,” my Dad said. “Since he's a Dachshund, and they are a German dog, he ought to have a German name. I think his name is Fritz. Do you like that name?” I laughed from under a ball of fur that scurried this way and that on my face and chest, twisting, turning, raising a paw, licking. “Fritz? Is that a name? None of my friends are named Fritz, but okay!” There was some more rolling and positioning of myself to mimic the puppy's stance. “Hi Fritz! How ya doin', boy?” Fritz jumped off and ran to the living room. My recreation of the Battle of the Bulge, which the Americans HAD been winning was suddenly tilted (decidedly so) to the Germans, thanks to this new German dog that in mere seconds displaced the Allies careful planning and execution. As he jumped onto the couch, even the high ground of the battle was lost to the Allies, with soldiers and tanks spilling over the edge to their destruction 24 inches below to the carpet (otherwise known as the plain of battle...I know, I know...NOW I know that it was in a dense forest. However, in 1967 in that house, the battle was on a plain. It's just the way it is.) I ran after the dog. “Don't let him eat those toy soldiers! They wouldn't be any good for him, you know, right?” It was my Mom's voice. I thought briefly about her advice for a second and it made sense. “C'mon boy!” I took off at a run into the dining room, and the dog followed, happy ears and tail nearly getting ahead of the rest of him. I saw a sock I had taken off earlier, laying in the corner. As I picked it up, Fritz grabbed the other end and started pulling and tugging away from me. Laughing, I sat down holding on to the sock. I grunted and
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growled at Fritz, who returned the language of bonding between puppy and boy. Sticking my hand into the sock, we played a bit of rough and tumble. Fritz would wait for the sock to crawl toward him, slowly, his tail wagging, back legs up, but front legs down in front of him with his snout to the ground. Then, when the sock had been fooled into thinking that the puppy was not a predator, the puppy would pounce on the sock, and an epic battle between puppy mouth and child hand would take place. My Mother interrupted to put a collar on Fritz. “Let's learn how to take him out, shall we? We have to train him to go to the bathroom.” I nodded. Training was needed. Even I knew that from personal experience. So, with leash attached, we introduced Fritz to the yard. He sniffed the air, jumped around, and sniffed some more. It took him awhile but he eventually found a strand of grass that was right and lifted a back leg. That bought him a ticket back into the house amid some cheering and “good boy” pats. Fritz spend the first couple of nights in a shoe box which served as his bed, underneath the desk that was built into a cubbyhole in the kitchen. This desk held a phone, paper, and a few treasures that didn't get put away immediately during everyday life in the house. It now also served as den. Eventually, Fritz would get a woven basket with a soft dog beg for his nights. Fritz and I were inseparable. We played in the house and the yard, simple things like tug. Eventually, however, we developed a game. I put Fritz in a red wagon that had a black handle which I pulled. I pulled him across the parking lot of the church, which had become a wide ocean separating our homeland from worlds which no one remembered and for which no maps existed. So, we would go exploring, Fritz, his front paws often on the front edge of the wagon, always the silent commander on a ship, the captain setting the course, which I would make happen. We would then sail across the ocean, braving pirates and high seas and leviathans (some fancy word I heard in church, but it seemed good to throw in since our ocean was in the shadow of the church). After months of heroic struggle we would find ourselves on the shore of strange lands. These lands were mostly not populated, for although in real life it was a cemetery, in my mind it was an old land whose inhabitants had invariable fled some danger, and the remains of their cities were all I would see and explore. Old crumbling city walls and homes which only had vacant windows and half walls, the bricks the color of dried mud, the yards untended. It was a place of quiet as the Captain advised against yelling in case it would cause the ghosts to rise. On any particular day, Fritz gave the usual order (“Arf! Arf!”) to disembark the ship and make landfall. We jumped into the water for in this harbor we had to get off the ship a
