Lamech ((The Legend of a Race of Giants)(a short story))

Lamech

(The Legend of a Race of Giants)(Historical Fictions: how it might have been at the end))




Reference to GIANTS in those days: ji'-ants The word appears in the King James Version as the translation of the Hebrew words nephilim ( Gen 6:4; Num 13:33 ); repha'im ( Deut 2:11,20; 3:11,13; Jos 12:4 , etc.); rapha' ( 1Chron 20:4,6,8 ), or raphah ( 2Sam 21:16, 18, 20, 22 ); in one instance of gibbor, literally, "mighty one" ( Job 16:14 ).



Chapter One of Two

Before the Last Battle at the Rephaim

(The Story :) Lamech stood on top of the tumulus a heap of rocks on which the Princess Nogia Nogia laid her child. Between the high walls of the Rephaim Circle, also known as the Heap of the Wildcat; the early morning sunlight fell in long streaks across the heap of stones, a shrine to the last of the Rephaim sect (1000 BC); there he stood in a warriors stance, straddled legs and a whip in his hand (a sword by his side), and laid it across the still shape of the Princess and her child, who lay looking up at him from a huge still boulder, inscrutable, sullen eyes, the child at her side wrapped in a piece of clean linen cloth. Behind them an old Rephaim Giant by the name of Asury, black as a devils tongue, squatted beside the rough heap of rocks where the meager child was pert near smoldered by the mother’s clean linen. It was the summer solstice, changing of the seasons, and there was to be a ritual to their forefathers, the ancient Watchers; pagan offering of the child to appease the gods.
“Well, Princess Nogia Nogia,” Lamech said, “too bad your child is not a hawk. Then it could escape its fate.”
Still the Princess on the heap did not move. She merely continued to look up at him without remark or expression, with a young beautiful sullen and inscrutable face still and somewhat pale from the present and prevailing ritual and sacrifice to be. Lamech moved over some, thus, blocking the splintering and piercing sunlight in her face, Lamech was a hybrid giant, being of over three-hundred years old, likened to Gilgamesh—a warrior, of incredible strength. He said quietly to the squatting Princess who was born in the high mountains of Ethiopia, and revered for her beauty in the temples of Alexandra, Egypt, “Your child must parish this morning.”
“Only the child?” the Princess questioned.
“A child, a damned fine looking child… What’s this?” He indicated as the heap moved and the hand which held the whip dropped.
“King David’s soldiers, I believe,” said Asury.
“Again,” Lamech said. “A damned fine looking child, going to be the full image of King Og, the spit and image of old King Og I do believe. (He could hear the thumping of four-thousand galloping horses, their hoofs as they hit the dry and flat plateau ground, east of the Sea of Galilee.)
“Yes, I’m ready and so is my child,” said the Princess.
“Hah.” Lamech glanced back towards the open field; there were high mountains in the far distance, a cloud of dust. No one could have said if the princess was still watching him or not, the whip from his hand had fallen into a crevice, unnoticed between ten-ton boulders. “Do whatever needs to be done with whatever we’ve got to do it with.” Lamech said to Asury, “and do it quick.” He stepped down from the heap out of the Rephaim Circle, passing, stepping down into the high yellow weeds that surrounded the heap of rocks, that had five circles around it, considered a sanctuary of sorts for the Giants of the Rephaim, and Nephilm (there remained the princess, yet resting against the corner of a huge rock, likened to a pier which Lamech had laid her on for sacrifice, and her child to be cut in two with his huge sword—evidently, no longer a priority) where she waited, where Lamech had stood holding the whip.
When Lamech stepped down as if to prepare him self to fight the Hebrews, Asury did not go “I’m looking after the King’s sanctuary and the princess” he mumbled. (These were men of immense structure and the Rephaim were the last remnants of the Giants, all were killed: the Nephilim, the Emim and the Anakim giants, now the guardians of the Rephaim were to be the last; in essence these were just a tiny element of what was before the Great Flood, there were over 400,000-giants during those days; the Rephaim during its last 400-years of existence between Joshua and King David, I do believe it went from 8000, to less than battalion size, or perhaps 600; these Giants of the Rephaim were up to sixteen-feet tall).
The child would not be killed this day, and in time, would tell all who asked him and some who had not asked of the giants, the blood-ridden men with pale, quizzical eyes, who looked about sixteen-feet high, through the knowledge of his mother, tell them the story of how he was spared a death, and King David killed the last of the Rephaim. This was no lie, as most of them the few remaining men between eighty and ninety whom he told it for all those years, knew, though there were some who did not believe that he himself really believed it, and he had better sense than to put it to a test, and he never did.

No: 648 (7-30-2010)


Chapter Two of Two
Last Battle at the Rephaim



Lamech of the Rephaim



Lamech looked like an aged or sick wild beast crawling slightly out from his hole, in this case down from the stone heap, there to the open field to meet his death, taste his last blood in battle, in the act of dying. There in the faint road which led up to the heap, what some of them called the Wheel of the Giants, and still others called, Gilgal Refaim—he knew all that he was, was behind his back—pausing, he could see quite a distance (but in meters it wasn’t all that far really: he could see with his paranormal vision), some of the bronze faces of the Hebrew Army glistening in the morning sun as they advanced minutes before his death: white eyes and teeth which displayed scorn enticement. A vulture appeared, “Get out of my road, bird of pry,” he commanded.
Now he cursed them, and within the battle of Lamech and the mounted Calvary, sometimes he rushed at them, snatching them off their horses first with his sword, then snatching them off their horses with a spear from the ground he had laid at his feet for such an occasion, while they scattered before him, yet appearing to surround him still with that scorn enticement on their faces, pert near laughing, mocking, vague, death inevitable, leaving him panting and powerless and raging.
Then it happened in the very back fields of the Rephaim Circle, this was after a bitter onslaught had passed through the plateau, and many of the Hebrew soldiers had fallen to their death—but he died with satisfaction on his face nonetheless.
This was true. But there was this kind of pride, it was part of the earth in those far-off days to such men like him, and King David, and many others that rode with the king: even though he believed that if he had tried to escape, if life had permitted him to—which it had, perhaps had—he could have, he told himself standing there before the army surrounded him—escaped: “But I am not going to give no simple man, king or not, or their God, the chance to tell me I can’t go nowhere,” he said this in silence to himself, “Nor am I going to give the King, or his soldiers the chance to…”
Perhaps his mind knew that it was because his forefathers ruled the world at large in their day, being supernatural men, who could not bear at times their own company. Yet the fact remained all his life he spent whole afternoons in the hot Canaanite sun listening to the stories of the Watchers and their hero like battles resting against a huge rock at Jericho or Debir—and then as an adult taking drink after drink with his fellow soldiers and talking on the same subject. And in the interim, he became the fine figure of the man, Rephaim soldier (it was a different age almost forgotten for the 21st Century mind), though he never had much of a childhood—but who did? Not many in his time— henceforth, he died that moment, figuring his heart would be forever quiet, proud and contempt and that that was all life really had to offer, him or anybody. It did appear to him—at death's door—that that world in which he came from, would somehow take him back as he was, for he had been created and cursed by God to be such a brute and ugly vassal to all mankind who walked the earth, although better found and imprisoned, or put to death for the sake of mankind. He could only blame his roots.

Chapter Three
The Dying

That world in which he sensed but did not know, sensed by some imaginary echoes was but a dream, an illusion, and that the actual world was this one he lived, which now was passing by him, galloping out of him, like a black thoroughbred into the clouds; thinking how the battle took place, all he slewed with his hands, sword and spear. Hence, to him all men where made of the same image, he was not of that image; so that he could say, as though speaking of himself, “A fine proud being I am, I mean, I was,” that is what he could say, made from the loins of the Supernatural Beings called the Watchers, the Angelic Renegades, and if God Himself was to come down and stand beside him, that’s what He would aim to say. Pride has its awful side, its destructive side.
There he laid, and somehow, someone heard him say: “Well, they killed us all.” Who he was talking to, only he knew. That was the tenor of his last conversation.
“Kill him again!” a Hebrew soldier shouted as if he might come back to life, “cut him up like the dogs they are…!”

Chapter two and three: No: 649 (7-31-2010)

The Sepulchre (Haiku)

The Sepulchre
((or, “The Tomb”) (Haiku))


The one that loves you
To the one above all others
I covered His Tomb

He was seized
And brought down gently
And the reign of evil cast out

An insult to the hunger
The avenger’s zeal cooled down
The Devil…

A whirlwind inside of heaven
I felt it on His Tomb
Jesus Christ

Useless! Useless!
—the heavy Tomb cried
As if it had a pulse, had eyes

Standing there
I called the Tomb by name
Heard an old echo:

Someone barking at heaven!

“That’ll ruin—everything”

(and it did).


Note: The author, renowned for his expressive poetry, has also mastered the Japanese Haiku, and taken it out of its traditional form, to beyond its strictness to what he believes is the form’s essence. By keeping his eye on the object, he stretches out, by painting his scene, with impressions. He cuts, to create sounds within the Haiku.

