Kenneth Reimer's Blog

In this erstwhile church,

now a woman’s home,

framed images transcend the ancient myth

that gave birth to this scared structure:

A painting of a nude sprawled on a bed,

she’s a redhead;

An acrylic rendering of a master’s sketch

distorted by an inferior hand.

Christ on a cross –

an image of an image

that challenges perception

and calls to mind

the ripples of a stone

that fell two thousand years ago;

And Eve supports Adam

as they shuffle from Paradise –

a tale of exile or liberation

that encapsulates

this fallen church. 

Kenneth D. Reimer

Not too long ago, I visited an erstwhile church that had been converted into a home.  I thought it an interesting idea, living in a church, and before arriving, my imagination spun with ideas regarding the conversion of such a lofty space. Once I arrived, however, it wasn’t the renovation that captured my interest; rather, it was the artwork that the owner used to decorate that compelled my interest. 

The most arresting, and initially most shocking painting was large nude of a woman sprawling spread-eagle upon a bed. My first thought as, “Okay, this is definitely not a church anymore,” and then it occurred to me that perhaps such a truthful portrayal of the human form should be an element of every church. Realistically, though, hanging that painting was intended as a declaration of the new tenant’s denial of the old tenant’s neo-puritan philosophies. 

The second painting was a curiosity.  A modern artist had taken a sketch of Christ on the cross, initially drawn by one of the old masters, and rendered it in acrylic. It was an image of an image—in which the details seemed somehow incorrect, as if the truth had been lost in translation. I thought it a fitting work of art for a building that had also been rendered into a different meaning. 

No doubt, the third painting was also intended to reflect the conversion of that space: Adam and Eve leaned upon one another as they shuffled from Paradise into reality—just as the old church had left the sheltering dominion of its previous master.

The Killers

Rhythmic breathing

in an alien world –

raucous bubbles respond to

the slow whisper of exhalation. 

Above and below.

Earth and sea.

We lie beneath sixty feet of water,

clutching stone blocks

while silent killers

slide amongst us.

The sharks have come to feed.

Encased in a tunic of mail,

the dive master brandishes

chunks of frozen tuna.

The sharks’ eyes flash white,

and the slick stillness of their passage

erupts into violence.

They tear at the meat.

They snap at the diver’s hands.

And we lie still as death,

close enough to touch,

too near for escape.

The dive ends

and we drift toward the world of light.

Our world,

where we are the killers.

Kenneth D. Reimer

It’s always with mixed feelings that I put a cap on a short story, and this one is no exception. (It’s actually not that short.) I’ve worked on this so long that I’ve grown fond of the characters, and I don’t want to let them go. Other works demand my attention, however, so it’s time to put them on the shelf and see if I can find anyone interested in publishing them.

Here’s the set up: Imagine that you’re journalist in a quiet mountain town and your editor sends you to cover a story where something strange has happened during a local baptism. With your favourite photographer, you go to what you think will be a public interest story, but instead you become entangled in an escalating series of bizarre crimes that force you to question your perception of reality.

Genre: Horror, mystery.

Length: forty-seven pages (double spaced) and 16,500 words.

Sample Text: “The Articles of Redemption”

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Pablo asked and leaned forward in the driver’s seat. He had turned off the road and was approaching the Bow River along a bumpy, makeshift driveway. He parked in a small gravel patch by the river, then he and his partner, Tammy Fischer, climbed out of the SUV. He walked a few feet toward the bank and then stopped. He glanced back at Fischer who was coming around the front of the vehicle, tying her strawberry blonde hair into a ponytail. Her camera hung on a guitar strap and was slung low over her shoulder. When she finished with her hair, she brought that camera up with her left hand, resting it against her shoulder as she surveyed the scene. That action, so familiar to Pablo, always reminded him of a soldier hoisting a rifle in preparation for combat. Her desert camo pants and black T-shirt strengthened the impression.

“Just what am I seeing?” she asked.

It was a valid question. They were standing in a clearing on the bank of the river. The clear, cold mountain water flowed before them, filling the air with a background whisper. On the opposite bank, trees thrust up from the water’s edge, and the not-so-distant skyline was dominated by the Rocky Mountains. Lines of stratus clouds passed quickly overhead, driven by high winds, but when the sun shone through, the mountain peaks looked close enough to touch.

The river setting was visually stunning—as always, but what they saw that morning seemed unnatural. The vegetation on their side of the river gleamed a vibrant green, nearing jade in its intensity, and it was overgrown, almost rank, if such a comment could be made of a natural setting. A spindly, yellow flower speckled the nearby landscape.

Fischer framed and captured images. “This is crazy. It looks like someone spread some kind of super fertilizer.” She waved her hand down and up the river. “And it’s just here. It fades either way. Are you sure this is the place?”

“They’ve been doing baptisms here for years.”

“And the priest tried to drown a guy?”

“Well, supposedly he didn’t try to drown him, not exactly. Just tried to hold his head under the water.”

“Oh yeah, definite difference.”

“Anyway, the police weren’t involved.”

“Huh, death by baptism. What’s your Bible say about that, Pabbs? That’s gotta be a direct conduit to Heaven.”

Pablo gave a crooked grin. “I’ll have to check the rulebook, Fish, but the guy broke free before he drowned. Apparently he threw the priest on the riverbank.”

“Can’t blame him for that.”

A sandbank split the river into halves, one swift and deep, the other mired in waist-deep eddies that would challenge one’s balance but never threaten to drag a body down—a reasonable place for a baptism. Between the gravel lot and the river, there was a small clearing without trees or bushes. The remnant of a dirt path led to the water’s edge, but it was almost lost in the tangled grasses. It looked like months has passed since the last baptism, but from the report, a service had been held there that morning.

They walked toward the water, but where the wild grass deepened to jade, the two of them hesitated. Beginning at their toes, a roughly circular area of some thirty metres had been transformed. The grass there was taller than anything beyond the circle, and the trees in the affected area bent toward the river, their rich green leaves, a mass of thick fingers, reached for the water.

