The project was to story of a robbery from the point of view of the criminal, trying to convince the reader that his actions were justified.And I used a picture of gargoyles on a roof.

A trap door in the roof opened, and a dapper young man emerged. He was movie star handsome, with light brown gold flecked eyes, and wavy, deep auburn, shoulder length hair. He was not dressed as one would expect for climbing around on dirty roofs; he wore expensive grey slacks, a navy blue jacket, a white shirt with a tie in blue and grey stripes held in place by a gold tie pin with ‘IV’ on it in tiny diamonds, and shiny black dress shoes.

“Back again, are you?” a deep voice growled. It sounded like several large rocks grinding together.

“Yes, Gargy, I’m back again,” the young man chuckled. “I need your help, if you would be so kind. I have to make a confession, and it must convince the listener to agree that everything I did was justified. I want to read it to you. If I can convince you, I can convince any judge, or anyone else, for that matter. May I read it to you?”

As he talked, he moved forward, settling down just behind and to the right of the gargoyle. There were several gargoyles on the top of the old bank building, but this one had its mouth open, and was the only one that seemed to be sentient.

“One of these days that old attic and trap door are going to be found, and your secret escape route will not be secret anymore.” The gargoyle growled. “And I said not to call me Gargy!”

“Yes, that is a problem. I try not to leave footprints in the dust, and only use it in emergencies. And I don’t know your name, so what am I to call you, if not Gargy?”

“My name is Anaxagoras, meaning master of speech. On my far right is Gregorios, who is watchful, vigilant, and speechless, and between us is the female muse of astronomy, Ourania. They are as aware as I, just voiceless. You may call me Anax, since you do not seem to like using full names.”

“Ok, Anax it is. But I really need your help today. If I can’t convince the main people concerned, like judges, I’ll likely spend the next several years in prison, and I am loath to wear that horrible prison garb; to say nothing of the terrible food and wasting a long part of my life in such plebeian conditions.”

The young man thought highly of himself; he was, after all, from an old and once powerful family. Unfortunately, the family fortune had been lost when his grandfather, Rhett Owen Ghayas Ulysses Endicott, second of that name, sold a valuable antique belonging to his wife to pay off gambling debts. His father, third of that name, managed to re-build the fortune to the point where he was able to offer twice what the bowl had been sold for. His offers were refused.

“All right, I don’t have anything better to do – go ahead and read,” Anax growled.

“Right, here goes. To Whom It May Concern: My name is Rhett Owen Ghayas Ulysses Endicott IV. Our family fortune was lost when my Grandfather, Rhett Owen Ghayas Ulysses Endicott, second of that name, sold a valuable antique belonging to his wife to pay off gambling debts. My Father, third of that name, managed to re-build the fortune to the point where he was able to offer twice what the bowl had been sold for. His offer was refused, as was the offer of three times the purchase price. The object in question is a blue faience bowl, ten inches in diameter, made about 1450 B.C showing a pool and lotus blossoms.

“The antique bowl has been handed down from daughter to daughter since it was first brought into the family by the Egyptian Princess Aneki, daughter of the Pharaoh’s Royal Consort who was hated by his First Wife; she had tried to kill the princess twice. It was handed down as part of the bride’s dowry and was to remain in her possession; each groom had to sign a legal document agreeing to that requirement. I know how much the bowl means to my Mother and Grandmother, and after trying legitimate ways to get it back, I resorted to thievery.

“In the first place, Grandfather had no right to sell the bowl, he stole it. In the second place, the buyer should have considered the illegality of that sale and agreed to sell it back. In fact, he should, if he were honest, have given it back, since I had the documents to back up my story. I went to lawyers, and the police to try to recover it legally, and was brushed off with a ‘if it was sold by the owner it was a legal sale.’ I showed them the documents he and my Father had signed proving that my Grandmother and Mother were the owners, and they refused to look at them.

“So I took the only road I could see that would return the bowl to my Mother’s keeping, where it now belongs. It was passed on to her when she married my father. I went to the home of Mr. Charles Robert Campbell, and using a set of burglars’ tools, broke in when the family was away.  I found the bowl on a pedestal locked under a clear glass dome, worked out the key to the lock, took the bowl and relocked the dome. I then made my way out, carefully relocking the door and resetting the alarm. I harmed nothing, broke nothing; all I did was to recover an item that had been illegally obtained and held.

“My Mother and Grandmother were both ecstatic when I gave them the bowl, and have locked it in a safe place. There it will remain until it is recognised as legally my Mother’s. I ask you please to consider my story, and exonerate me, finding me not guilty of robbery.

“Thank you for listening to my story, and reading the accompanying documents.