Says the author: “One of my greatest experiences while in Jerusalem was visiting and touching the Tomb of Christ, in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and I have tried to expressed this moment in the Haiku poem called ‘The Sepulcher’ (or Tomb)”

No: 2764 (7-30-2010) Written in Lima, Peru, after returning from Israel

A Short History of the Onslaught's of the Giants of Canaan

Commentary:

A Short History of the Onslaught’s of the Giants of Canaan



To get a better view of what was taking place in old Canaan (Modern Israel) during the time of Joshua, which was perhaps 1700-years after the Great Flood, and still some of the 409,000-giants that were living prior to the flood, had survived the flood, were living in both the Southern and Northern parts of Canaan. Let me give you a slice of history. As there were giants in the Golan Heights, as I’ve already indicated, there were those in the Southern part of Canaan; they came from the loins of their forefather a hero of his time: Arba of Anakim. His three children Sheshi, Talmai and Ahiman (living at Hebron) possessed Southern Canaan for the most part.
What actually took place at this time was Joshua stormed Heron and drove out the Anakim Giants, whom found refuge at Debir, an ancient city comparable to Jericho, the walls being some ten-feet thick. In time Debir was overthrown also, as was Jericho: both strongholds of the Giants (Jericho being the oldest city in the world at its time, dating to its first settlement 9000 BC, and its first city 7000 BC) At this point, much of Southern Canaan belonged to the Hebrews. Now it was time to go north: it is mentioned there were campaigns against the Rephaim Giants of the North (Golan Heights), but less documented, and less time given to the battles. I think at this point, the Hebrew soldiers were more concerned with acquiring their allotments in lands to settle and build a domain.

Also in this Northern territory, were a clan known as Perizzites (also identified with the Giant Horim)—The Rephaim clan extended as far as the Jezreel Valley (or lower Galilee). To the west would be Mount Carmel, and to the east, the Jordan Valley—their shrine, cemetery of the Rephaim being, across the Sea of Galilee, from Tiberias, known as the Heap of the Wildcat. It has been said, Joseph, took Moses’ advice and drove out all the giants of that area, which is perhaps only partly true, because it would be another 400-years in King David’s time, the last battle of the Rephaim Giants would take place, with the death of King Og. And as time went on, the giants reoccupied Hebron and Debir: but only to be driven out again.
Wherever the truth lies, there is still a clan of giants left in the land of what is now known as the Golan Heights, near Syria at the time of King Saul and King David.


Jericho: is also known as the City of the Giants, besides being the oldest city recorded on earth. Here was a city that God, Himself knocked down with his own hands, or so it appears in history. Here is where the Hebrews had a seven day march, and on the seventh day, came the sound of the Last Trumpet, and a besieging mighty shout, and the walls came tumbling down (Joshua 6: 2) The Gibborim, giants of the city were destroyed for the most part; this at one time was an Oasis, which I visited Jericho in July of 2010, it was quite a fortified fortress, deep pitted, thick walls, although—by and large, no more than a dusty pile of rubble.

Special Notes on Gaza

Special Notes on Gaza


(Children Enduring): I grew up in the Midwestern part of the United States (Minnesota), I can recall looking back now—a bit foggy, but nonetheless, clear enough: at the young girls and boys I went to school with, but particularly the young girls, and as I look back I can see a high level of sunlight in their hair, and on their faces, it all became delicately brilliant as a hummingbird’s; their eyes near-violet, perhaps more blue and green and hazel, but as I look back, near-violet somehow, and in their faces was that tranquil repose of daisies swishing in the wind. I’m talking about a normal life, about a happy soul, children having fun, and what’s the news we get out of Gaza for the Children? As you can see in the few pictures provided here (and on every-day news broadcasts): to the contrary.

This is—for the most part—a mixed up sort of message, one I don’t fully understand, what each side of this war, each party on each side of this war—perhaps more like an extended conflict—between a narrow strip of land, what they are trying to tell me—no, not me, tell the whole world at large. Why are they using children the way they do, and damaging them in the process to prove a point that one side is worse than the other, when in essence, both are pretty much equal to the other: Why, tell me why! Do they have to stay put, and endure for the sake of enduring man’s incapability to work things out. This is the straight message I get, perhaps we all get: maybe the war is a pretty good thing for the two sides warring, I don’t know—and if you say: “How can you talk that way” it is simple: the children have to live with these bullheaded guests on God’s earth, never giving them satisfaction, only tears over their cheeks, never having a word in this ongoing feud, never able to say “We’ve had enough!”.


(Nailed with Firmament Stars): If this war is to stop, one must see it for what it is—and it is plainly no more than a ‘Tug-of-‘war’ between the legends of the past and the reality of the present with opposing forces to be destroyed or maimed or even tortured to prove a point.. We see here two sides who have formulated grand designs and blindly devoted themselves to realizing them without the other’s presence, and now one side is enslaved by the other by an abstract concept—both sides thereby detaching themselves dangerously from reality: because both sides want the ultimate roof of things.

Let met end this Special Note with this: all these folks (those folks)—Jew and Arab alike—talking about heaven and “Help me God this, and Help me God that,” who are indirectly and directly responsible for the onslaught of killing and harming of children in this so called war, or call it: an ongoing conflict in Gaza, putting children in harms way, aren’t going there, I assure you of that—“Why?” because that wouldn’t be heaven to have someone like you up there. The evil smoke you produce trails behind you, it doesn’t fade.

Four Poems out of Gaza (by Dlsiluk)

Poems and Photographs out of Gaza


1) While Gaza Sleeps
(A poem for Gaza)




As they lead Gaza through the long hallway,
They carve yellow blisters into their souls
To let them know, stick to the right corridor.

“They drag us around Gaza as if it were a
prison camp, blisters on our feet,
No ventilator from the constant bombardment
No socks, just fading blue veins, and we try to sleep.
Our skin is redden, black navels, undershirts
all sweat, shoulders to the waist.
They inject shame into the fissures of our skin,
line us up like beasts of pry.
Then they stand before us with stiffen starched
Uniforms, yelling at us—the warmth of humankind
has left them, and us; underneath
our skins are all the buttons to war, they think
their five pointed star will protect them
because they carry the blood of heroes, but
it is all clotted with hate, and we all wail at night!
There is no privacy here, in Gaza, we live in
stalls, like horses (just to exist, sleep) facing each
other, close as a brother, frowning with clinched
hand grips on AK 47s, and M16s, upon where
blue veins perturb. And every one, one and all
have spiked fingers, spiked hearts: everyone
one and all, trying to find a narrow opening,
for an intrinsic enemy that never leaves oneself.”

No: 2761 (7-28-2010)
Dedicated to Gaza




2) Red Sweater Gaza Girl!




“Perhaps you don’t know this
But everyone else does
I am not a soldier; I’m a little girl,
nine years old.
All this land called Gaza is a DMZ.
I do not bear arms against anyone.”

There she stands, intensely, bowl
in hand, her only sweater is red
she’s wearing it…
(she’s a pretty dark eyed girl, with long
dark hair) in bittersweet misery. All
around her, debris from war, no one
consoling her (Gaza—being more like
an army camp, blown apart).

What will she think in passing years?
When years later, she’ll become a woman?
Perhaps she’ll put on a uniform,
no longer shy and embarrassed
of her plight.
Now silently she holds back her tears,
knowing, every little girl in this land,
will sometime have to cry, but not today
she’s hungry.
She also knows someday but not today,
she’ll have to figure out the path
of life she’ll take, in this DMZ.


No: 2762 (7-28-2010)
Dedicated to the Little Girl in the Red Sweater






2) Gaza: Tumbling Down




You can’t tell one from the other
For a moment in the streets the rain of terror has stopped
—the bombardment of rockets and bullets and other such things,
have stopped!
Most, I say most, every man, woman, child, dog had hidden
themselves from its deadly spray: one not even a
sparrow would have survived in…
On these days in Gaza, and there are many of these days,
we seek the magic of prayer
(this is not like the American movies:
here, you have real corpses to read about in the papers—)
We had our markets, and shops
All blown to bits…
Flying metal stubbed in our children’s heads, throats and chests…
Even early in the Mornings
Even during love Making
Some even half buried half alive!
Never any Silence.

No: 2762 (7-29-2010)



4) Sackcloth War
(Gaza, 2008-2010)

If only time could run backwards—
where those in Gaza
would not have to squat in candlelight,
or walk in blazing 130 Fahrenheit
like cockroaches dodging—night and day—
the flash and heat of warfare
to become crematorium ash!
Where the missiles enter Gaza,
concrete blasts back,
bodies are filled with phosphorus;
children will be found unborn—
in this ongoing sackcloth War!

No: 2763 (7-29-2010)



To see the photographs, go to the author's site

Testamoney to the Soldier (a poem)

Testimony to the Soldier

Perhaps you don’t know this,
but at one time every red-blooded American
in this land once fell in love with his country,
and every male became a soldier.
Yes, this land’s young men,
they all went into uniform, to war,
to guard, to secure his homeland,
bearing arms against the inevitable, invisible enemy.
Every soldier wrote letters home,
to their mother’s, father’s, loved ones, I was one
(and my grandfather was one, and my sons were one
and my uncles were one).
Now in the passing years,
paths have moved away from wanting to wear the uniform,
going to boot camp, advance training,
they’d prefer the business suit—;
the silent moans of greedy lives—
“Give me the good, without the bad,
the milk and honey, without the effort,
no responsibly but my rights!”
They are no longer shy or have any shame
(as they say: no blood in the face)
they’d rather play computer games
in the sunset of their lives.
Perhaps you don’t know this,
but every man in this land,
every movie star, singer, sports person,
once upon a time, had all fallen in love
with this country, now all we want to do
is milk her dry.