“It’s surreal.” Pablo looked at Fischer and asked, “What do you think could cause this, Fish?”

She shook her head. “Some kind of spill? Chemicals? But that wouldn’t explain the flowers.” There was an abundance of the yellow flower spotting both the wild grass and the trees.

“What kind of flower is that? And it’s the same everywhere.”

“Hell if I know.” She knelt down to take a closeup. “It’s strange.” She touched one of the yellow blossoms. “Like it’s going to bite me.” Then she documented the image. She pulled the viewfinder from her eyes and looked downriver. She pointed. “What do you make of that?”

“What do I make of any of it?” Pablo looked and swore under his breath. Perhaps a dozen fish—dead and white, spotted the opposite bank. He assumed they’d been pushed there by the current.

Earlier that morning, their editor, Grizwold—they called him Grizzly—had sent them to cover what he thought would be an interesting story about a priest who had lost his marbles. Since Pablo was Catholic, Grizwold thought he might have some insight that the rest of the crew at the local newspaper would lack. Fischer, the paper’s photographer, went along to get a shot that would establish the setting of the article.

Fischer and Pablo made an effective team. Even when they weren’t assigned to a specific story, they spent most of their time together ranging around the town and countryside searching for anything of interest. Now that winter had ended, the yearly influx of tourists—hikers and climbers—would provide them with a steady source of material. After the river, they planned to speak to the priest and track down some of the witnesses.

Pablo bent down and used the tip of his pencil to poke at one of the flowers. “I’d sure like to know what type of flower this is.”

“And why it’s growing on the grass and the trees? It’s growing on the freakin’ trees, Pabbs.” Fischer stopped to consider. “What’s that called? An epilet?”

“A what?”

“A plant that grows on other plants.”

“No idea, but I’ve never seen any of these before.”

“Me neither.”

Pablo straightened, shook his head and looked around. “Sweet Jesus. What is going on here?”

“Hey,” Fischer said, “we’re being watched.”

Pablo followed her gaze and saw three women sitting on the bank of the river. They were side to side with their backs pressed against a large boulder, only a short distance from the water’s edge. The forest was thick behind them. All three were staring at the two journalists. “I didn’t notice them from the parking lot,” Pablo said. “I should interview them.”

Fischer nodded. “Alright, I’m coming with.”

They were halfway to the women when something on the opposite side of the river caught Pablo’s attention. He looked across the water and stopped walking, startled. He reached out a hand to grab Fischer. “Would you look at that?”

There was a large, black dog half-hidden in the foliage on the far bank. Its head and shoulders thrust out from between two bushes. The rest of it was hidden by leaves. It was looking in their direction. Although it was a fair distance away, its size startled them.

“Holy shit,” Fischer muttered, “is that a dog or a bear?”

“Is it a wolf?”

“There are no wolves around here.” Fischer swung up her camera and captured an picture just before the dog pulled back out of sight. Shaking her head, she checked the image on small LCD screen.

Pablo glanced back at the SUV, gaging how long the run would take. He muttered, “I hope to God it can’t swim.”

“It’s probably still watching us from the trees. Holy Christ, Pabbs, what has Grizzly gotten us into?”

It took a moment for the rush of adrenaline to pass, then they turned their attention back to the women. They anticipated some kind of reaction from the three as they drew near, but the expressions of the women remained unchanged—passive and seemingly uninterested, except that they continued to stare. Still disturbed by what he’d just seen across the river, the hairs on Pablo’s forearm prickled, and the unusual behaviour of the women only added to his unease. He glanced over at Fischer, but she just raised her eyebrows.

The women all shared similar facial features, and by their ages, Pablo thought they might represent three generations of one family. He introduced himself. “Good morning, ladies, I’m Pablo Ward from the Outlook. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? You were here earlier today?” Fischer faded off to the side, alternately snapping photographs of the woman and casting apprehensive glances across the river.

The youngest of the three, an anemic looking redhead, ignored his question and asked, “Have you come for his return?” The middle-aged woman scowled at Fischer.

The question was such a non-sequitur that Pablo’s crazy meter immediately swung to red, and he paused to consider his response. Playing along could either encourage further details or just as likely provoke an outburst. The three were odd, no doubt, but they didn’t seem dangerous. He decided to play along, but he needed to direct their attention to the baptism. “We tried to come this morning, but we couldn’t get here on time. Can you tell me what happened?” The scowling woman continued to stare and said nothing. Good God, he grimaced, I hope her face doesn’t always looks like that. The oldest woman, small and white-haired, with puckered, wrinkled lips, ignored him entirely. He smiled at the redhead, hoping to elicit a response.

At first, her expression seemed angelic. “It was beautiful,” she began, “until, until.” Her face clouded. She looked at her companions. “Until something happened.”

“Were you here for that?”

The middle-aged woman spat out, “Of course we were here,” then she intoned, “‘I baptize you with water. But one who is more powerful will come to baptize you with Holy Spirit and fire.’”

Well, that clarifies everything, Pablo thought. Fucking wackos. He detested people who quoted scripture for their own purpose, and he hated the crazies who made all other Christians look bad. This must have hit the Web. Were they really even here, or are they just media groupies?

The woman continued, “‘You have been set free from sin and have become slaves to righteousness.’”

The oldest one snapped out an “Amen.”

Pablo flashed a thin smile. “Thank you. Thank you for that. It’s a great help.” He stepped directly in front of the redhead and knelt down on one knee, his foot almost in the river. That close, the faint smell of sweat tainted the air. “Did you see the priest? Can you tell me what happened?”

The girl glanced at her companions, hesitated a moment, then said, “When he went into the water, it began to breathe.”

Pablo thought back to the phone call that had prompted Griswold to assign them the story. “We were told,” he said, “that the water boiled.”

She shook her head. Wisps of thin hair fell over her eyes. “No, it came alive. It was breathing, and the trees leaned forward to touch him.” Her gaze seemed to look beyond. “It was beautiful.”

The scowler nodded, “His flower grows where he walks.”