“Rhett Owen Ghayas Ulysses Endicott IV”

Rhett looked at Anax, anxiously waiting for his reaction. Anax sat in silence for a few minutes; then slowly turned his head toward the other two gargoyles. “What do you think?” he growled, and paused. Turning his head again, he said “you have convinced all three of us. You took the only path the law left you. We all hope the humans you read this to will agree.”

(To see the bowl, go to) http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/highlights/highlight_objects/aes/f/faience_bowl.aspx

Inspired by a picture of native cliff dwellings.

I had been traveling through the southwest on a belated winter holiday, enjoying the warmer temperatures and the burgeoning growth. It was such a wonderful change from the cold winter weather of Southern Ontario, with calf deep snow and bitter winds. Now I stand in the Verde Valley, looking at the new growth of spring, and feel the joy of new life, new beginnings. All around me there is evidence of spring; on the ponderosa pines, the pinyon Jupiter. The grassland is greening, even the desert scrub shows new growth. The banks of the river and the wetlands nearby echo with the sounds of life, with the silvery tones of the water as counterpoint to the twittering of birds and the clicking, buzzing and rustling of unseen creatures.

Yet as I stand there, immersed in the stark beauty, it is the rocky cliff that draws my heart. The dwellings there pull me, call me. It seems to be welcoming me home. Yet I have never been here before. What is it that calls me, pulls me? Pondering, I move closer, unconsciously following the faint remains of a path, until I am close enough to see the ruins high up in a huge cave opening, facing south. They bring up confused pictures in my mind, a rapid kaleidoscope of people; warriors returning from a hunt, mothers tending children, grinding corn, sewing clothing, elders in deep discussion – a montage of life. And some of the faces that flash through my mind I know. Yet how can that be? Those people were obviously Native Americans I am English/Scottish Canadian. What connection can there possibly be?

I pause, staring in wonder, then move closer until I am standing at the foot of the great cliff. Looking up, I can see places where one could climb, places for hands and feet, leading up. I feel such a strong pull, that before I realise what I’m doing, I am making my precarious way up the cliff. It is a long and tiring climb, but at last I stand on the ledge, looking at the remains of the building, and the feeling that I know this place is stronger than ever.

I walk along the ledge, and find an entrance into the building. I can only see a little, where the sun of early afternoon lights it, but it seems to be empty. I take one step closer, and suddenly, I hear voices – a woman’s voice, chiding a child; several men’s voices, discussing the day’s hunt. As I listen, it comes to me that they are not speaking English – it is a language I think I have never heard. How can that be? The only language I know is English, so how can I understand what people are saying in another language? Fear grips me, and I stand just on the doorstep, unable to move. The voices continue, and my sight starts to fade, until at last, there is nothing but darkness. I feel nothing, my body is gone. What is happening to me?!

Deja Vous – part 2

Darkness, nothingness, drifting; what has happened, where am I? Who am I? Am I dead? Is this Limbo? I can feel nothing, no hint of my body. I’m still drifting, but now I can hear something, faint, a soft sound, like fine hair lifted by a soft breeze. I stir, and realise that I did move, so I must have a body. I am not dead. I try again, moving my fingers, and feel something smooth, padded. I am lying on my back, on …. what? Slowly, oh so slowly, things start to come back.

I am … Cheveyo, Spirit Walker? Jamal Spanbauer? Why do both names feel like me?  I shake my head and moan, and a soft hand rests on my forehead. A familiar voice whispers “easy, my son, rest easy, you are home.” I struggle to open my eyes, blinking away the fogginess. Yes, it is my Mother, Algoma, valley of flowers. The name Jamal fades, the almost memories of confusing scenes of many oddly clad people, things moving very quickly along hard wide pathways, tall, impossible buildings that have been haunting me fade and disappear. I am Cheveyo, I am home. I turn to my mother and ask “what happened?” My voice is little more than a whisper.

She sighs, stroking my hair. “My son, we do not know. You went out hunting and disappeared. All the men and older boys went out searching, but all they found was where you had camped last. Your footsteps were found leading away from there, but stopped at a fallen tree.  Then, yesterday afternoon, you came staggering in and collapsed. Do you not remember what happened to you?”

I lay and thought, remembering again those terrifying, impossible scenes. “I remember standing at a corner, the paths of some hard, white material, with wide places between them. They were darker, and filled with some kind of carts or wagons. They moved at incredible speeds, I caught glimpses of people inside. Some were very large, with many people, some smaller with only one or two. There were big square ones, with things painted on the side. The paths were crowded with people in very odd clothing.

“When I looked down, I saw that my skin was dark, and I was dressed in the same odd clothing. Someone beside me called me Jamal, and I knew I was Jamal Spanbouer. This was my home, a place called Tor-on-to-on-ta-rio-can-ada. I was so afraid, and confused, because I knew I was Cheveya Spirit walker, but I was also this Jamal person. We went to a large open place, full of grass, flowers and trees, and started throwing some kind of ball around, I missed the ball, and it hit my head. Now I am here again, and very glad to be home. I never want to see that place again.”

