“A word can change a mind, a sentence can change a life and a book can change the world.” -- Tom Kane, The Writing on the Wall

He lights the last of five candles, black candles that trace the points of a star within a circle. The circle is a white powder substance carefully laid upon a black cloth, atop a makeshift altar of some kind. Before the man, center of the circle, a bronze bowl sits with several seemingly random items within it; a few strands of hair, a feather earring, a gold ankle bracelet, and a napkin with lip stick smudges soiling its white surface. The man pushes his long hair away from his face and tucks it behind his ears. He briefly pulls on his goatee, his dark brown eyes taking a mental inventory of the items before him. Nimble fingers pull the hood of the black cloak up over his head, shadowing those dark eyes. The same nimble fingers reach out beyond the makeshift altar towards a boom-box/cassette player resting on a nearby shelf. He presses play and a Latin chant fills the room with sound.

From inside her crib my daughter stares at me with a grim face, reaching with long skinny arms. I have no idea what she wants, just like in April when she tried to kill me.

Death would have been a sweet deliverance after thirteen hours of hard labor, but suddenly she came. A five pound female with eyes like those of a snake and lips the shade of a grape. The recompense for all the sin I'd done was stretching in my arms. I could sense the darkness she possessed and it wrapped itself around me like smoke. I sobbed in disbelief.

The only thing in life my father had ever concerned himself with was money. He listened to the stock market reports and read the money columns in the Wall Street Journal, spoke of profit margins and percentages, but alas, he was not a rich man; he was just plain-old-cheap. He was frugal to a malignant fault.

My older brother and I would see him twice a year, when he would pick us up from where we lived with my mom. He would bring us on one of his special outings, usually to a fair or a stock-car race, for which he would make us aware of every dollar he spent for the day. He would calculate how many miles to drive to the Danbury Fair, what mileage he was getting on his Pontiac Bonneville, and calculate the total cost of gas consumption for the day. Then, he would tally the cost of meals for my brother and me, admission to the fair, cost of the rides, and add-in how much he would have made if he had worked for the day, and not taken us out. He kept a running total for the trip.

Jack lifted his dirty shirt tail and wiped a circle of dust from the shop’s cottage window pane. He cupped his hand over his eyes and peered in but it was too dark to see much. He strained his eyes and saw a glint of silver sparkling on a silver teapot as an old lead glass lamp shone upon it. As his eyes adjusted, he could see it was one of those antique shops - where people took their old stuff, he thought. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, and then wiped the sleeve on his pants. As he moved away from the window, he could see his reflection, his hat pulled low over pale blue eyes, a down-turned, mouth, his hair coarse and long, falling into the collar of his too-big shirt. Others said his mouth was mean, his eyes too close together. A sign of dishonesty, they said.

I live alone in a big old house, an old man with nothing more to add to the world, or to my life. I sit in my easy chair, gazing at the picture of my wife on the mantle, taken on the last birthday she was alive. She entered the hospital days later, never to return home. I never even knew she was so sick. I realize now, she had put on an act for my benefit, feigning health and happiness so I would not worry about her. I had every expectation that she would come home from the hospital. I still wait, hoping for a chance to say goodbye. I blot my teary eyes with a tissue and go to bed early.

For a third time in as many days, I am awakened in the deep, dark hours of the night, by wailing and groaning. Having enough of this tomfoolery, I head down the stairs in my nightclothes to investigate the commotion.

In the dead of the night, two young boys peered out of a window across the street, a pair of binoculars shared between them. His left eye squeezed tightly shut, Jake peered over at the old, decrepit house. It was completely dark.

"You think he's still up?" Jake whispered.

"Sure, he doesn't sleep." Nick nodded, shaking the spy glass between them.

"Quit it!" Jake hissed.

"Sorry... Look! There's a light."

Fight forgotten, both boys peered intently through the lens at the yellow glow blazing in the small basement window.

"What do you think he's doing?" Nick asked, clutching the window sill tightly.

As she fiddled with the lamps, her hands shaking, she tried to point the light at the darkened areas in the room with little success. Her breaths became sharp and shallow, her forehead beginning to grow damp with panic. Cold spiders trailed paths on her back as she flitted around turning on all the lights, pushing furniture out into the hall and snapping the door shut. Still, dark patches remained, and with a terrified cry she collapsed in the middle of the room, nails digging into her arms as she convulsed into a fetal position on the soft white carpet. Her eyes were brown and bloodshot, scouring every corner of the room for something unknown; her black hair, split out behind her, had become messy and tangled, contrasting with the ashen color of her skin. When her convulsions died down into shivers, she pulled a little red notebook out from the pocket of her grey sweater. She sat up, opened it, and drew out a pencil. It took her a few tries to steady her hand.

The patient strains against the padded cuffs, cords standing out on his wrists and neck. The large men in white pay him no mind, but continue their conversation.

          Why can’t they understand? It’s inside me! I have to get it out!

The patient’s wide quivering eyes keep straying to his torso, looking for it. Trying to see it. He cannot, yet he knows it is inside. Moving about, squirming, grinding its teeth. He screams.

The men in white turn at looked at him, exasperation in their eyes. They grasp the gurney and begin pushing him out of the examination room.

          No! Nooooo! Where are you taking me? Take me to surgery! Get it out!