His flower? Pablo was about to ask what that meant, when Fischer called his name. He looked to see her standing above a rough patch in the ground, poking at it with her foot. He excused himself and walked over to see what she’d found. “What’ve you got?”

She crouched down and began wiping dirt off the surface of a stone that looked like it had been buried a few inches underground. She’d cleared half the surface when she suddenly stopped and backed away. She looked at Pablo, her blue eyes flashing, “This is witchcraft shit.”

“What?” Pablo moved closer to get a better look. The stone was a rough circle, a little over a foot in diameter. Three unusual designs, arranged in a triangle, had been painted on its flat surface. The stone had been broken with a crack cutting through each of the designs. “Why would a priest…?” He looked up to Fischer. “Do you recognize this writing? Greek, maybe?”

“Not Greek. Not Russian either.” She composed a picture. “It doesn’t look Arabic, and it’s obviously not Chinese.”

“They look like runes. Gaelic?”

She nodded, “Maybe, but why would a priest bury this by the river?”

“You’re assuming he did. This could have been here from before.”

“Could be. The paint looks pretty worn.”

Pablo dug at it the earth around its edge.

Fischer snapped, “Don’t touch it!”

“Relax, Fish. I’m not going to bring down a mummy’s curse.” He thought it an irony that she refused to believe in God but got squirrely at any hint of the supernatural. “It’s thick.” He stood back from the stone. “Maybe those women know something about this.”

He looked to where they’d been sitting on the riverbank and saw that all three now stood, and the oldest had walked a dozen paces toward them. She wore a soiled black dress that contrasted with her white hair. Small and wizened, she had a presence that exceeded her stature.

Fischer swore under her breath, “What’s her fucking problem?”

The old woman spoke, her hollow voice hardly audible beside the rustle of the river. “This ground had been sanctified.”

Pablo glanced down at the broken stone and thought, Maybe not so much anymore. He asked, “Who are you waiting for? Will the priest come back here?”

The woman laughed, a sound like rats’ claws scratching wood.

“This is crazy town, Pabbs,” Fischer said. “Get me out of here.”

He nodded, “Yeah. I’ve got what I need. I think. If anyone’ll believe it.” He gave their surroundings another look. A momentary patch of sunlight was occulted by the rapidly moving shadow of a cloud. “Sure, I’m good to go.”

The three women watched the journalists walk back to Pablo’s SUV, then the redhead helped her grandmother wade into the river. The gentle current almost dragged the old woman down.

Back at the vehicle, Fischer walked to the passenger side, but before she got in, she leaned against the roof and looked at Pablo. “I’ve lived here my whole life, but I’ve never seen any of those three.”

He considered, “No. Me neither.”

“Do you think they came here just for the baptism?”

“I don’t know what to think, Fish.” Pablo looked at the river to see that all three woman were now in the water. “But it kinda looks that way.” He hesitated. “Unless they heard about it and came later. But why bother? What were they hoping for?”

Fischer shook her head, opened the passenger door and climbed into the SUV.

Pablo got in.

“Okay then, what now?” Fischer asked as she fastened her seatbelt.

“Talk to the priest?”

“Sounds good.”

Pablo checked his notes. “Grizzly said his name is Father Wallace. The Light of God Church.” He gave the scene a once over. “You got everything you need?”

Fischer glanced back to where they’d seen the dog. “Yeah,” she said, “let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

It’s always with mixed feelings that I put a cap on a short story, and this one is no exception. (It’s actually not that short.) I’ve worked on this so long that I’ve grown fond of the characters, and I don’t want to let them go. Other works demand my attention, however, so it’s time to put them on the shelf and see if I can find anyone interested in publishing them.

Here’s the set up: Imagine that you’re journalist in a quiet mountain town and your editor sends you to cover a story where something strange has happened during a local baptism. With your favourite photographer, you go to what you think will be a public interest story, but instead you become entangled in an escalating series of bizarre crimes that force you to question your perception of reality.

Genre: Horror, mystery.

Length: forty-seven pages (double spaced) and 16,500 words.

Sample Text: “The Articles of Redemption”

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Pablo asked and leaned forward in the driver’s seat. He had turned off the road and was approaching the Bow River along a bumpy, makeshift driveway. He parked in a small gravel patch by the river, then he and his partner, Tammy Fischer, climbed out of the SUV. He walked a few feet toward the bank and then stopped. He glanced back at Fischer who was coming around the front of the vehicle, tying her strawberry blonde hair into a ponytail. Her camera hung on a guitar strap and was slung low over her shoulder. When she finished with her hair, she brought that camera up with her left hand, resting it against her shoulder as she surveyed the scene. That action, so familiar to Pablo, always reminded him of a soldier hoisting a rifle in preparation for combat. Her desert camo pants and black T-shirt strengthened the impression.

“Just what am I seeing?” she asked.

It was a valid question. They were standing in a clearing on the bank of the river. The clear, cold mountain water flowed before them, filling the air with a background whisper. On the opposite bank, trees thrust up from the water’s edge, and the not-so-distant skyline was dominated by the Rocky Mountains. Lines of stratus clouds passed quickly overhead, driven by high winds, but when the sun shone through, the mountain peaks looked close enough to touch.

The river setting was visually stunning—as always, but what they saw that morning seemed unnatural. The vegetation on their side of the river gleamed a vibrant green, nearing jade in its intensity, and it was overgrown, almost rank, if such a comment could be made of a natural setting. A spindly, yellow flower speckled the nearby landscape.

Fischer framed and captured images. “This is crazy. It looks like someone spread some kind of super fertilizer.” She waved her hand down and up the river. “And it’s just here. It fades either way. Are you sure this is the place?”

“They’ve been doing baptisms here for years.”

“And the priest tried to drown a guy?”

“Well, supposedly he didn’t try to drown him, not exactly. Just tried to hold his head under the water.”

“Oh yeah, definite difference.”

“Anyway, the police weren’t involved.”

“Huh, death by baptism. What’s your Bible say about that, Pabbs? That’s gotta be a direct conduit to Heaven.”

