writing – The Creative Chronicles of Dave Stancliff

The Storyteller

Gordy’s Uncle Leon was known for telling tall tales and for setting a Guinness World Record in 1964 for swallowing the most live goldfish in five minutes. Most of the adults in the family treated Uncle Leon like he was a benign imbecile. But Gordy loved him and never grew tired of hearing his stories.

It bothered Gordy that his dad showed such little respect for his own brother who was mentally challenged but not a total idiot. They were twins but somehow didn’t have anything in common other than their looks. Gordy’s dad, Alan, was a successful businessman who owned several businesses. His mom tolerated Uncle Leon and was generally nice to him. She was a timid woman who was dominated by Gordy’s dad who had a mean streak. She never questioned anything he did and put her energy into being a good housewife. She loved Gordy but seldom stood up for him.

When the twins parents both died in an automobile accident Alan and Leon inherited a large sum of money. Alan who became Leon’s conservator handled all the finances and gave him an allowance every month. Leon lived in a two-bedroom house that once belonged to their parents before they won a multi-million lottery in Arizona.

Unfortunately, they only got to enjoy their new house in Malibu, California for a year before their fatal car accident. Gordy was ten years-old when his grandparents died. During the funeral Leon was crying uncontrollably while Alan remained stoic and calm. He did not wear his feelings on his shoulder like his brother. Gordy noticed that and it bothered him. Afterward the memory clung to him like an unwanted barnacle.

Gordy was eighteen-years old when Uncle Leon had to be put in an assisted living facility. He had dementia and couldn’t take care of himself any longer. He was seldom lucid, but Gordy didn’t let that bother him when he came to visit every week. On one of those visits he was surprised to see a group of patients who were sitting around in the day room intently listening to Uncle Leon tell his story. Apparently, he had regular audiences and staff members could often be seen while on their breaks listening to Uncle Leon spinning a tale. I was amazed the first time I witnessed the scene. At other times he would sit almost comatose and stare into space with a blank look. When he was able to recognize Gordy, he would smile and tell him what a good boy he was. He would ask about his parents sometime wondering if they were going to visit him. Uncle Leon was in and out of reality and in poor physical shape. He was as thin as a reed. He had a thyroid problem and his eyes bulged out whenever he got too excited.

The last time Gordy saw his uncle alive he was shocked by his clarity. He seemed to have come out of a dream – a bad dream – and he had to tell Gordy all about it. His bulging eyes had an intensity that Gordy hadn’t seen in years. His voice cracked and he coughed before saying, “He cut the brake line…”

Gordy’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. “Who cut a brake line?”

“Your dad.“

“Why would he do that?” Gordy pleaded with tears running down his eyes.

Leon coughed again and his raspy reply froze him, “Money!”

“Why didn’t you tell the police or someone,” Gordy sobbed.

“No one would believe me…” His voice grew fainter.

Gordy left the care facility in a state of shock. His own father killed his grandparents! It was more than his mind could bear. He went back to his grandparent’s old house where he’d been living the last year since graduating from high school. His dad had kicked him out of the house and told him to get a job. He let Gordy stay in the old house but made him pay rent. When he got there the first thing he did was open a bottle of expensive tequila he’d been saving for a special occasion. His world was turned upside down and alcohol seemed like the only answer. He hated his dad. He hated the fact that he got away with murder. As he passed out a word kept trolling him…justice…justice.

A week later while on his way to the office Alan hit his brakes but his Tesla kept going right into the back of a semi-truck that had also hit its brakes on the busy freeway. It was a closed casket funeral. Gordy watched his mom mingle with other mourners and noticed she had never looked so happy.

-30-

It Was the Worst of Times

It was the worst of times…

There were no longer two sides to a coin. Equality was history. The best of times disappeared in a fog of lies and folks talked about the inevitable end and a King they never elected who was walking the streets with no clothes on, but everyone pretended not to notice.

Clowns masqueraded as government officials and the Turkey Vulture was named the national bird after the White House was moved to Florida.