No: 2760 (7-28-2010)
Dedicated to the active American Soldiers

Commentary: The Color of Gaza

Commentary

We are ordinary men and women, and therefore, all things are possible, we cannot afford to wait and let things take their own course, for those whom are doomed to be shutout forever; we who are not condemned to an ongoing war, to an outdoor prison as it is in Gaza, cannot think what it means, the endless longing to see the gates open and to be able to join the rest of humanity, I am talking about Gaza. And this brings me to the point of showing you some pictures of Gaza, I call it “The Color of Gaza,” this is the color of Gaza here and now, the pictures have never been seen before, other than me putting them on the internet, now they are here in this book for your review.
As I look at these pictures over and over, I am breathing a low murmur, unintentionally, the shock of this is too much for my system, even though I have myself been in war (Vietnam, 1971), and I know it is exacting to say the least. I want to blame Israel, and I want to blame Hamas, they are both guilty, one for doing what they feel has to be done: that is, to insure their safety and to keep their lifestyle in-check; the other for allowing the children to be their shields, allowing this to continue without making or trying to make peace, with maintaining the old credo of destroying Israel at any cost. But then, there is room in Hell for the whole lot of them, meaning Israel and Hamas together, to settle their disputes. Anyhow, one side cannot take the risk alone, lest they want their backyard turned into ruins. Thus, by not taking sides, I leave the pictures for your discretion, and I hope if you point fingers, it is at both sides—too often, the United Nations is not very united, other than being semi united as a one sided monster when it comes to Israel, and we all know they are not very bending for that side. Dennis L. Siluk

To see the pictures go to the Author's site

Stone Heap of the Wildcat (Poems out of Israel)

The Synergy Group Recommended Reading (April, 2010) pertaining to topics on Behavioral and Emotional Health, the book: “The Path to Sobriety…” by Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

Stone Heap of the Wildcat




Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
Andean Scholar, and Three Times Poet Laureate




Stone Heap of the Wildcat (Pomes)
(Pomes out of Israel, the Rephaim Circle)
Copyright © 2010 by Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.


▼

Dr. Siluk’s books are available: United Arab Emirates, Australia, Belgium, Bahrain, Switzerland, China, Germany, Spain, Finland, France, Hong Kong, Indonesia, India, Japan, Kenya, Kuwait, Sri Lanka, Malaysia, Netherlands, New Zealand, Russia, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, Thailand, South Africa (to include: throughout the United States and Canada, and England)

The Author has written 44-books, over 1350-articles, over 630-short stories, and over 2700-poems. He has over 170,000 readers a month on the internet, and is working on nine-new books at this moment, from poetry, to suspense short stories, a little horror, and drama, as well as a new play, and has written three self help books on alcoholism, two on Religion, to include Islam and the forth coming apocalypse. His work is mostly in English and Spanish, but has been adapted by several languages, to include: Korean, Japanese, Chinese, German, and Croatian.

Contents

Poems and writings out of Israel
And the Rephaim


1—Poem on Bethlehem
2—Here is what I have seen—in Israel
(Today—first real day of observation in Israel: 7-19-2010)
3—A Pilgrimage and the Mount of Olives
4—Jew in the Light
(Day two, in Jerusalem)
5—What Did I write for the Wailing Wall?
6—Rat Trap Café
7—John the Baptist’s House
(Day two, in Jerusalem) Monday 4::00 p.m., 7-19-2010
8—the Crickets and I
(a poem for Emmaus)
9—Summer in the Holy L and (2010)
10—the Old Ruins at Jericho
11—Rujm—el—Hiri: Awaken at
12—Hotel Bar ((Jerusalem) (“Ancient Hand of the Devil’s”))
13—Solitude of the Rujm-el-Hiri
14—the Tumulus: at the Circle of Rephaim
15—the Heap of the Wildcat
16—Room of the Last Supper
17—The Lights of Tel Aviv
18—Meeting: Amir Or
19—A Conversation with Amir Or
20—Doom Thoughts: in Tel Aviv
(Written at the airport)
21—Creation of Nothingness
22—At the Wailing Wall

An Overview of—

An Overview of: The Circle of Rephaim
(A three act play) 10,000 BC to 2016 AD

Included are two Poems:

The Nephilm ((Cold Twilight) (A Short Epic Poem))
Nightshade




1—Poem on Bethlehem

I know legends were set long ago
Deep in the bellows of Israel—
And so I went to Bethlehem
And where is the practical part
of me?
And what did I expect to see?
Here was a modern small city, bold
dispersed among the grasses.
Here lies the luminous Birth of Christ.
Here my eyes were opened,
through a sea of time.

No: 2748 (7-2010)


2—Here is what I have seen—in Israel
(Today—first real day of observation in Israel: 7-19-2010)


On the Sea of Galilee, a very hot day, July-2010


Almond trees and an orchard: July’s penetrating heat.
Stairs and more stairs: pathways, and many streets.
A tranquil Sea!
Ancient brick floors in ancient buildings.
Thunder from Arab, Jew and Christians.
Birds, like sparrows, and writings on walls.
Telephone wires, wells, and tall, tall broad
archways and shifting dust.
Gardens, and copper orange roof tops.

No: 2750 (7-19-2010)


3—A Pilgrimage and the Mount of Olives


The Mount of Olives, the Olive Orchard and Gethsemane,
are one—
The Basilic of Agony and Gethsemane, are one.
The Place of Ascension and the Chapel of Our Father,
are one—
When we feel the union, alone on this mount, we see
past the plain, beyond understanding
We now can fly without wings, stretch-out our visions
Of those trying days, of Christ…

No: 2749 (7-2010)




4—Jew in the Light
(Day two, in Jerusalem)


In the light, the Jew isn’t all innocent of his plight,
His proclaimed mission to fight at any cost,
To rip out the enemy’s heart from the breast:
Be it children, old men, or the lame
(as is such in Gaza).
Although, although, there is more to it!
He is strange, and he has lost his kindness—
Their plight while visiting in their homeland
Talking face to face—their plight I doubt
Has Heaven’s approval. I myself
Am trying to understand, but I’m just a
a simple man.

Note: Morning, 1:12 a.m. 7-20-2010; No: 2746 In Jerusalem.
Inspired by Father George


5—What Did I write for the Wailing Wall?

What did I write on
The Wailing Wall? “Lord,
Thank you for my: Mother, brother, wife…”

No: 2751 (Written 7-20-2010)



6—Rat Trap Café

There’s an old rat trap café,
down this old Jerusalem street
Consisting of no more than twenty-five,
square feet: the rest is in the street!
The young Arab, who owns it, is a proud
fellow indeed,
He thinks he’s got the Taj Ma Hal,
He gets mad, if you pass by his place
and take a peek without buying a drink.
He can’t see, his place reeks, with stink
and filth and flies bussing,
He’s to close to the forest, to see the trees.

No: 2753 (7-2010)



7—John the Baptist’s House
(Day two, in Jerusalem) Monday 4::00 p.m., 7-19-2010



Heat falls over the city of Jerusalem
Like Dante’s “Inferno”
Our group of forty-seven Pilgrims, remain close
(to one another)
Street by street, cobblestone, and weeds.
We’re on the way to John the Baptist’s home
Up a long narrow walled street, with a huge
Archway—; we are all tired, from the long
Plane ride, our eyes half-closed,
But nobody is that tired to not go.

No: 7554



8—the Crickets and I
(a poem for Emmaus)


There’s an old Jewish cemetery in Ancient Emmaus,
Entrenched is a cross, made with old headstones with no names,
An old stone arch resides behind it all, I’m sure it has
many tales to tell...

It lies at the crossroads, leading to Jerusalem,
There’s an old stone path to the left,
I’m sure it will not remember me,
When I’m long gone,
Yes, it will remain all the same,
it has already for two-thousand years; anyhow:
Jesus walked on this path, within and around
this pleasant oasis, where he met two strangers,
broke bread with them.
Nearby there’s an old tomb:
from the time of King Herod’s day.
It’s hot as a devil’s hearth here, but it’s also
peaceful and quite: just me and the crickets.

No: 2755 (7-21-2010)


9—Summer in the Holy land (2010)


After a trying day visiting: Lazarus’ tomb,
The Dead Sea, Old Jericho, the Caves of Qumran—
now in Tiberias,
With the hot blazing sky, melting the exacting shadows below—
(meaning all of us within the pilgrimage) evening comes upon us.

I plunge though the full hot evening meal.
Study the places I’ll go see next, tomorrow, like a scribe
studying the Dead Sea Scrolls—then call it a-day.

Inside me (sleeping) birds are flying though some mist,
and horses are galloping in the high grasses:
as the new day opens none too soon.