Pablo gave a crooked grin. “I’ll have to check the rulebook, Fish, but the guy broke free before he drowned. Apparently he threw the priest on the riverbank.”

“Can’t blame him for that.”

A sandbank split the river into halves, one swift and deep, the other mired in waist-deep eddies that would challenge one’s balance but never threaten to drag a body down—a reasonable place for a baptism. Between the gravel lot and the river, there was a small clearing without trees or bushes. The remnant of a dirt path led to the water’s edge, but it was almost lost in the tangled grasses. It looked like months has passed since the last baptism, but from the report, a service had been held there that morning.

They walked toward the water, but where the wild grass deepened to jade, the two of them hesitated. Beginning at their toes, a roughly circular area of some thirty metres had been transformed. The grass there was taller than anything beyond the circle, and the trees in the affected area bent toward the river, their rich green leaves, a mass of thick fingers, reached for the water.

“It’s surreal.” Pablo looked at Fischer and asked, “What do you think could cause this, Fish?”

She shook her head. “Some kind of spill? Chemicals? But that wouldn’t explain the flowers.” There was an abundance of the yellow flower spotting both the wild grass and the trees.

“What kind of flower is that? And it’s the same everywhere.”

“Hell if I know.” She knelt down to take a closeup. “It’s strange.” She touched one of the yellow blossoms. “Like it’s going to bite me.” Then she documented the image. She pulled the viewfinder from her eyes and looked downriver. She pointed. “What do you make of that?”

“What do I make of any of it?” Pablo looked and swore under his breath. Perhaps a dozen fish—dead and white, spotted the opposite bank. He assumed they’d been pushed there by the current.

Earlier that morning, their editor, Grizwold—they called him Grizzly—had sent them to cover what he thought would be an interesting story about a priest who had lost his marbles. Since Pablo was Catholic, Grizwold thought he might have some insight that the rest of the crew at the local newspaper would lack. Fischer, the paper’s photographer, went along to get a shot that would establish the setting of the article.

Fischer and Pablo made an effective team. Even when they weren’t assigned to a specific story, they spent most of their time together ranging around the town and countryside searching for anything of interest. Now that winter had ended, the yearly influx of tourists—hikers and climbers—would provide them with a steady source of material. After the river, they planned to speak to the priest and track down some of the witnesses.

Pablo bent down and used the tip of his pencil to poke at one of the flowers. “I’d sure like to know what type of flower this is.”

“And why it’s growing on the grass and the trees? It’s growing on the freakin’ trees, Pabbs.” Fischer stopped to consider. “What’s that called? An epilet?”

“A what?”

“A plant that grows on other plants.”

“No idea, but I’ve never seen any of these before.”

“Me neither.”

Pablo straightened, shook his head and looked around. “Sweet Jesus. What is going on here?”

“Hey,” Fischer said, “we’re being watched.”

Pablo followed her gaze and saw three women sitting on the bank of the river. They were side to side with their backs pressed against a large boulder, only a short distance from the water’s edge. The forest was thick behind them. All three were staring at the two journalists. “I didn’t notice them from the parking lot,” Pablo said. “I should interview them.”

Fischer nodded. “Alright, I’m coming with.”

They were halfway to the women when something on the opposite side of the river caught Pablo’s attention. He looked across the water and stopped walking, startled. He reached out a hand to grab Fischer. “Would you look at that?”

There was a large, black dog half-hidden in the foliage on the far bank. Its head and shoulders thrust out from between two bushes. The rest of it was hidden by leaves. It was looking in their direction. Although it was a fair distance away, its size startled them.

“Holy shit,” Fischer muttered, “is that a dog or a bear?”

“Is it a wolf?”

“There are no wolves around here.” Fischer swung up her camera and captured an picture just before the dog pulled back out of sight. Shaking her head, she checked the image on small LCD screen.

Pablo glanced back at the SUV, gaging how long the run would take. He muttered, “I hope to God it can’t swim.”

“It’s probably still watching us from the trees. Holy Christ, Pabbs, what has Grizzly gotten us into?”

It took a moment for the rush of adrenaline to pass, then they turned their attention back to the women. They anticipated some kind of reaction from the three as they drew near, but the expressions of the women remained unchanged—passive and seemingly uninterested, except that they continued to stare. Still disturbed by what he’d just seen across the river, the hairs on Pablo’s forearm prickled, and the unusual behaviour of the women only added to his unease. He glanced over at Fischer, but she just raised her eyebrows.

The women all shared similar facial features, and by their ages, Pablo thought they might represent three generations of one family. He introduced himself. “Good morning, ladies, I’m Pablo Ward from the Outlook. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? You were here earlier today?” Fischer faded off to the side, alternately snapping photographs of the woman and casting apprehensive glances across the river.

The youngest of the three, an anemic looking redhead, ignored his question and asked, “Have you come for his return?” The middle-aged woman scowled at Fischer.

The question was such a non-sequitur that Pablo’s crazy meter immediately swung to red, and he paused to consider his response. Playing along could either encourage further details or just as likely provoke an outburst. The three were odd, no doubt, but they didn’t seem dangerous. He decided to play along, but he needed to direct their attention to the baptism. “We tried to come this morning, but we couldn’t get here on time. Can you tell me what happened?” The scowling woman continued to stare and said nothing. Good God, he grimaced, I hope her face doesn’t always looks like that. The oldest woman, small and white-haired, with puckered, wrinkled lips, ignored him entirely. He smiled at the redhead, hoping to elicit a response.

At first, her expression seemed angelic. “It was beautiful,” she began, “until, until.” Her face clouded. She looked at her companions. “Until something happened.”

“Were you here for that?”

The middle-aged woman spat out, “Of course we were here,” then she intoned, “‘I baptize you with water. But one who is more powerful will come to baptize you with Holy Spirit and fire.’”

Well, that clarifies everything, Pablo thought. Fucking wackos. He detested people who quoted scripture for their own purpose, and he hated the crazies who made all other Christians look bad. This must have hit the Web. Were they really even here, or are they just media groupies?