Scarlet streamers, flags and memes streaked through society scattered with communities stocked with sheep meekly walking to the slaughter in the name of tarnished patriotism and false piety.

Fallow fields, once places of education, crisscrossed across the country echoing days long gone when the earth was still round and people could tell what was real and what wasn’t.

Neon lights proclaiming the Coming of Mardock competed with signs promising salvation through Jesus Christ and his seven little trolls. Message billboards with an orange-faced man polluted every highway promoting the dear leader’s latest grift.

Environmental safeguards were jettisoned off of Niagara Falls like a herd of lunatic lemmings leaping to their deaths because they knew the planet was doomed.

Doomsday speakers on street corners attracted crowds that expected a good show while they wallowed in conspircies and dived into disinformation like moles on the make.

Reason was ruthlessly crushed by people living in bubbles and alternate universes where right was wrong and wrong was right and no one saw the light.

A cloud of despair hung in the air as people hurried to jobs they hated in order to make money that the government took back in the form of numerous taxes that went to greedy politicians who divided them according to a special pecking order.

There were no sanctuaries for people of color who lived in the ruins created by racists who dreamed of an all-white Christmas 365 days a year.

If you listen closely, sometimes you can hear a fragile voice calling out from the shadows… “Where has love gone?“

30-

Time After Time

Bodie Stark urged the black stallion on to greater speed as the red demons closed in and he could hear their guttural screeching shredding the brisk night air.

He looked back once and saw the three nightriders whose skeletal skulls were beaming with an eerie light that made their feathers glow beneath the full moon. Their eagerness to catch him was palpable as they screamed curses and lashed their hell-seed stallions on to greater speeds. Suddenly Stark came to a dead end – a cliff. He turned to face his tormentors and drew his Bowie knife from its leather sheath for the final confrontation. Then he was tumbling into a dark ravine before he knew what happened. The darkness closed in…

Stark woke, like so many other times recently, shouting “Stop!” The nightmare was getting worse in the last two weeks and his nerves were frayed to the point of breaking and going insane. Opening his eyes cautiously he looked around the bleak room. A nightstand and a table with two chairs completed the scene. The wooden single bed he was on was covered with two gray horse blankets. He lay on top of the blankets trying to blink the nightmare away in the light of the day streaming through a single window’s glass panes. His thoughts drifted back to a month ago when he and his three comrades discovered the gold mine. Stark, being the most experienced woodsman among the group was following the river when he started spotting some gold nuggets that grew in size and quantity as he worked upriver. His partners got more excited the further they went until they came to a waterfall where two large gold veins were exposed beneath the cascading falls. The four men danced for joy. They had found what surely was going to be a massive gold payload.

The first day they camped in a clearing near the waterfall and celebrated their fantastic find. The whiskey bottle was passed around until the four men emptied it and passed out on the ground in the large tent, they’d put up the day before. No one stayed up to watch for unexpected visitors. It was a careless thing to do out in the wild and in the middle of the Appalachians in 1888. But their luck held, and their sleep was undisturbed. That morning, they had some black coffee and hard tack with strips of cured venison. As they ate, they agreed to split up into two-man teams and scout around the area before coming back and panning for gold in the crystal-clear waters of the river. Stark and the youngest man, William, went up stream while the other two men, John and Henry, circled around the site east to west looking for signs of humans. In particular for signs of the Cherokee people whose land they were trespassing on.

What needs to be said is that four explorers weren’t paragons of virtue and they were all greedy men with little or no consciences. They were rough and hearty men of their time surviving the wilderness for years on their strength and cunning. Each man had different ideas about what to do with his unexpected wealth. The only thing they were unified in was agreeing not to tell anybody about the location and sticking together until they got back to civilization. After that it got a little vague.