No. 2757 (7-21-2010)



10—the Old Ruins at Jericho


How strange to think giving up all ambition
to breathe again—
Suddenly I see with unclear eyes
The old stone ruins, city walls, tower of
Tel Sultan
Standing over the oldest city of all time
Jericho (9000 BC)
That has fallen to its ransacked knees.
Oh, how it must have been,
in those far-off days
Nothing but a dried up skeleton—now,
stands before me!


Note: Wednesday 7-21-2010/No: 2758



11—Rujm—el—Hiri: Awaken at


Dr. Siluk, nearing the first large circle at the Rigal



We are approaching: “Stone Heap of the Wild Cat”
(Gigal Rephaim)
A place where giants from outer space and time
now, long forgotten, lived and worshiped:
lived and worship in and around
this ancient of shrines—mingled with humankind:
the sect was called: the Rephaim.

They have long roots, these demonic beings,
that stretch back to the Watchers, the
now infamous: Angelic Renegades: the demonic
offspring, that settled this land with King Og
killed and destroyed by King David, 1000 BC.

Here history brings to mankind, a tunnel of hurtling
darkness, a storm awaiting, a horrific ending
where earthly giants—became gods to men, where
ceremonies, and pagan worship took place—
where hurtled darkness still remains, and where
Princess Nogia Nogia gave her blessings
to the gods of her time…


No: 2747/7-22-2010


12—Hotel Bar (Jerusalem)


The coffee’s strong, tonight—
The piano music, in the dinning room
was mellow, like Nat King Cole.

Now a saxophone is playing
rustic music as if lost in the woods—

And the bartender is watching T.V.

A guy to my left is watching four women
chitchatting, and an old man is
checking his email, on the hotel computer.

The Hotel lobby is echoing, as I sit alone
sipping, just sipping my coffee—
trying to stretch-out the evening:
tomorrow I’ll venture out
to the Golan Heights to see what is called
The Wheel of the Giants,
an ancient hand of the Devil’s!

No: 2748 (7-22-2010) Written at Restal hotel Tiberias

13—the Tumulus:
at the Circle of Rephaim

(Written while inside the tumulus, at the Circle of Rephaim, 7-23-2010; 8:30 a.m.)


It is in the morning.
The countryside is yellow with dry tall grass;
Dotted with rocks, silent within this near
five-circle structure.
Brown dried fungus, on these old stones
Forty-two-thousand tons of them, boulders,
on top of boulders, on top of boulders.
Nowhere else on earth, have they built
such a ruin (the: Rujm El-Hiri;
Stone Heap of the Wildcat)
It is a saga of its own: extending beyond
the vast doors of the Great Flood.

I stepped down within the tumulus,
looked inside its deep tomb
(the sun and wind weaving above and below
the rocks surrounding me, cooling
my sixty-two year old bones).

Now I rise from this heap: raw to the bones—
Muscles sore, yet I know I have to tackle
the remaining morning sun—while
wondering what more should I find,
and only God knows!

No: 2749



14—Solitude of the Rujm-el-Hiri

((Written at the 3rd Circle of the Rephaim) (Written 7-23-2010, while visiting the site 9:00 a.m.))



Dr. Siluk, with Dr. Alon Gelbmon near the tumulus


They are grey, tarnished with dark blood,
these hard stones that ring when you clap them together.
There are forty-two thousand tons of them
at the Circle of Rephaim, here, now where I stand
amongst, the many hidden tombs, now empty, within this
wheel shaped heap stone circle, amongst the field of
yellow tall grass.
Here is where the Rephaim Giant’s tabernacle resides,
where once these giants roamed and warred
amongst each other, mankind—; here
is where Princess Nogia Nogia, lived and died;
her name meaning: blessing of the ancient gods.

No: 2750


15—the Heap of the Wildcat
((Where the Giants Roamed) (the Rephaim Circle))


They came down from the clouds,
these Angelic Renegades(wicked beasts),
left, their first abode,
to cohabitate with the pretties of women
the earth had to offer…(of flesh and bone)
in the land called the Golan Heights,
near Syria. Here is were the giant sons
called the Nephilim warred with the giant
warriors of King Og, of the Rephaim—
(for 6000-years); here is where
within the year (?) 1000 BC, King David
killed the last of them, along with King Og.

Note: Written at 3:00 a.m.,

No: 2751, 7-24-2010. Having visited the actual site, a day before



16— Room of the Last Supper

In the room where held, the Last Supper (I stood)
Checkered sunlight fell through the window and door
In a long slant across the floor
And to somewhere beyond, fell my mind
Into a preoccupied manner—as if in a chant
And I saw a vision, a cancerous woman in our group
Was being un-blotched from within, with a pure mist!

No: 2758 (7-27-2010) In Jerusalem


17—the Lights of Tel Aviv


From the beach, night lights of Tel Aviv


At Night—the city glows in Tel Aviv
Like a train fully lit of lit popsicles,
And the big lit bulb called: the moon
(—hanging over the city like a fat balloon)
Gives light to the beach off the Mediterranean,
Is never quite empty—so it seems, appears:
Never quite empty even at midnight…


Written in Tel Aviv at the hotel ((12:15 p.m.)(7-25-2010)); No: 2754
(No: 21 in the Israel series)


18—Meeting: Amir Or

I’m on Holiday
I’m celebrating life
You are part of it…!


Written in Tel Aviv at the hotel ((12:15 p.m.)(7/2010)); No: 2755
(No: 212in the Israel series)/ Amir Or, Israeli Poet (Inspired by CJ)


Conversation with Amir Or

((Israeli poet, Helicon: director for the Society for the Advancement of Poetry in Israel) (9:00 a.m., to 9:45 a.m.))


We met this Sunday morning (7-25-2010), we had a warm greeting. At first I spoke some Hebrew, simple greetings. We talked about the translations of poems (such as with English or Hebrew to: Japanese, or Egyptian, Greek, and even into Spanish—along with the older designs within language). We talked briefly about Juan Parra del Riego (Peruvian Poet, and how the first of his poetry being translated into English by me, was most recently), and Cesar Vallejo, who was a contemporary poet with Riego—who met one another in Paris, and Vallejo’s first published and translated poems into English were by Robert Bly—a friend of mine, who back fifty-years ago did Vallejo’s first English translation from Spanish along with Pablo Neruba, and Amir expressed: translations of this kind first started fifty years ago.
Again I repeat he was genuine, warm and friendly, seemingly leaving it open to be a friend, a poet to poet thing, conversation, meeting, no rivalry. His hair was shorter than I had expected—when he first walked into the café looking about for us, shorter than I had seen in his pictures anyhow, he was about my height, some eight to ten years younger, and perhaps 160-pounds, my weight. He enjoyed reading the first page of one of the two books I gave him, the first being: “The Tale of: Willie the Humpback Whale” first edition, 1983. He commented, after I said “This can be for your daughter,” he replied, “No, this is for me,” and chuckled. He had a soft, good, and kind laugh. He might have been a tinge on guarded side, wondering why I wanted to see him in particular, and I explained, I sensed he was one of Israel’s better known poets, had many awards, I liked his poetry and my wife at my request was seeking out a worthy poet, of the people for the times, and came up with his name for me.
There was a moment of silence between us, but it was well taken (not uneasiness, just a holy need to catch our breaths.) Amir, like myself, like both of us, talked briefly on the Rephaim Circle, where I had just come from, two days prior to this meeting—which was in the Golan Heights.
He was drinking I think carrot juice, as was my wife drinking orange juice, and I had coffee, a double shot of espresso, with warm milk on the side, at the “Bistro,” café, 300 Dizengoff Street.
I do believe I mentioned to Amir that we are both poets of the people for our times (a person note: which require one to be upfront, genuine, honest, and to weigh his or her poetic view: we are responsible for what we say and write).
Rosa my wife asked a few personal questions, one being: if he was married, and he replied: that he was divorced, and that she was Japanese, and like she did for me, his wife once did for him, in helping him with his translations. Now he had a girlfriend he lived with, or that they were living together.
I gave him a second book, “The Macabre Poems,” written and published in 2004, and he replied “Quite a difference…” and he gave me I believe was his most recent book “Plates from the Museum of Time and other poems.” The rest of the conversation was on generalities. He suggested we go and explore the beach in Tel Aviv (after the meeting), and allowed us to end the get-together.

Dennis Siluk


20—Doom Thoughts: in Tel Aviv
(Written at the airport)


When the putrid living are planning on
entering the dead, the new world
graveyards smell rancid.

They’re moving away from—what
was once, their dreams
to live into the dead world
that has no seams.
You move like a ghost, like loose wind
so I hear: and there is no more blue skies,
just a black dome overhead, which
makes you powerless.

Sounds of rowing boats and the waves can
be heard from any point, or port
in Hades’ Sea;
you live in the present—breathless among
the many!

In Hades or in Hell, everything reveals itself,
in human shape again—
There’s even a torrent wind with eyes
watching your ever move.

All this waits for the putrid at heart, beyond
the grave—our last blessings.