“Rest now, my son. Akula the shaman has been tending you, and you are well now. Rest today, and tomorrow you can go out with the hunters again.” Algoma smiled at her son, relieved that he was himself again.  She touched his cheek and left him. He lay quiet, thinking about what had happened. Was I in the future? he wondered. If so, I am very glad that I will never live to see it happen. Sighing, he drifted off to sleep.

Cheveyo lived a long and happy life, and married Amitola Rainbow, the maiden he had loved for a long time. Together they raised a son Chezmu witty and a daughter Cholina bird. He became chief of the tribe, a wise and fair minded ruler, and the tribe prospered. But always, deep in his mind was the memory of that terrifying place where somehow, he had lived for a short time.

No one ever found out what had happened to Jamal Spanbouer, after he collapsed on the basketball court.

As told by Sokni Hvitaskald to Florence Simpson

Hello, my name is Sokni Hvitaskald. I am the fourth son of Odovacar and Dagmar Hvitaskald. I have two older sisters, married and living far away, two younger sisters and an infant brother. My father and three older brothers were killed in battle. I started training as a warrior when I reached my eighth winter, starting with a small, dull war axe, blunted dagger and lance. I also learned combat without weapons. By the time I reached manhood, none could surpass me with the war axe, and few could equal me in any of the other forms of battle.

I want to tell you of a thrilling adventure I had before I reached manhood. It was in my eleventh year when I saved the lives of my Mother, three younger siblings, and myself. Father and my elder brothers had been killed in a battle the fall before, and Granfer died six weeks after Yule. I was left as the man of the family in what Granfer told me was the most dire winter in living memory. It was three months after his death that I had my adventure.

By that time spring should have started and we should have been preparing the ground for planting, but the snow was still waist deep on me. The food was gone, all but some very tough dried meat. Mother and the young ones were ill and weak from hunger, and I was not in much better condition. We still had one old cow, but her milk was needed for the babe, still in his first year, since Mother could no longer provide enough. I determined to go out on a hunt, to try to bring back meat for us all.

I made the house as secure as I could hauling in a good supply of wood and water. Mother could still milk the cow, and keep the fire going. She made sure I took a supply of the dried meat and two good fur rugs. These I lashed to my sledge, then kissed Mother goodbye, strapped on my skis and harnessed myself to the sledge. With a last look back at the house, I set off across the heath, headed for the woodland in the foothills several miles away.

It was hard going, but the snow was frozen solid in many places, and once I was able to find them, I moved faster. It took me two days to reach the foothills and the beginnings of the forest. The snow was not so deep there, so I removed my skis and tucked them under the ties around the furs. I made my way along a trail in among the trees, and just as the sun reached its highest point, I heard a great bellowing and thrashing up ahead. I pulled the sledge to the side of the trail, and made my way toward the noise.

There, with its huge rack of antlers entangled in a large bush, was the biggest stag I had ever seen. It was as tall at the shoulders as a tall man, and big in proportion. This, if I could bring it down and get it home, would see us through until the first harvest of fruit and greens. I moved stealthily, to get as close as possible so that my spear would have enough force for the kill. But the unchancy wind suddenly changed and brought my scent to the animal. With a mighty heave, it broke free of the bush. Instead of fleeing, as I expected, it charged. With prayers to Odin, Thor and Freya, I threw my spear and leaped to the side. Its shoulder knocked me off my feet, and I scrambled back up just in time to see it coming at me again.

I leapt out of its way. There was no way I could get to my spear, as it was incredibly fast in stopping and turning. With another quick prayer, I made ready, and as it came near, I jumped to the side again. When it was passing me, I gave a great leap, and landed on its back behind the mighty head. It started to buck and toss its head back, trying to unseat or gore me. I ducked under the flailing antlers and reached around until I had a firm grip on its throat, just under the muzzle.

Pulling with all my strength I encouraged it to bend its head back more. Then, taking a great chance, I let go with my right hand and drew my big knife. I had to grab its ear to keep from being thrown as it increased its effort to dislodge me, but I managed to stay on. When I felt more secure, I let go again, and struck with the knife, into the side of its neck. It gave a great bellow as the blood gushed out over my hand and I let go, allowing myself to be bucked off. I landed, rolled and was on my feet in one movement. The stag ran forward, ignoring me, and I took up its trail. It would not go far, with its life’s blood pumping out.

In a short distance it was staggering, and after a few more steps it dropped to its knees, and soon fell to its side, not very far from the scene of our battle. I waited until it was still then cut its throat. I cut into it and removed part of the liver, made myself a fire, and ate. I couldn’t leave it like that, or it would quickly be too frozen to move. I tied a strong vine around its legs, and with every bit of strength I could summon, pulled it back to the trail and the sledge.