The woman continued, “‘You have been set free from sin and have become slaves to righteousness.’”

The oldest one snapped out an “Amen.”

Pablo flashed a thin smile. “Thank you. Thank you for that. It’s a great help.” He stepped directly in front of the redhead and knelt down on one knee, his foot almost in the river. That close, the faint smell of sweat tainted the air. “Did you see the priest? Can you tell me what happened?”

The girl glanced at her companions, hesitated a moment, then said, “When he went into the water, it began to breathe.”

Pablo thought back to the phone call that had prompted Griswold to assign them the story. “We were told,” he said, “that the water boiled.”

She shook her head. Wisps of thin hair fell over her eyes. “No, it came alive. It was breathing, and the trees leaned forward to touch him.” Her gaze seemed to look beyond. “It was beautiful.”

The scowler nodded, “His flower grows where he walks.”

His flower? Pablo was about to ask what that meant, when Fischer called his name. He looked to see her standing above a rough patch in the ground, poking at it with her foot. He excused himself and walked over to see what she’d found. “What’ve you got?”

She crouched down and began wiping dirt off the surface of a stone that looked like it had been buried a few inches underground. She’d cleared half the surface when she suddenly stopped and backed away. She looked at Pablo, her blue eyes flashing, “This is witchcraft shit.”

“What?” Pablo moved closer to get a better look. The stone was a rough circle, a little over a foot in diameter. Three unusual designs, arranged in a triangle, had been painted on its flat surface. The stone had been broken with a crack cutting through each of the designs. “Why would a priest…?” He looked up to Fischer. “Do you recognize this writing? Greek, maybe?”

“Not Greek. Not Russian either.” She composed a picture. “It doesn’t look Arabic, and it’s obviously not Chinese.”

“They look like runes. Gaelic?”

She nodded, “Maybe, but why would a priest bury this by the river?”

“You’re assuming he did. This could have been here from before.”

“Could be. The paint looks pretty worn.”

Pablo dug at it the earth around its edge.

Fischer snapped, “Don’t touch it!”

“Relax, Fish. I’m not going to bring down a mummy’s curse.” He thought it an irony that she refused to believe in God but got squirrely at any hint of the supernatural. “It’s thick.” He stood back from the stone. “Maybe those women know something about this.”

He looked to where they’d been sitting on the riverbank and saw that all three now stood, and the oldest had walked a dozen paces toward them. She wore a soiled black dress that contrasted with her white hair. Small and wizened, she had a presence that exceeded her stature.

Fischer swore under her breath, “What’s her fucking problem?”

The old woman spoke, her hollow voice hardly audible beside the rustle of the river. “This ground had been sanctified.”

Pablo glanced down at the broken stone and thought, Maybe not so much anymore. He asked, “Who are you waiting for? Will the priest come back here?”

The woman laughed, a sound like rats’ claws scratching wood.

“This is crazy town, Pabbs,” Fischer said. “Get me out of here.”

He nodded, “Yeah. I’ve got what I need. I think. If anyone’ll believe it.” He gave their surroundings another look. A momentary patch of sunlight was occulted by the rapidly moving shadow of a cloud. “Sure, I’m good to go.”

The three women watched the journalists walk back to Pablo’s SUV, then the redhead helped her grandmother wade into the river. The gentle current almost dragged the old woman down.

Back at the vehicle, Fischer walked to the passenger side, but before she got in, she leaned against the roof and looked at Pablo. “I’ve lived here my whole life, but I’ve never seen any of those three.”

He considered, “No. Me neither.”

“Do you think they came here just for the baptism?”

“I don’t know what to think, Fish.” Pablo looked at the river to see that all three woman were now in the water. “But it kinda looks that way.” He hesitated. “Unless they heard about it and came later. But why bother? What were they hoping for?”

Fischer shook her head, opened the passenger door and climbed into the SUV.

Pablo got in.

“Okay then, what now?” Fischer asked as she fastened her seatbelt.

“Talk to the priest?”

“Sounds good.”

Pablo checked his notes. “Grizzly said his name is Father Wallace. The Light of God Church.” He gave the scene a once over. “You got everything you need?”

Fischer glanced back to where they’d seen the dog. “Yeah,” she said, “let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

If you look around here, you’ll find a collection of my recent and archived works, as well as a few links to some other websites. Hang out, check out some of the pages, and see if there is something you like. Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think of what you find or what you might like to see.

If you look around here, you’ll find a collection of my recent and archived works, as well as a few links to some other websites. Hang out, check out some of the pages, and see if there is something you like. Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think of what you find or what you might like to see.

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The woman rested her forearm on the steel railing of the patio and looked across the sun-blistered beach. There had been a storm, and the Caribbean now protested that earlier violence by thrashing at the shoreline. In contrast, the sky had grown clear and the wind had calmed. Hours past noon, the air sat heavy with suffocating humidity and heat. The woman frowned briefly, considering how the photographs in the travel brochure had presented an idyllic image somewhat incongruent with the uncomfortable reality.

“Where are the kids?”

Her husband glanced up only briefly from his tablet. “I thought you were watching them.”

“I am,” was the automatic response, then in a movement that was almost languid, the woman scanned the beach, finally identifying several small, pale figures rendered amorphous by the heat radiating off the sand. “Oh, there they are. I think they’re building a sandcastle.”

“A sandcastle? The waves will just tear it down.”

At that same moment, the couple’s oldest daughter was staring back down the beach toward the rented villa where they sat. She was searching for any sign of an adult presence, and she saw nothing.

For the past half hour, her attention had been focused upon a pit which she had just finished digging into the sand a short distance from where the waves crashed. Ignored by her, and ignorant of any danger, her two younger siblings had been attempting to wade into those waves. The surf had punished them with indifference, but neither had been pulled under. Somewhat battered, they had just been called up onto the shore by their older sister, and they now stood in a small group.

This older sister studied her brother and then regarded the shallow pit. The hole was roughly six inches deep, two feet across, and five feet in length. At its edge, beside the mound of quickly drying sand, a blue, plastic bucket lay on its side, looking very much like a child’s innocent plaything.