Note: Written at the Tel Aviv Airport, 7-25-2010, waiting to
Catch a plane to Madrid, Spain No: 2755



21—Creation of Nothingness

I know soon I will turn into nothingness—
And my spirit so longs to stay real:
Cravings in my skin (I suppose)
They remember the last sixty-two-years
Of sensations (smells and pleasures,
and all such things; the movement of weight and,
the coming of winters and springs)
They don’t know what they’re going to be next,
But I tell them: we’ll be shepherds of Twilight—
at best, among the creatures of nothingness.

No: 2756 Written while at the Airport in Tel Aviv, 7-15-2010




22—At the Wailing Wall

Spirits are wailing at the Jerusalem Wall
Pleading with the flesh and all
To take charge, correct (before God recalls)!
These are voiceless shepherds
Who now are immortal souls—as
They wither and fade away…
God has given them one more Day!


Note: Last poem to be written on this Israeli Journey in July of 2010: No: 2757, now in flight over Turkey (the airlines had to reroute from Greece which there is a strike going on to go through, Turkey, adding two and a half hours delay and flight. 7-25 and 26-2010



An Overview of:
The Circle of Rephaim
(With two poems) 10,000 BC to 2016 AD



Quotes and Notes

."...and he called his name Jared, for in his days the angels of the Lord descended on the earth, those who are named the Watchers, that they should instruct the children of men, and that they should do judgment and uprightness on the earth." (Jubilees 4:15)
“There were giants in the earth in those days, and also after…and they bare children…the same became mighty men…men of renown.” Gen. 6:4 [The Nephilm/giants of those days.]

“It shall be exactly as it was in the days before Noah” Matt. 24:38; Luke 17:27


Names used for the “Circle of Giants”

Circle of Refaim; Gigal Refaim; Circle of Raphiam; Rujm el Hiri
and Wheel of the Giants (in: Hebrew), and Stone Heap of the Wildcat (in: Arabic)also, thought to be the tomb of Og, giant king from before the Great Flood (Deuteronomy 3:11)


The Circle


Dr. Siluk and his wife in at the Circle of Rephaim (in back of them in the fields)




The Circle of Raphaim has been dated to 3200 BC. I personally find this could be extended by 800-years to 4000 BC, meaning the circle had been under construction at about 4000 BC, assuming the Giants of old, and those two hundred Angelic Renegades were part of the Nephilim Empire of that age, who lived in the time of Enoch, are the same ones who built the Circle of Raphaim, or at least started it, which was before the Great Flood, and the time of Noah. Assuming this and accepting this as fact and assuming the Great Flood was somewhere between 3200 to 3600 BC, and the Great Circle was part of their meeting place at that period, and a graveyard for the over 8000-tombs thus far found on the site, have been found within the Circle of Raphaim (or Refaim) then, it would to me stand to reason, the Circle was built or could have been built over a period of several hundred years, perhaps completed after the flood when there were only a few giants left, prior to the flood during the great battles of the giants, is more likely when the circle would have been under construction, and those ungainly giants put to rest; before the flood there were 409,000-giants, after the flood, you could have put them in one American Military Battalion of soldiers I do believe. Thus instead of a date of 5200-hundred years, we come nearer to a 6000-year old period; either way the site is one of a kind.


The Giants



The story of the Watchers (and their giant offspring for the most part) may be found in the book of Enoch (perhaps 5000-years old), in the Pseudepigrapha. In reality, some of the Nephilim were from a planet I do believe just outside our solar system. What truth that surrounds this is, the Sumerians believe they were of that race, and perhaps they were, and they came from some planet outside our planetary system, but nearby. From these giant figures, came the Anunaki. Putting theory aside, we can only say, we are perhaps a link to a very extensive past—with all respect intended to my Christian beliefs.

History of the Names


N e-phil´-im, which means fallen ones ((from naphal, to fall) (Dead Giants, the sons of Anak, giving his name to the clan))
As Rephaim they were well known (a caste of Giants) the Rephaim, came from Rapha, a noble one among them, giving his name as did Anak, to a clan, the Palestine branch was named after Anak.


We can see in Genesis 14:5, there is a 1st and second generation of Nephilim, to put this into a comparison, Gilgamesh would be from the 2nd Generation, and pure angelic being from the first, the 1st having more power and strength than the second, that is to say, the 2nd was not on par with the first. Their story takes place in the land of Zuzim (of old), not all that far from the ‘Dead Sea,’ and just a tinge farther from Jerusalem.


†


The Nephilm ((Cold Twilight) (A Short Epic Poem))

The twilight was coldThey wore warm garmentsPelts to cover their flesh!(They came in the middle of winterTo the circle of the RaphaimCame descending from the heavens The Shinning Ones, the Nephilm).They came from the cosmos,To put yokes around the necksOf humankind—humanity’s loveliest!To put yokes around their shadowsIn the cold twilight of the night.They had come to kill JewsTo subdue JerusalemTo make their woes right.(These Old Giants, Angelic renegades;Watchers from the Heavens.)When they slept, they rested—Beside a roaring fire!…And the wind and air filled withWhirling particles, pieces of faces, Shadows exposed—all with deep Yellowish-red glows.Damned by God, these rebellious foes (These giant immortals, of pre-history) This gray ocean of demonic beasts Will come once more in the end days: Came, blazing a path through historyCame with sullen roars of madnessOf revenge for old woes…!¡

: 5/29/06 #1361







†


Nightshade


In the stir-less night
Of nights that have no seams
Rooted in death
Down and around narrow spiral paths
They rattled like rattlesnakes
Buzz like dozens of blundering flies
With monstrous thighs, shoulders and eyes
Like: snakes, owls, hawks wildcats
Half-demonic, with riveting jaws
With grotesqueness, they scratched and gnaw
In the doming shade of night,
Waiting for sunlight, this yet to be
Last battled called Armageddon
The Giants of the Circle of Refaim!

¡
No: 2772 (4-13-2010)



Why This Place

Circle of Raphaim



King Og


The stone circles stand for the earthen gods and fertility, with each circle representing a season of the year or a god responsible for that season. This was once a highly respected place to the gods or demigods, or Nephilim. The knowledge to build this place came out of Babel, it has been said, but who gave it to Babel (and what portions of it was built during the time of Babel, and post flood period is not available or known at present),is this not the deeper question? The site is highly energetic—creating a positive energy circle, making it a future site for blessings—and has healing waters, minerals for good health. Considered a Pagan ceremonial site for the most part, and managed at one time by a priestess named Nogia Nogia—meaning giver of blessings by the ancient gods—in essence, it is a ritual center and temple of sorts.


Sometime within this archeological maze, the ancient giants, sons of the Watchers, after the Great Flood, completed in building this Great Circle of Og, or as it also is known: Rujm-el-Hiri, considered to some, a star-worship site by the Canaanite Giants of that day, from the tribes: Refa’im, Anakim, Emim, Zuzim: this sites resides in the Bashan Plateau, near Moshav Yonatan, and Tiberias, in Israel. This period we are looking at is the Chalcolithic, 4300 to 3300 BC (6300-years ago).


†

Current Acknowledgements
Given to the author: Dennis L. Siluk:


I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your short story, “Uni’s Street Corner” in Lake Area Business this month. Thanks for sharing this wonderful piece!!

Gloria Stafford, Minnetrista, MN


“I received your book “Last Autumn and Winter”…. It's beautiful you have really captured Minnesota. And I love that it is in Spanish and English. … Thanks so much for sending this treasure to me Dennis.”

Gail Weber, Editor and Owner of “Exploring Tosca”
A Minnesota cultural magazine (5-25-2010)

“…you have been designated Godfather of… the National Newspaper of Peru (“The Voice of the People… is the Voice of God”)… in merit to your fine virtues and profession of service that you have shown throughout your exemplary life that everybody appreciates, admires, and exalts.”

Director, Apolinario Mayta Inga & Manager Rivera Flores, October 7, 2009


One of Dennis’ books have been added to the World of Literature and Culture in Peru “Peruvian Poems (and other Poems)” in English and Spanish. 2009-2010

The Synergy Group Recommended Reading (April, 2010) pertaining to topics on Behavioral and Emotional Health, the book: “The Path to Sobriety…” by Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

Editor’s Picks: ‘exploring Tosca,’ a Minnesota, Cultural Magazine, winter 2010 Issue: Short Stories for Men and Women: “A Leaf and a Rose…” (and other stories) by award winning author Dennis Siluk is a perfect gift for scholar or non scholar—and especially for the world traveler.”

“Seems you can write your books faster than I can read them. I don't know how you do it. A poet, an artist and a writer - and much more I'm sure. I may have to have a wall in my office just dedicated to the genius of Dennis Siluk.” 2-18-2010 —Gail Weber, Editor, “Exploring Tosca”

Musical Work by Dennis L. Siluk, 1947: “The Journey Never Ends” (sound cassette): Registration Number/date: TXu000840061/1998-4-20. Edition: Rev. & add ed. 18-songs

Testimoney to the Night ((A poem on peace)(revised 7-2010))

Testimony to the Night



In the quiet of the arctic night—
in its deep northern skies
dim are the lights, in its cold
evening frost…!
Even the stars of the arcticseem
silently stone froze!
Here, is where you’ll find
peace within the beast—!
For a moment anyways.
Remote, no ears or words
to clutter up the mind:
to entrench the throat.
Here, is where you die…
(for a moment, just a moment).