After scouting around Henry and John were heading back to camp when they heard a bird call. Then another from another location in answer. When the Cherokee war party burst through the forest in the waning light they fell upon the two unfortunates and promptly killed them and took their scalps. Stark and William had made it back to camp and were building a fire as the sun went down. They both knew it wasn’t a good sign that their partners weren’t back yet. The two men sat back-to-back near the campfire clutching their Winchester rifles and wondering when the attack would come. The night hours drug on as they both fought exhaustion to stay awake fearing for their lives. Stark should have known better. Most Cherokee bands didn’t like to fight at night unlike the Comanche who traditionally raided Mexico during the full moon so they could see at night. Just before daybreak the men gathered their processions and saddled up their horses. They lingered for a couple of hours and panned for gold, both quickly filling up little leather sacks of nuggets and stashing them in their saddlebags. They didn’t bother making coffee and satisfied themselves with water and some venison jerky while they rode back to the little mining town they had left from days ago. Both were lost in their thoughts when the arrows came! One struck Stark in his right shoulder. Then William suddenly looked like a porcupine as several arrows pierced his chest. His body collapsed and fell off his horse awkwardly. Meanwhile Stark recovered enough to pull out his Winchester and start firing point blank at his pursuers. Two immediately tumbled off their horses and the third managed to stay on his horse for a hundred yards before falling off with a bullet in his heart. Stark didn’t linger. He drove his horse hard as he left the chaos behind him. When he got to town, he found the doctor in the second saloon he searched and convinced him to tend to the wound. He’d broken the arrow off, and the stub burned like hell.

Stark took another swig from the near empty whiskey bottle in his hotel room and wondered how he could make the nightmare go away. He pulled the two leather pouches out of his jacket which hung on a hook on the door. He slowly walked over to the table and pulled a chair back and sat down. He placed the bags of little gold nuggets the size of human teeth before him and stared at them as if seeking an answer to his problem. He hadn’t shown anyone his gold since coming back to town. After considering everything he decided the gold was haunted and if he didn’t return it to the river, he’d never have any peace. It was a crazy idea, but he was desperate. Having to live through that death race every night was just too much to bear. He was tired but set out for the golden waterfall hoping for an end to the misery his nights had become.

When Stark was knee deep in the crystal-clear waters of the river he emptied the contents out of each pouch. He watched as the gold nuggets joined the others on the riverbed and took a deep sigh. He knew the nightmares would end now. And he was right. The next day some Cherokee warriors came upon Stark asleep and promptly brained him.

-30-

Juniorsky’s Secret Room

The village folk all knew Juniorsky was special. It wasn’t because he looked like a stork with his long neck and pointy face. It wasn’t because his eyes often looked dull and vacant and that he drooled constantly.

It was because Juniorsky could tell the future.

You may laugh and scoff at this wild claim but allow me to relate what I’ve seen with my own two eyes. There’s a village in the Carpathian Mountains in the Czech Republic whose residents both fear and adore a young man named Juniorsky.

In the course of my travels, I recently came upon a rural little village (which I later learned was called Kyselka) and I met a rather peculiar fellow who the residents called Juniorsky. I was sitting in a quiet hospoda having a warm pint of Pilsner Urquell served up with beef broth and goulash when a man sat down across the table from me with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. At first, I tried to ignore his rude behavior and took a healthy swig of beer. But when I sat my mug down, he was still there…noticeably drooling out of the right corner of his thin mouth.

“Well now chap! What can I do for you?” I politely asked.

His dull eyes seemed to light up and he quickly pointed at my beer.

“Pivo!” he excitedly exclaimed while wiping away his drool with his dirty sleeve.

“Very good. Servirka!” I called out testing my rudimentary knowledge of the Czech language.

When the waitress appeared she immediately nodded towards Juniorsky and clasped her hands together in a praying position. There was a look of awe on her face that puzzled me. I knew something was odd as I ordered a beer for my uninvited guest. When she returned, I asked if she knew the man across the table from me, and if so, would she be so kind as to formally introduce him to me? She smiled and said his name was Juniorsky and then skittered off toward the bar giggling along the way.

I couldn’t help feeling like I was the butt of some private joke, and it made me uncomfortable. We sat in silence. Me, eating and drinking. He, drinking and drooling. This went on for nearly two hours. I ordered two refills for him during that time. Finally, I decided to call it a night as he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and it was nearly midnight. Standing up I put my hat on and my great coat that was draped over the back of my chair. I wished Juniorsky well and started for the door…

“Wait!“

The high-pitched voice came from Juniorsky who had stood up and awkwardly shuffled up to me. He was the most animated since he sat down and wanted a beer. His screechy voice both fascinated and disgusted me for some odd reason. I felt a little dizzy but attributed that to the beers I drank.