“It has to be you, Ernest. Hope is too small, and I’m too big.” His older sister spoke loudly to be heard over the surf.

Ernest’s mousy face twisted a little. “You dug it,” he mumbled futilely, for he already knew that Summer would get her way. She always got her way.

At fourteen, she was the oldest and had full authority over her two siblings. She was already becoming beautiful, with an infectious smile and bright, intelligent eyes. Her teachers loved her, and their father believed she could do no wrong.

It wasn’t so with Ernest. The three of them were each spaced roughly three years apart, yet even though he was the middle child, his family treated Ernest like the runt of the litter. He was taller than Hope, but his shrunken chest and bony shoulders made him seem somehow smaller. Ernest knew that Summer hated his weakness, and he in turn struggled with mingled fear and envy at her perfection. Even Hope, with her blonde curls, triggered within him brief moments of anger.

“Climb in, Scarecrow,” Summer insisted.

Ernest looked hopelessly toward the villa, where as yet no adults had emerged from its shaded countenance. His shoulders slumped, and casting a look of veiled hatred toward his sister, he stepped down into the pit.

As though to steady him, Summer curled a hand around his sunburned neck and pressed him down. Once he was laying flat, both Summer and Hope knelt beside the pit and began pushing the mound of sand over his body.

The woman was sipping a gin and tonic and reading a newspaper that she’d found folded into the handle of their front door. It was an island issue—hardly worth reading, but she had already exhausted the books she’d found on the shelves in the villa.

“What are you thinking for dinner?” her husband asked without looking up.

“Do you want to stay in or go to town?”

“Huh, you call that a town? Let’s stay in.”

“I’m not sure we have much to work with.”

“There’s pasta. I’m sure I saw some pasta, and I think there’s a pizza in the freezer.”

“Not exactly local cuisine.”

“No,” he said absentmindedly, for a headline on the webpage he was reading had just caught his interest. “It looks like there was a school shooting this morning.”

“Another one?”

“Yeah, single shooter.”

“Where this time?”

“Midwest, some town I’ve never heard of.”

“Let me guess: Some maladjusted misfit was being picked on for being a maladjusted misfit.” She swore and took a gulp of her G. and T.

He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Since when did being bullied become an excuse for mass murder?”

“About fifteen years ago, I should guess.”

“Too bad those guys didn’t commit suicide before they started shooting other people.”

“Some probably do.” He looked up from the tablet, but she was already back reading her paper. “Anyway, this guy was shot by another student.” He sipped at his drink, shook his head and made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “Thank God for the Second Amendment.”

“I have to pee.”

The sand was heaped so high that Ernest could no longer move his limbs. Once they had exhausted the piled sand at the edge of the pit, Summer had instructed Hope to dig from around the growing mound and throw the sand on top. Ernest lay beneath so much sand that he was finding it difficult to breathe. Only his head was visible.

“I have to pee.”

Once the sand had reached sufficient mass, Summer had used the plastic bucket to gather sea water and then pour it over her imprisoned brother. The weight of the sand had increased, almost crushing the eleven year old, and ironically, given the heat of the of day, Ernest had grown cold enough that his lower lip trembled and turned a slight shade of blue.

“I have to pee!”

“Shut up, Scarecrow. Pee in the sand.”

“I’m cold.”

“Try to get out. That’ll warm you up.”

“Summer….” Hope’s small voice was almost swallowed by the pounding waves.

“You want to be next?”

Hope looked down, shaking her head and muttering something inaudible.

Summer stood up, towering over her siblings. She studied the indistinct mound of sand, then knelt down and began to sculpt. In a short time, the outline of a body began to take shape. Rather than the emasculated form of her unfortunate brother, Summer fashioned the thick shouldered body of the brother she thought she deserved. She pushed sand around Ernest’s head so that only eyes, nose and mouth were left uncovered. He was crying now, but she ignored this and used her fingernails to etch the sand, giving it a semblance of hair.

When she stood and appraised her efforts, she realized that her vision exceeded her talent, but the rough shape was recognizable—tall, with broad shoulders and thick arms. Looking so small protruding from the mass of sand, Ernest’s thin, bluing face made her frown, and after a moment of consideration, she took the plastic bucket to the water’s edge and filled it with moist sand.

Hunched on the beach, all but forgotten, Hope watched Summer’s machinations with increasing horror. In desperation, she stared with squinting eyes back toward the villa and quietly gasped when she saw the distant figures of two approaching adults.

Oblivious, Summer returned to Ernest and set down the bucket of sand. Between his muted sobs, Ernest began pleading with her to let him go. She stared at him, seemingly transfixed by his suffering. In silent calculation, she turned away from him and then sat backward, resting her weight upon his chest. Ernest continued to weep, but as he struggled to draw air into his pressed lungs, shallow gasps now punctuated his tears.

Hope also began to cry, and even with the surf, the small sound caught Summer’s attention. She turned her head slowly and fixed the child with an emotionless stare. It was at this point that Summer saw the approaching adults—quite close now. They were not her parents, just two joggers who had made the mistake of venturing out into the punishing heat. As soon as she saw them, Summer stood up and attempted to block Ernest from their view.

The couple slowed as they drew near, and when they glimpsed Ernest, both of them stopped. Summer stepped up to the man and smiled. “Good afternoon, you must be very hot. We have a bottle of water if you would like some.”

Disarmed by her smile, the man shook his head, “Thank you, but we….” He looked over Summer’s shoulder. “Is he all right?”

“Oh, yes. We’re just playing. He’s my younger brother, and I take care of him.”

“He’s crying.”

Summer nodded knowingly, “It’s Hope’s turn to be buried, but Ernest doesn’t want to come out.” She stepped closer to the man, put her hands on her hips, and then tilted her upper torso, making her small breasts thrust forward. “Sometimes kids are like that.”

He laughed uneasily, “Don’t I know it.”

The woman pulled at this arm, “Come on, let’s keep going.”