Here, the sky has eternal eyes
eyes with cosmic tidestides
that never rest: they don’t
war with one another, they just
come and go, throughout the Universe—
Here my eyes seek and search
countless hours, ebbing with the tide
sweeping the heavens above, alive!

Numbing, always changing—
are the cosmos, the heavens
And, here resides a strange peace…
a strange and somber peace
With an army of stars to light up
man’s immortal path: shinning,
silently in the dark—ebbing,
across its eldritch dark zenith
Time has no relevance herein this Cold
and oddly vacant space
that goes everywhere and nowhere.
As I look up, standing upon this bridge
one star bridging the next—as if,
as if they were kings and queens:
guardians of the heaves—
O—Yes! A strange, strange peace…
envelopes me, this night, praise be to
the Most High
for its flaming, blazing firmaments—
It takes away the thoughts of war,
of the foes, unholy immortals…
the enemies that never rest
I hear music, harmony from afar;
and even farther, I hear a storm:
I wonder if God has opened the door
to his storeroom?

Let it be tomorrow—war
and its perpetual dust
let me have Orion to night,
and tomorrow
I’ll take the bleak dim sun
Nobodies listening—to the tidings
from heaven— for peace,
that’s why I take night’s peace,
and leave tomorrow for war
I hear the cry of so man:
“Peace, peace…”
and behind closed doors
voices are saying:
“When will this night die, end?”
Hoping the sun will rise soon
so they can start the war up again…

I see no sign of tears, for the dying

a blood-red moon stirs the floor of the
sea; with fainting breath, silently—
I just want quiet, stillness—peace
I tell the world at large—myself,
strange as it may seem, it is all I seek…
Eh! Yes! Eyes now stare at me, a voice
says: “How can this be? When we
are born and cursed with the devil’s seed!
for he even stirs the cosmos, with his spectral
here and now…!”
Hence, I’ve come to the conclusion,
there will be no peace on earth,
this is my testimony to the night!...
For tomorrow I fight!


Notes by the author: “…this is a deep, and restless poem with many images; the secret of the poem (to me) is the sun, as it has always rose, so it shall again, tomorrow, and again another tomorrow, and so shall peace not exist, as long as it is in the hands of mankind.” The author has spent time in the Arctic, l996. 7/7/05 #752 this is part one of three parts; part two, to this poem is called: “House of the Goblin”… Reedited and revised, 7-2007.

Shrieked Horror (Part three: a shor story)

Shrieked Horror
((Part three of three) (1967))


(From my Journal notes) It was the fifth year of my captivity in the sewers of the Midwestern City; it all seemed to me a dream within a dream. Nothing changed much in those years, but the worse sight that had met my eyes up to this point, was certainly beyond my reality. I think it was around the year, 1967, in the hot summer months, I had seen two teenagers exploring these old cascading caves that were used by the soldiers of the Civil War era to keep prisoners and so forth, and thereafter, as the sewer system, that ran from one city to the other, from: St. Paul, to Minneapolis. And I had seen these two teenagers, one a female the other a male, about fifteen-years old, exploring the maze, I kept hidden, but Lilith, followed them like a hawk, Lilith, the rat antagonist—the Queen rat, the one that saved me, and for what reason, I’ll never know.
The young blond girl, pretty as peacock, was tired, and took rest against one of the old wooden beams in the cave, put her purse behind the back of her neck as a pillow so that her spine was more erect, so it appeared. And she caught sight of Lilith, and somehow—like Lilith had done to me—put the girl in a comatose like trance. She was for the most part, partly frozen in time and space. Her boyfriend took no notice of it, no special expression on his face anyhow, and just kept walking about— aware of nothing, perhaps now a few hundred feet ahead of her, exploring. The warm blooded girl was breathing slowly, and Lilith patient as she can be, was cornering her, with her entourage of several huge rats, red haired rats. No fear no horror on her face, just a placid look of innocence—her eyes wide open staring into nothingness. Behind Lilith, another and another and another of Lilith’s army of rats showed up for the kill—perhaps twenty now. This is almost exactly where the boy got lost in the caves trying to find his way back, calling “Karin, Karin, where are you?” She never answered.
The teeth of Lilith were like heavy knives, leaf-shaped, as if to make a bigger and wider trench when she bites into a person. Thus, at that moment of striking this beautiful blond haired, fair skinned girl, with pigtails and all, she struck her flesh, but only the edge of her teeth went into her leg, kind of sideways like. As it was, her teeth didn’t cut through to the other side of the bone, and the girl jumped up, and out of her trance, blood was pouring out of her like Niagara Falls—she stood petrified but she could stand on both legs. Evidently, Lilith wanted to make one powerful bite, to break the leg into two pieces, so she’d collapse and be unable to run.
The wound of the girl, now in front of all those rats, was oozing with blood, with every pulsation of her heart, and it was staining her lower part of her dress and shoes and socks to no end. And now she was screaming, “Help, help, Brskine, help me.”
As I rose from my sitting position, between to rafters near the ceiling of the cave—I could see both her on one side and the boy on the other, I said to the boy, “Turnabout, take a left and another left, and you’ll be in front of her, grab that board behind you…!” And he did as I said.
Never shall I forget the look on her face when she saw her Brskine coming with a large board with nails in it swinging it everywhichway, and the rats rose from their paws—stunned faced, a strange picture indeed, and ran off to wherever but with a chuck of her leg. Then I heard him say, “I think there’s a ghost in those caves,” and he picked her up to carry her to the hospital, I expect, he did say—after putting a tourniquet on her leg, something on the order of: “We better get out of here to a hospital before you pass out, and lose all your blood,” because right after he said whatever he said, he picked her up and rushed out of the caves.

No: 646 (7-15-2010)

The Seventh Hour after Sunset (a short Macabre story in three parts)

The Seventh Hour after Sunset



Warm Bones
((Part one of three) (1962))


The bones were still warm! But picked clean, and the rats were starting to chew out the marrow. As I stood there and looked at this human waste, and the gleaming eyes that were starting to surround me, and joked with my comrade—we had, Mike Reassert and I, we had climbed down into the city’s sewer system, made during the Civil War days, to find jewelry caught in drain pipes and so forth, not realizing the blazing eyes and numerous amount of rats that infested the sewer system, and had been following us. At this point, nearly lost in the sewers, we had half dozen rings, one with a big diamond in it. There were heaps of bones in several corners of the sewer system thus far we recognized. Human as well as rat bones: the rats that were following us from a distance, had a kind of old-fashion ferocity about them, a hoarsely squeal, and Mike and I had only flashlights, and a twenty-two caliber derringer with us, that shot one bullet at a time and we had three bullets to spare, plus the one in the chamber. There must have been several rats behind this one rat, the savage looking rat.
My first thought was—even though we were in danger—was to avert fear, accordingly— and I told Mike just to have a normal conversation with me—act nonchalantly, the derringer in my right hand, the trigger cocked. Waiting to seize a favorable opportunity to shoot the rat—the leader rat, if need be. Thus, we proceeded to check under another drain for jewelry. And finding nothing, the unholy face of the master rat came closer, her face somewhat concealed by the dark shadow she seemed to carry with her, over her, examining me in particular, as her cohorts followed her—paying Mike little to no attention other than a quick glance towards him—my heart beating like a sledge-hammer.
I took advantage of the pause, and climbed up a few steps onto a ladder to see through an iron manhole overhead, through an opening in the iron lid, it was now a late hour in the night, it must have been, we had entered the sewers at 7:00 p.m., it was perhaps 11:00 p.m., now. Fumbling up the ladder my derringer fell out from my hand, which triggered a gloaming moment, the reeking foulness of the place, and blood-stained mouths of the rats jumped onto the danger, and cornered Mike.
The threatening yellow glitter from a dozen huge rat eyes blocked his passage to freedom, to the ladder anyhow. From where I stood these rats seemed strangely large: Mississippi Rats under this conservative city of St. Paul, unusually fierce. Mike was in some kind of whirling condition, in that his mind was closing down—I knew that from looking at him, and him looking back at me, it was as if the rats had mentally crashed through his baffled rage, and paralyzed him with this nightmare: and his body sank—his knees were as if he were drunk, he couldn’t remain erect, and he melted down in that corner like butter, and like a herd of piranhas, as if desperate to allow him to escape, they attacked him, as if they were picking, ripping rags apart. And they ate him up—just his bones, warm bones remained. And after that moment, I watched these human like rats, danced as if in a fiesta and were eating a fajita: they broke into a squealing vigorous merriment, of which it was ever my lot to listen to and observe. I feel inadequate to even tell this story, but they sang—I mean squealed, as if the leader was a heroine—I hope you can understand that now, as you have yourself observed, not only the rats per se, but the heaps of bones.
And there rests the horrible blood soaked buddy of mine—in the corner of the sewer, my youthful comrade, two years younger than I, and I was only fifteen at the time, there he lay, in this shapeless form. And still there, the rats were not content, now looking at me, advance with their discolored teeth, sharp as a butcher’s knife— gruesome murderers, turning one by one around to wait for me, and I said to myself, “I shall not give them the opportunity!” But should I fall, I was sure there would be no time for an outcry of help, like Mike, and my flash light was growing dimmer and dimmer, and the iron lid above me was very heavy, I remember.
Hence, I know for the rats—on their part, my death was settled upon; it was just a matter of time. I stole a glance or two down at the rats, then once up at the iron lid again above me, also took a glance at the heap of bones over in the corner.
The master rat said something to her followers, it was as if she said “Hurry up and surround the ladder, and capture him if he falls, and if he tries to climb it to escape onto the street, you three find a way out of here and go on top of the other side of the lid, and wait for him—if he pushes the lid onto the street—do what I told you to do…!” They weren’t stupid rats by far. For after she squealed whatever, that is what they did. Three rats hustled above the street dodging cars waiting for me to open the lid. And then I fell, and when I woke up, here I was, in this corner of the sewer, and that was twenty-five years ago—if you can read between the lines mister—I didn’t catch your name, whatever it is, I am the old man of the sewer, the rat master. And I can see in the distance, my little hairy friends are getting uneasy, it’s meal time.