I took everything off the sledge and after great strain and effort, got the carcass in place, and tied down. The moon was full, and enough light came through the trees so I could see to make my way out of the forest. Then I wrapped myself in the furs and slept for a while. I was more tired than I had ever been, but I was proud that I had brought down this Monarch of the deer family. However, it wouldn’t be of much use if I didn’t get it home.

I woke myself well before the night was over, with the moon still giving plenty of light on the frozen snow. I packed up the rugs, harnessed myself to the sledge, and set out. The going was not too bad during the hours of night, but after the sun came up, a warm breeze started blowing, and the snow started melting in the first signs of the belated spring. I trudged on, pulling my load behind me, every muscle in my body screaming for rest and release from effort. But in my mind I could see Mother’s thin worried face, and the little ones too weak from hunger to cry, and I forced myself to go on.

Finally, by traveling through the night when the snow had frozen again, I came at last to our house. But there was no sign of life, not even smoke from the chimney. I pushed forward, heart pounding, and dropped the harness at the door. Fearful of what I would find, I pushed it open, and found them, huddled near the fire trough where the last of the wood was almost burned away. They looked at me as at a ghost, then Mother smiled, and all was well.

Once more I prayed to Odin, Thor and Freya, asking for the strength to finish my task, and thanking them for their help. I chopped more wood, and soon the fire was roaring, and we were all sitting around sipping broth made from the rest of the liver and small pieces of the stag. A large pot of stew was simmering at the side of the fire, and the rest of the meat was hanging in the back room, where it would stay good until Mother could look after it.

I was praised as a hero, and got a new vest, breeches, and new boots made from the skin, and Mother got several bone utensils that I made from the antlers. The meat stayed good, the spring finally came, the crops grew and we had our first harvest. And that is how I saved my family, in my eleventh year.

I do have an odd problem, though, that started after I reached the age of manhood. I am completely inept and clumsy when sober. Yet when I have had at least six large horns of beer or mead, I am steady, and can do many fancy stunts with my war axe, and never harm myself or anyone else. This began to cause problems, and eventually I was forced to leave home, after I accidentally injured the son of the chief of our town.

My family gave me as many skins of beer and mead as they could gather, food enough to last me to the nearest port, and many gems and as much gold and silver as they could spare. We were second only to the Chief in terms of wealth, so I had wealth enough to last for years. I have been home again several times over the years. My mother was still living and healthy the last time I was there. She had remarried and had two more sons, and my sisters are married to good, prosperous young men. But they still praise me as a hero and recount the tale of how I saved them all, in my eleventh year.

I am Greydon Graham Gordon, top reporter for the Tri-Borough Gazette, in Greater Riverdale. Last week the Archbishop of St. Brendan’s Cathedral in this city, called my boss and asked for a reporter to go to Little Humber and check out the tales of hauntings in the basement of St. Bridget’s Church there. Apparently, the sexton and several ladies of the Ladies Guild who have had occasion to go to the basement late at night have been having terrifying experiences.

the way now, talking into my tape recorder, and will continue to report everything as I go along, So I have been assigned to go and spend the night in the basement and see what’s what.  I am on once I am settled there. I have brought my reclining lawn chair, a blanket, water and some snacks, and will try my best to stay awake. I am sure nothing will happen that all the ‘terrifying’ events were caused by the vivid imaginations of the country folk themselves. There are no such things as ghosts, as any intelligent modern person knows. I will play back what is on the tape recorder to write my article.

Ok, I am now settled and comfortable in the church basement. The Priest, sexton and many of the members of the congregation were gathered to meet me, and they held a special service asking God to protect me from the evil that has taken over their basement. I went along with it, but it seemed really silly. Still, it calmed them enough to allow me to go ahead with the job.  I expected to be in complete darkness, but there are two small red lights burning, one over the door to the crypt and the other at the foot of the stairs. Now I will stop talking and read for a while, using my little reading light headband. If I need more light, I’ll use my phone.

Heaven preserve me and dear Lord keep me from ever having another assignment like last night. I now believe in ghosts, and now know that evil will out. The evil that caused my terrifying experience will be told, and amended when today’s issue of the Gazette appears. I promise to see that it is done. The sexton and ladies who had experienced it were so overcome with fear that they were incoherent, unable to tell it all, so the Priest didn’t know the full tale. He was shocked, and overcome with grief that he had done nothing to help those poor souls. I told him not to worry, it would be done now.

So I wrote my report, and put the blame where it belongs, on Lord Suffingham, and his heirs. Let them own up to his crime, pay recompense to the families and pay for a special service to release the imprisoned souls and cleanse the Church. This report has been published in today’s Gazette, and already there is a great outcry from the public, and it is growing. They will be avenged, and released.