Made uncomfortable with Summer’s close proximity, the man backed away and nodded at his companion, “Okay. Let’s do it.” As he turned to leave, he called back over his shoulder, “Take care of those two.”

And they were gone.

Hope discovered that she had been holding her breath, but when the adults jogged away, leaving her and Ernest alone with Summer, her voice erupted in sobs. Little noise arose from Ernest.

Summer watched the couple grow more distant, then she looked back down the deserted beach to the villa. Finally, her gaze returned to her incomplete sand sculpture.

It was time to finish it.

Moving with calculated slowness, she walked to the top of the sand figure and knelt beside its head. She lifted the blue bucket above the unfinished face then turned the bucket over and dumped out the sand. She patted it down and smoothed out the uneven clumps.

Lastly, she began sculpting the perfect features.

All the while, Hope was screaming.

“Are you sure you want to stay in?”

“Honey, it’s whatever you want.”

She finished her third drink and rattled the ice. The heat had made her uncomfortable, and there were no interesting articles in the imported paper she was reading. She folded it and tossed it on the tile-topped table, then she frowned, picked it up again and quickly flipped through the pages. “There’s nothing here about the war. How current do you think this paper is?”

“It’s today’s headline.” He swept back on the tablet. “Yeah, they started shelling last night. Smart bombs, very precise.”

“That’s what they tell us.”

“That’s what they tell us.”

“I don’t know why they bother. Better to just drop a nuke and get it over with.”

“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“Sure, but we didn’t start all this. We’re the victims here, and if you’re not willing to face the consequences, don’t go blowing up our planes. Like the Good Book says: ‘You reap what you sow.’”

“Huh, I suppose there’s some truth in that.” He looked up from his tablet and glanced lazily at the Caribbean. “What do you think the kids are up to?”

“They’re still down there playing on the beach. I’ve been watching them.” She rose into a crouch and looked over the railing. “Oh, they’re coming back. No, wait, it’s just Hope.”

For the first time that day, her husband set down his tablet and turned to check on his children. “It is Hope,” he said. “Why is she running?”

“You know,” his wife said, “I think I’ve decided. We should go out for dinner tonight.”

Kenneth D. Reimer

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The door slammed shut, and she could hear the sound of boots thumping down the corridor. Then silence. She had once enjoyed silence, but it was now shackled to a sense of apprehension that twisted her insides. She turned her attention to the heap of clothing that had just been dropped before her. How long had these awaited delivery to the sorting room? Had they lain discarded in another chamber, forgotten and growing cold, or could she slide her hands into their midst and still feel warmth—some vestige of that humanity stolen by those boots in the hallway? Did it really matter? That warmth would soon fade, and she would feel nothing then but an absence.

She focused her attention on the business at hand, and after a moment of searching, selected two matching shoes from the pile. These she set neatly side by side on the plank counter marked “footwear.” Taking up the worn stub of a pencil, she began her list for the day: One pair of girl’s shoes, brown, size two. She glanced down at her own feet shod in tattered remnants and remembered the slippers that she had worn into that place. It had embarrassed her to leave the apartment in her house slippers, but it had all been too rushed for her to find her shoes, and mother had not been there to help her. She wondered: Who had sorted her slippers? Where had they gone?

After selecting another article of clothing, she wrote her next entry: One pair of boy’s pants, black, medium. Cold. Only, she did not write that last word—it was almost too much to just think it. She folded the pants exactly and placed them upon the roughly hewn counter. She regarded them momentarily, hesitating, then she picked them up again and hastily searched the small, buttoned pockets. In the front, right pocket, there was a note that she withdrew and unfolded. She read it slowly, then read it again—a message from a father to a son. The paper was ragged and worn with love, and she knew it had been handled many times. Recognizing the danger of such a possession, she pushed the paper into her mouth, chewed and swallowed it dryly. There was a taste of dust and ash, but no love remained, simply another absence.

One woman’s hat, black. She looked for a size but could find none. All that remained was a slight discolouring on the inside rim, a faint scent like perfume, and a stand of hair caught on the material. Breath held, she took hold of the hair and carefully pulled it free. The woman had been blonde, and she had worn her hair cut short, or perhaps the strand had been broken when it was snagged. Could this be all that remains? She set the hat on the counter.

Who would wear that hat now? She wondered if they would think of the person who had worn it before.

A stand of hair and a passing thought.

Then, from the pile of discarded garments, she withdrew a single glove. For long moments, she stared and handled it gently. Comfortably weathered, brown leather, the faded and almost unidentifiable image of a red flower that had been drawn upon it in pencil crayon.   She pulled it over her left hand, luxuriating in the warmth. This was a moment of dangerous impulse, for she knew what her punishment would be if discovered. Then she began searching for the other glove, sorting through the remnants of people’s lives. Yet, the second glove was nowhere to be found. Then there came the sound of boots within the corridor. She quickly jerked the glove from her hand and laid it once more upon the counter.

The boots passed by.

Her one hand grew cold, and it felt that absence. She regarded the single glove where it lay. It seemed an emptiness awaiting fulfillment.

Awaiting fulfillment.

And she remembered the gloves she had once worn herself—a gift from her grandmother—the embroidered red flowers that had blossomed upon them everyday anew. How two humans had clasped hands and eyes had smiled.

Those gloves had slipped from her like the dried leaves of Autumn.

No.

There was no promise of fulfillment, no other glove, only the whispered emptiness of a silent passing.

Let it go. Let it go.

Had it been lost in the gathering? They were very efficient in their duties. Few things were ever lost. People perhaps, human beings were lost, but things were never misplaced.

Had it been on the train? During the midnight march?

It would never be found, that second glove. The pair had been separated, and one without the other was incomplete, a statement of absence. And then, and then, like that missing glove, the person who had worn it had also become emptiness. How many homes, businesses, schools now stood like that, each a testament to what had been taken away?

She looked with misting eyes at the single glove, surprised that there were still tears to be shed. That empty glove with its childish design of a flower once drawn in imitation, and then cherished by its owner. That glove. Her mother’s glove.