No: 644 (7-14-2010) Dedicated to: Dalvir






The Seventh Hour after Sunset
((Part two of three) (1987))


I’ve been keeping a journal in the sewer system here, where I’ve been living for twenty-five years with the rats—the passing of those years was a slow horror—but the hour was at hand for things to change.
There are an incredible number of them here and throughout, let me tell you about one of them, the leader, actually she is the one that saved me from being the fancy of the others, meaning death—now so long ago. I call her Lilith, after the Queen of Hell—a she-devil in her own right; it was just two years ago, she was getting old, seated before us, me and a hundred rats, she was the queen, she was all hunkered down—meaning, settled down for the most part, retiring from her past battles, letting the others do her work for her: her hair was thinning in spots all over her body, her claws still complete, her eyes were as expected, fogy looking. The whiskers she once had were now nearly gone, pressed hard each night I suppose against the wet and dry sewage, but she had been queen a very long time in her life. We all looked at her as the one to fear the most; she was once a magnificent creature, a rat the size of a medium size dog, robust, a great size for a sewer rat. When I first saw her on that day where I was on the ladder trying to escape, she must had seen in me, confirmed in her the admiration I had for her, it changed her outlook on me, saved me, because I remember a shudder ran through each of my legs. Today her mouth and claws were smeared with blood, human blood—and I knew she wanted more. She knew also I no longer feared her as I once had, or did, nor the other rats—I mean, I might have escaped from their grips a few different times in the past, and I might not have, but I kind of lost hope in trying and accepted my lot in life, all the fear I had endured all these years, was gone for the most part, and her once hypnotic eyes no longer had their effect on me, that manifest itself when in those long meetings she had, I called them “Seventh Hour after Sunset,” meetings because when she wanted to instill her orders, or fear into everyone, with her hypnotic eyes, that was about the hour she called her meetings together.
Like most of the rats, I looked upon Lilith’s death as a means to an end, for me to become king. This day, after seeing her, and hearing a meeting was going to take place at the seventh hour after sunset, I didn’t know what was to follow, but I knew something was since she called this meeting, or gathering, my body chemistry told me so, she spoke in a faint voice to her comrades—I was always separated from those others, but now I knew how to translate her squeals, and body language, before she died she wanted to kill me, eat me, to prove to her kind she still had it—to become a legend among her own, but she wanted it to be a fair fight; and for no other reasons than that, for her kind to not interfere.
As she stepped down from her throne like cement step, into the pool of cold spring water, and slime in the dreary sewer complexity, that ran under the city like a giant cobweb, her paws stained in dry blood, she carefully examined my stance, nothing strange, she always did that before she attacked. My face fell as we faced one anther, it was at that ungodly hour, there was light throughout the sewer, not much but some, the authorities above had put in some lighting a few years back—sparsely throughout the sewer system. I had no knife, no weapon to speak of, but I had something for this occasion—and with the faint glow of the lights, I moved closer over to them, knowing I needed the light more than Lilith, now I felt better prepared to do what I hoped would again save my life.
Grave was the feeling within me. And my inner voice said: what are you going to do now, as if it didn’t already know, perhaps suspicion of what was coming, I mean, I had never really thought of it, not completely thought of it, and my second-self, that hidden person or voice within those deep chambers of each and every person’s mind on earth, we all have one or two or perhaps even three if indeed you have that kind of personality, was telling me to go over the plan, a sinking voice inside of me, but I had no time to, my face must have shown a pleading composure, because Lilith turned around to look at her comrades, as if to say: look at the distress I put on his face, I’m sympathizing but not for long with this fellow, our old human comrade, and before she turned back to look at me—completely look at me, face to face, shoulder to shoulder—or in this case my knees to her shoulders, with her flaming red and yellow eyes, full of indignation, before she did this, she seemingly discovered an unknown danger upon herself—felt it anyhow, and then when she made a half turn, I smiled I remember that smile so well because she met my eyes when I did that smile, her deadly yellow and red eyes, and her voice seemed far-away then—when she screamed that is, and only then did the horror of the whole thing burst upon her, there in the full sight of nearly five-hundred rats, the evil side of death jagged as it looked and as it came, this unviable human like, thinking animal figure, before all, saw death approaching—pained and alarmed—seeing in my right hand fire from a lighter I had taken off a dead body—one perhaps she gnawed on until the bones were cold, to this I pushed down on the side of it, in a second the wick was on fire, leaping towards Lilith, as I threw it on top of her—as if the fire itself had legs—the fire was solidly ablaze on her now: head to tail to her talons on her paws, and the area was rank with the smell of burning hair, and the five-hundred stepped back, in fear of being caught up in the little inferno, and now I could breath freely. And the Queen was no more.

No: 645 (7-15-2010)



Shrieked Horror
((Part three of three) (1967))


(From my Journal notes) It was the fifth year of my captivity in the sewers of the Midwestern City; it all seemed to me a dream within a dream. Nothing changed much in those years, but the worse sight that had met my eyes up to this point, was certainly beyond my reality. I think it was around the year, 1967, in the hot summer months, I had seen two teenagers exploring these old cascading caves that were used by the soldiers of the Civil War era to keep prisoners and so forth, and thereafter, as the sewer system, that ran from one city to the other, from: St. Paul, to Minneapolis. And I had seen these two teenagers, one a female the other a male, about fifteen-years old, exploring the maze, I kept hidden, but Lilith, followed them like a hawk, Lilith, the rat antagonist—the Queen rat, the one that saved me, and for what reason, I’ll never know.
The young blond girl, pretty as peacock, was tired, and took rest against one of the old wooden beams in the cave, put her purse behind the back of her neck as a pillow so that her spine was more erect, so it appeared. And she caught sight of Lilith, and somehow—like Lilith had done to me—put the girl in a comatose like trance. She was for the most part, partly frozen in time and space. Her boyfriend took no notice of it, no special expression on his face anyhow, and just kept walking about— aware of nothing, perhaps now a few hundred feet ahead of her, exploring. The warm blooded girl was breathing slowly, and Lilith patient as she can be, was cornering her, with her entourage of several huge rats, red haired rats. No fear no horror on her face, just a placid look of innocence—her eyes wide open staring into nothingness. Behind Lilith, another and another and another of Lilith’s army of rats showed up for the kill—perhaps twenty now. This is almost exactly where the boy got lost in the caves trying to find his way back, calling “Karin, Karin, where are you?” She never answered.
The teeth of Lilith were like heavy knives, leaf-shaped, as if to make a bigger and wider trench when she bites into a person. Thus, at that moment of striking this beautiful blond haired, fair skinned girl, with pigtails and all, she struck her flesh, but only the edge of her teeth went into her leg, kind of sideways like. As it was, her teeth didn’t cut through to the other side of the bone, and the girl jumped up, and out of her trance, blood was pouring out of her like Niagara Falls—she stood petrified but she could stand on both legs. Evidently, Lilith wanted to make one powerful bite, to break the leg into two pieces, so she’d collapse and be unable to run.
The wound of the girl, now in front of all those rats, was oozing with blood, with every pulsation of her heart, and it was staining her lower part of her dress and shoes and socks to no end. And now she was screaming, “Help, help, Brskine, help me.”
As I rose from my sitting position, between to rafters near the ceiling of the cave—I could see both her on one side and the boy on the other, I said to the boy, “Turnabout, take a left and another left, and you’ll be in front of her, grab that board behind you…!” And he did as I said.
Never shall I forget the look on her face when she saw her Brskine coming with a large board with nails in it swinging it everywhichway, and the rats rose from their paws—stunned faced, a strange picture indeed, and ran off to wherever but with a chuck of her leg. Then I heard him say, “I think there’s a ghost in those caves,” and he picked her up to carry her to the hospital, I expect, he did say—after putting a tourniquet on her leg, something on the order of: “We better get out of here to a hospital before you pass out, and lose all your blood,” because right after he said whatever he said, he picked her up and rushed out of the caves.