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bit away from shore. The water was up to our waist and through it we slogged our way to shore. “Captain!” I would whisper, “do you think it's safe?” “It's safe enough for two heroes like us!” Fritz would yell on particularly heroic days. “Pull your saber out to have it ready and let's explore!” Off he would hop and run, and I would follow. Although he could fit under the gate, I had to unlatch it for myself. I was careful to always shut it behind me, then look for where the Captain had boldly gone off to. With his lead, through the city of the dead we would tread, the Captain's sharp nose to the mown ground, my stick-saber held at the ready. His speed was hard to keep up with and I was usually about 5 paces behind. We passed the abode of many people...the richer people of course had the larger houses. No one however was to be found, and the treasures we gained were few. Once or twice we saw game (of the squirrel variety), which was important for us as a food source (my goodness, in my head...we didn't eat them!) to be able to have as we explored inland. This game of exploration happened many times that first summer, recreated with new scenarios. Some days no pirates, other days, the grandest flotilla of pirates anyone ever did see. Some days the city had a few stragglers who could tell a tale or whom we could rescue. Most days, however, it was empty. One day in particular, though, seemed to have an altogether different scenario. The wind was strong this day. Really strong. However, we were not to be deterred, as long as we got away before the Queen Mother called us in. Off we went in our red wagon-ship, straight for peril that only trained heroes could conquer. The wind caused the waves of my ocean to be especially treacherous that day, reaching heights of 20 and 30 feet, and crashing on the deck of the ship. (I once or twice lifted the wagon front a few inches to make sure Fritz understood the game today). The Captain was unusually quiet as we crossed the ocean, although he was alert, as always, at the front with his ears cocked. His nose sniffed the wind. “What is it, Captain? Do you smell danger?” Fritz looked at me with his ears back. I thought about stopping, but we had momentum on our side so we pressed on. We finally landed on the opposite shore, and I dropped the black steel handle onto the grass. Fritz jumped out onto the grass next to the handle and stood, sniffing again, his right front paw held off the ground. I dropped to my knees, found a stick, and claimed the land for the Queen back home. “Be alert today, son” the Captain said. “Indeed, we are not alone, I do not think.” He considered a moment more then continued. “In fact, you lead today.” I nodded to the
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Captain, honored by this bequest, and moved off to unlatch the gate to the city. We both walked through today and I carefully latched the gate then turned back to the city. The wind tousled my hair. In fact, the wind was so strong I had to squint a few times due to the dust from the fields surrounding the city. Like the city, they lay unused, unplanted and therefore susceptible to the wind. The rustling of leaves above us covered any noise of our passing on the ground. No birds called today, though a few flew in the distance, not making much progress against the wind, rapidly disappearing from view when they went with the wind. We walked through city streets that were in disrepair. Large villas towered over us, and the wind moaned through windows long since emptied of their glass. Tatters of curtains flapped in the wind, once in a while causing a “Snap” that made us crouch and look around from a defensive posture. The street we were on was a long boulevard and ancient trees stood, not mutely, but waving their arms and angrily denouncing our exploration. We both looked up at one point, then at each other, and nodded. We had to be doubly on our toes. My hand reached for the Captain suddenly. We crouched again although no “snap” preceded this. “Did you see that, Captain? Something scurried around that corner ahead of us. I think we need to go slowly and hug this side of the street.” The Captain agreed, and we carefully picked our way to the corner, and, with sabers out, peered around the corner. Whatever had been there was gone,now, or at least hiding from our sight. We came to an intersection of what had once been major streets at another point in the life and death of this city. Now, however, it was where two roads, overgrown with weeds, met. An old oak which towered above us was growing on one corner. Captain called for a break and we went to the tree and sat with our backs against it. Although the bark was hard, it felt good to rest. Captain said he'd take first watch, so I could unwrap our rations (an oatmeal cookie wrapped in a napkin put in my pocket. It was a bit crumbled now, but still had some value). I shared a bite with him as we compared this land to many others we had explored. “I don't like it, to be honest,” the Captain said. “It isn't just the lack of any treasure, there's a feel to this one that isn't quite right. I can feel the wrongness.” I nodded. “I can feel it, too, in my bones. This place is flat and sad. Too sad. I felt as if we were being watched, as well, though I could find no face. If I do, they'll find themselves on the wrong end of this stick. I mean sword.” I put the last of our rations in my mouth and while chewing, said, “Still we should make a proper exploration of it or we will regret it tonight, I suppose.”