One glove of a beautiful woman, found in a collection of stolen clothing gathered at gunpoint, recorded by her daughter who loves her, who misses her and will never see her again.

She reached for the glove and pulled it on her hand a final time, then she picked up the worn pencil and returned to the list she had begun that morning. She drew a thin line across “One pair of girl’s shoes, size two, yellow” and wrote instead: One small girl, now missing, who loved her bright, yellow shoes. The punishment, she knew, would be severe. She crossed out her next entry and wrote, One young man, brother and son, who cherished the note given him by his father, now lost forever.

One blonde-haired woman . . . .

She stopped writing and gasped for breath. The tiny choking sound she made was quickly pressed to silence in the cold room with its piles of empty clothes.

Then, at the bottom of the list, she added: One young woman, aged seventeen. Sister. Daughter. Loved. She paused and wrote the word a second time: Loved. Terrified and then dehumanized. She had learned that word in school before the occupation. Beaten, starved, and tattooed. Broken but not destroyed. A human being.

Still a human being.

From without, she heard the sound of boot steps approaching in the corridor.

The door slammed shut, and she could hear the sound of boots thumping down the corridor. Then silence. She had once enjoyed silence, but it was now shackled to a sense of apprehension that twisted her insides. She turned her attention to the heap of clothing that had just been dropped before her. How long had these awaited delivery to the sorting room? Had they lain discarded in another chamber, forgotten and growing cold, or could she slide her hands into their midst and still feel warmth—some vestige of that humanity stolen by those boots in the hallway? Did it really matter? That warmth would soon fade, and she would feel nothing then but an absence.

She focused her attention on the business at hand, and after a moment of searching, selected two matching shoes from the pile. These she set neatly side by side on the plank counter marked “footwear.” Taking up the worn stub of a pencil, she began her list for the day: One pair of girl’s shoes, brown, size two. She glanced down at her own feet shod in tattered remnants and remembered the slippers that she had worn into that place. It had embarrassed her to leave the apartment in her house slippers, but it had all been too rushed for her to find her shoes, and mother had not been there to help her. She wondered: Who had sorted her slippers? Where had they gone?

After selecting another article of clothing, she wrote her next entry: One pair of boy’s pants, black, medium. Cold. Only, she did not write that last word—it was almost too much to just think it. She folded the pants exactly and placed them upon the roughly hewn counter. She regarded them momentarily, hesitating, then she picked them up again and hastily searched the small, buttoned pockets. In the front, right pocket, there was a note that she withdrew and unfolded. She read it slowly, then read it again—a message from a father to a son. The paper was ragged and worn with love, and she knew it had been handled many times. Recognizing the danger of such a possession, she pushed the paper into her mouth, chewed and swallowed it dryly. There was a taste of dust and ash, but no love remained, simply another absence.

One woman’s hat, black. She looked for a size but could find none. All that remained was a slight discolouring on the inside rim, a faint scent like perfume, and a stand of hair caught on the material. Breath held, she took hold of the hair and carefully pulled it free. The woman had been blonde, and she had worn her hair cut short, or perhaps the strand had been broken when it was snagged. Could this be all that remains? She set the hat on the counter.

Who would wear that hat now? She wondered if they would think of the person who had worn it before.

A stand of hair and a passing thought.

Then, from the pile of discarded garments, she withdrew a single glove. For long moments, she stared and handled it gently. Comfortably weathered, brown leather, the faded and almost unidentifiable image of a red flower that had been drawn upon it in pencil crayon.   She pulled it over her left hand, luxuriating in the warmth. This was a moment of dangerous impulse, for she knew what her punishment would be if discovered. Then she began searching for the other glove, sorting through the remnants of people’s lives. Yet, the second glove was nowhere to be found. Then there came the sound of boots within the corridor. She quickly jerked the glove from her hand and laid it once more upon the counter.

The boots passed by.

Her one hand grew cold, and it felt that absence. She regarded the single glove where it lay. It seemed an emptiness awaiting fulfillment.

Awaiting fulfillment.

And she remembered the gloves she had once worn herself—a gift from her grandmother—the embroidered red flowers that had blossomed upon them everyday anew. How two humans had clasped hands and eyes had smiled.

Those gloves had slipped from her like the dried leaves of Autumn.

No.

There was no promise of fulfillment, no other glove, only the whispered emptiness of a silent passing.

Let it go. Let it go.

Had it been lost in the gathering? They were very efficient in their duties. Few things were ever lost. People perhaps, human beings were lost, but things were never misplaced.

Had it been on the train? During the midnight march?

It would never be found, that second glove. The pair had been separated, and one without the other was incomplete, a statement of absence. And then, and then, like that missing glove, the person who had worn it had also become emptiness. How many homes, businesses, schools now stood like that, each a testament to what had been taken away?

She looked with misting eyes at the single glove, surprised that there were still tears to be shed. That empty glove with its childish design of a flower once drawn in imitation, and then cherished by its owner. That glove. Her mother’s glove.

One glove of a beautiful woman, found in a collection of stolen clothing gathered at gunpoint, recorded by her daughter who loves her, who misses her and will never see her again.

She reached for the glove and pulled it on her hand a final time, then she picked up the worn pencil and returned to the list she had begun that morning. She drew a thin line across “One pair of girl’s shoes, size two, yellow” and wrote instead: One small girl, now missing, who loved her bright, yellow shoes. The punishment, she knew, would be severe. She crossed out her next entry and wrote, One young man, brother and son, who cherished the note given him by his father, now lost forever.

One blonde-haired woman . . . .

She stopped writing and gasped for breath. The tiny choking sound she made was quickly pressed to silence in the cold room with its piles of empty clothes.

Then, at the bottom of the list, she added: One young woman, aged seventeen. Sister. Daughter. Loved. She paused and wrote the word a second time: Loved. Terrified and then dehumanized. She had learned that word in school before the occupation. Beaten, starved, and tattooed. Broken but not destroyed. A human being.

Still a human being.

From without, she heard the sound of boot steps approaching in the corridor.