“Do you want to know your future?

I was stunned by the question that just came up out of thin air. What was happening? Was I being teased? Were the villagers all laughing about the stupid stranger? Was this all a game? Juniorsky was no seer. He looked more like the village idiot than someone who could forecast the future. Despite that I decided to call his bluff.

“Sure,” I said with a tinge of mockery.

Ignoring the steady stream of drool that turned to spittle when he spoke Juniorsky said, “Follow me.“

The full moon shone on the ancient cobblestone street as I warily followed him down an alley that dead-ended with a ramshackle two-story house in such a state of disrepair it didn’t look inhabitants lived there. One of the steps leading up to the front door was partially missing presenting a hazard to the unwary visitor. Juniorsky nimbly trod on one side and bounded up to the porch. A rickety rocking chair feebly vibrated with each step on the landing as I approached. I slowly sensed something ominous about the house. I wondered if it was haunted. I never discounted stories about ghosts, but I had never seen one. The front door was unlocked as Juniorsky swept it open and plunged into the dark interior. He reappeared moments later holding an oil lamp that threw shadows that danced across the living room as I entered. There was a small wooden table with two chairs in the center of the room. Juniorsky gestured to sit down as he joined me. His whole demeanor had changed. The drooling had ceased. His eyes were now a bright brown, and I could sense a hidden intelligence behind them.

“Do you want to know what your near future holds?” he asked me again in a deeper voice than before.

My skepticism had drained away and I felt awe as I replied that I really did want to know my future with no sense of mockery now. He studied me briefly as if sizing up how serious I was.

“Somewhere in this house there’s a secret room that will provide you a glimpse of your near future. You have until daylight to discover this room before losing your opportunity to see the future. Not everyone is successful. I wish you well.“

He stood up (straighter than before) and walked out the front door. I looked at my watch. I had about four hours until daylight. Not wasting any time, I headed up the large staircase to the second floor. The odor of mold and rat droppings forced me to pull out my handkerchief and wrap it around my nose and mouth. Holding up the oil lamp that Juniorsky left I looked down the long hall and counted four rooms. None of them were locked and they were all empty. One had a broken window that let the night breeze in past tattered curtains. Getting concerned I went back downstairs and checked out the ground floor for a secret door. The time was running out. In less than an hour any hope I had to see my future would be gone. Frantically I started tapping the walls looking for a hidden room. Then I found it. As the wall slid open on silent rollers I peeked inside. In the center of the room there was what appeared to be a dentist’s chair with two headphones on the seat. Across from the chair there was a large white screen. A sheet perhaps. I allowed my instinct to take over and put on the headphones settling down in the reclining seat. After carefully pulling them on two things happened simultaneously; a picture appeared on the screen and there was sound.

The car I drove to Kyselka in, an Avia, appeared on screen and I could see myself driving down the twisting one-lane highway that led to the village. My car was suddenly picking up speed as I pumped the brakes that had completely given out! I managed to keep the car on the road for a couple of moments before it sailed off the road and down the cliff!”

“No!” I screamed out loud as the first rays of the day filtered into the once dark room. It was so real, I knew it had to be true. Before even eating breakfast, I visited the village mechanic and asked if he would check the brakes on my car that was parked outside the only hotel in Kyselka. I went inside and ordered two poached eggs and a cup of tea while I awaited the verdict. It wasn’t long in coming. The mechanic informed me that my brake pads in the front were very thin and one looked like it was metal on metal. I thanked him and arranged for him to fix them. I safely drove back to the airport (where I rented the Avia) and flew home.

You may think I’m just crazy, and this story is a stupid fantasy from a fertile imagination with nothing better to do. Not so. If you ever get a chance to visit Kyselka be sure to buy Juniorsky a beer. You won’t regret it.

-30-

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