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The Captain looked at the sun, or where the sun was imagined to be behind the dark clouds which occupied the sky in suffocating droves. “We have time for it, so there's no hurry. I don't think this,” he nodded up, to the sky, “will turn into a storm. I wouldn't mind having the other boys from the ship with us on this one, though. To help us explore. Still, there's nothing to be done about that. We've handled many a problem between the two of us.” “That's why the King and Queen rely on us, Sir.” I was about to get up when I saw some movement in the cemetery, then. I froze, and the Captain did next to me, as well. Behind one of the houses, or what was, really, a large gravestone, I thought I had seen something move. Really did. How long we stood still, watching for it again, I am not sure. However, I was rewarded with my patience, if you can call it that. For in a bit, the movement re-appeared. It was a gray blur, behind the gravestone. Then it was back and stayed there. It was some kind of a head. Quickly grabbing Fritz, I scrambled behind the tree and looked out from behind it, keeping a hand on Fritz. I froze. For when I looked out, something was looking back. Or someone, more like it, I thought. It puzzled me, though. Whoever that was did not at all look like Mr. Hoffenmeyer, the grounds keeper for the church. The more I looked, the more indistinct the thing was. Unable to focus I looked away, down at Fritz. His ears were up, and his body was tense with tail straight. He was no fool, however. He made no sign that he was going to charge. Rather, he was perfectly content to be mostly behind that tree with me. As time passed, and there was no change in the position of the thing which we watched, I began to feel less content – less safe, really - with only the tree between us, solid as the tree was. My play feelings about the city being unfriendly were adding to this and playing on my nerves. I reckoned that the person...or thing...wasn't going to charge me if it hadn't already, but I didn't feel like walking past it on my way back to the gate. I laid down on the grass, pulling Fritz under my arm, facing out toward the gravestone and it. “What do you think, buddy? What do we do?” I whispered looking straight ahead. Fritz, no longer the Captain, gave me no reply, however. I considered my options. The two gates to this cemetery required me to go closer to the gray man-thing on our way out and to be in the open. I didn't like that. Behind me, more protected, was chain-link fence from side to side and then close to the fence was a cornfield. I had been warned
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away from cornfields and I had never climbed the fence, but I fancied that it wouldn't be that hard. If I went for the fence, I would go away from the thing freaking me out and head to the fence at the road. That left climbing it, but how many times had I seen it done on TV? More than once. I could do it. I was resolved to do it. I took another look to the thing, and watched some more, and the thing watched back. Then, slowly it rose up so that it was two feet or so above the grave marker. It raised arms and suddenly bellowed or howled or … something. As it did so, it's arms moved up a couple inches and forward. Then it crouched back down resuming its watch of me. The language of intimidation was not lost on this five year old. I backed up, pulling Fritz with me. At first he was reluctant, but through some “c'mon boy. Come ONNNN....” sort of reasoning with him, he turned and we began to walk at first slowly, half crouching behind gravestones. As planned, we made for the fence that was closest to the road. We passed gravestones and the numbers that were familiar to me by now registered in my head though I only half glanced at them...1921, 1928, 1942. And names like old friends...Hartung, Meier, Herrmann, Struckmeyer. The names and dates began to comfort me and the fence seemed ever closer. Looking over my shoulder I saw no pursuit, but neither did I see the gray thing watching. Picking up the pace we finally reached the fence and stopped. A problem occurred to me: I had to figure out how to get Fritz to safety. I instinctively thought about the road and how I was always to keep him away from the road. Fritz had to go first somehow, no question. But would he run into the road? On the other hand, I couldn't chance him staying on the inside and deciding to go back into the cemetery after something. And again, I couldn't drop him over the fence, nor could I carry him over with me. The fence suddenly seemed to hem us in. Looking back in the direction we had come from, I still didn't see the thing, however, I did see the old church and its steeple, raising high towards the dark clouds. It gave me some courage, and I decided we could hug the fence and walk toward the gate we had come in through, and that if I kept the church in sight, we would be okay. Though there were times that the church steeple was hidden by a tree, or a blowing tree branch, we were okay and made good progress. Still, there were times I thought I heard a noise behind us, and though I was constantly afraid Fritz would see something and take off, off towards the middle causing me to go slower than I wanted, we finally made it to the gate. I lifted the latch and we jumped through, throwing the gate shut behind me. As it latched it, I swear to this day I heard a far-off...scream? Not a scream, but something
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like a scream. More than a howl. The Captain yelled, “Fast! To the boat! Cast off as quickly as we can!” I grabbed the black handle, turned the wagon around, and we sailed the ship back to the known world without words, my head down to the wind and a light rain, which added to the spray from the sea waves. Reaching land again, we jumped out and ran to the porch, leaving the wagon moored in the yard. Sitting on the porch, under the small roof, we looked across the wild sea, at the city which was no longer uninhabited. I wondered how long it would be before the Captain let us adventure there again. A few days off might be nice.

That, in fact, was my first real contact with one of them. The one type of awakening I spoke to you about earlier. It happened to me that young.

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Story to continue....

Pictures and text © 2012 All Rights Reserved Steve Ullom, The Jotter

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