No: 646 (7-15-2010)

Warm Bones (a short story)

Warm Bones
((Part one of two) (1962))


The bones were still warm! But picked clean, and the rats were starting to chew out the marrow. As I stood there and looked at this human waste, and the gleaming eyes that were starting to surround me, and joked with my comrade—we had, Mike Reassert and I, we had climbed down into the city’s sewer system, made during the Civil War days, to find jewelry caught in drain pipes and so forth, not realizing the blazing eyes and numerous amount of rats that infested the sewer system, and had been following us. At this point, nearly lost in the sewers, we had half dozen rings, one with a big diamond in it. There were heaps of bones in several corners of the sewer system thus far we recognized. Human as well as rat bones: the rats that were following us from a distance, had a kind of old-fashion ferocity about them, a hoarsely squeal, and Mike and I had only flashlights, and a twenty-two caliber derringer with us, that shot one bullet at a time and we had three bullets to spare, plus the one in the chamber. There must have been several rats behind this one rat, the savage looking rat.
My first thought was—even though we were in danger—was to avert fear, accordingly— and I told Mike just to have a normal conversation with me—act nonchalantly, the derringer in my right hand, the trigger cocked. Waiting to seize a favorable opportunity to shoot the rat—the leader rat, if need be. Thus, we proceeded to check under another drain for jewelry. And finding nothing, the unholy face of the master rat came closer, her face somewhat concealed by the dark shadow she seemed to carry with her, over her, examining me in particular, as her cohorts followed her—paying Mike little to no attention other than a quick glance towards him—my heart beating like a sledge-hammer.
I took advantage of the pause, and climbed up a few steps onto a ladder to see through an iron manhole overhead, through an opening in the iron lid, it was now a late hour in the night, it must have been, we had entered the sewers at 7:00 p.m., it was perhaps 11:00 p.m., now. Fumbling up the ladder my derringer fell out from my hand, which triggered a gloaming moment, the reeking foulness of the place, and blood-stained mouths of the rats jumped onto the danger, and cornered Mike.
The threatening yellow glitter from a dozen huge rat eyes blocked his passage to freedom, to the ladder anyhow. From where I stood these rats seemed strangely large: Mississippi Rats under this conservative city of St. Paul, unusually fierce. Mike was in some kind of whirling condition, in that his mind was closing down—I knew that from looking at him, and him looking back at me, it was as if the rats had mentally crashed through his baffled rage, and paralyzed him with this nightmare: and his body sank—his knees were as if he were drunk, he couldn’t remain erect, and he melted down in that corner like butter, and like a herd of piranhas, as if desperate to allow him to escape, they attacked him, as if they were picking, ripping rags apart. And they ate him up—just his bones, warm bones remained. And after that moment, I watched these human like rats, danced as if in a fiesta and were eating a fajita: they broke into a squealing vigorous merriment, of which it was ever my lot to listen to and observe. I feel inadequate to even tell this story, but they sang—I mean squealed, as if the leader was a heroine—I hope you can understand that now, as you have yourself observed, not only the rats per se, but the heaps of bones.
And there rests the horrible blood soaked buddy of mine—in the corner of the sewer, my youthful comrade, two years younger than I, and I was only fifteen at the time, there he lay, in this shapeless form. And still there, the rats were not content, now looking at me, advance with their discolored teeth, sharp as a butcher’s knife— gruesome murderers, turning one by one around to wait for me, and I said to myself, “I shall not give them the opportunity!” But should I fall, I was sure there would be no time for an outcry of help, like Mike, and my flash light was growing dimmer and dimmer, and the iron lid above me was very heavy, I remember.
Hence, I know for the rats—on their part, my death was settled upon; it was just a matter of time. I stole a glance or two down at the rats, then once up at the iron lid again above me, also took a glance at the heap of bones over in the corner.
The master rat said something to her followers, it was as if she said “Hurry up and surround the ladder, and capture him if he falls, and if he tries to climb it to escape onto the street, you three find a way out of here and go on top of the other side of the lid, and wait for him—if he pushes the lid onto the street—do what I told you to do…!” They weren’t stupid rats by far. For after she squealed whatever, that is what they did. Three rats hustled above the street dodging cars waiting for me to open the lid. And then I fell, and when I woke up, here I was, in this corner of the sewer, and that was twenty-five years ago—if you can read between the lines mister—I didn’t catch your name, whatever it is, I am the old man of the sewer, the rat master. And I can see in the distance, my little hairy friends are getting uneasy, it’s meal time.

No: 644 (7-14-2010) Dedicated to: Dalvir

See "The Seventh hour After Sunset" for part two

The Cigar ((And the Great Flood of '51)(a short story, revised))

The Cigar

Mississippi Shantytown!
The Great Flood of ’51

For some odd reason Günter Gunderson’s mind started shifting into a different mode, he was at an old friend’s work place, at a party [dreaming]; he always liked a good cigar now and then, on special occasions that is, —and Molly, the secretary, asked him if he wanted one. He looked at her, said “Yes” in an inquisitive way, and to his misfortune, it was quite small. Bewildered he gave no response except, a shallow: “…thanks,” and went about and lit it. Then the old friend the one that mysteriously appeared, appeared one might say—out of nowhere, was sitting by him, he wanted to try the cigar, check it out, and smoke it a bit. But there wasn’t much, especially for both of them, and only nearly enough for him. Plus, there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room, and of course, you cannot share what you do not possess (he confessed to himself), and if there is a want or need, it is on the beholders side. Nonetheless, he hesitated, and looked stern into his face, his youthful face, a face that didn’t age like his, “I have an idea,” he comments to the old friend, “put the end of this cigar into your pipe, and then you’ll have enough to enjoy, and share.”
The mystic friend looked at him pleased, and just happened to have a pipe on hand, and pulled it out while Günter put the cigar—what was left of it anyways—into the barrel of the pipe, and gave it to his stranger-friend. As the friend smoked from the pipe he started to choke—Günter, started to choke, as if he was spitting up tobacco—yet it was his friend doing the smoking—and it was him spitting up the pieces of the cigar, or blood, something; his throat was choking on it anyhow, and it was burning—a raw like burning, a fatal burning sensation. His friend didn’t know what to do for him, so he told him, “...here, here take some water, swallow it quick, it’ll cool the throat, it’ll put out the flame,” and Günter did just that, and all was well for the moment—a very slight moment in fact.
Now, Günter walked away from the table, and its festivities, finding himself by the store next to the office party. He noticed cigars for sale, big cigars—, now he thinks: ‘Why didn’t Molly tell me they had big cigars here, instead of having me smoke this little one?’ thinking of course, it would have possibly solved the problem with him sharing his cigar and not causing the coughing. ‘Peculiar,’ he tells himself, ‘very odd indeed,’ yet it is left at that. Then the old man shook his head, told himself to stop daydreaming, rescue Jean-lee, his daughter. As he found himself opening up his eyelids, he was also spitting out water (he had already saved Jean-lee from her potential drowning, and had been drowning himself—matter-of-fact, he had been sinking deeper and deeper into the torrent waters of the Mississippi River, and had mentally let go for a moment, now with his head above water, his mind was reactivated to sensibility).


The Local Newspaper reads the follow day:

“Günter Gunderson, nearer to sixty now (born 1894); —a widower and friend to half the Irish, German and Italians in the city (WWII, Veteran), landowner with several rental properties in his name, along with some thirty-tenants, and father to only one daughter, Jean-lee Haigh, former—
has saved his daughter from the Levee flood of 1951, in the process he slipped on theroof of a shanty, and fell in himself, in the process, drowned.”

Notes: “The Cigar,” originally written 11-10-2003; revised, 8-6-2005, reedited 5/2007; reedited 10-2008: a chapter story from the writings: “Look at Me!” which was originally “Mississippi Shantytown” reedited 12-2009; reedited and revised, 7-14-2010.

Roman Polanski--it's enough!

Roman Polanski—it’s enough!




I’ve been hearing about the Polanski case for so long, what is the problem, just drop it. I mean this is not the only rape case in the United States, for gads sake, it’s getting sickening. He’s not the only rapist in the country, and if they wanted him, they had him, why did they give him bail, isn’t it just smart thinking on his behalf, get out of Dodge before you’re hung. Let me give you an example: when my daughter was ten-years old she got raped by three boys, one thirteen, one twelve, and one eleven: all at one time. I had the police get involved, and the court got involved, but the court could, or would not sentence any of the kids because they were under age, under fourteen-years old. To me, fourteen or forty, doesn’t make a difference, or ten to fourteen, doesn’t make a difference, we all know what we’re doing after seven years old—after formal reasoning, ask any psychologist. I tried to follow up on this case, in St. Paul, Minnesota, were it is evidently legal to rape if you are under fourteen years old. The follow up was like this: the juvenile court, the judge or overseer, said: the parents will go to counseling, along with the thirteen year old boy who was nearer to fourteen than thirteen, for one year, that is it, and I followed up on that, and the boy and family showed up one time for the counseling session, and never again, and the case was dropped and the police officer at the downtown police station in St. Paul said: “I can’t enforce that,” and the other two kids never seen the court house or anything other than their parents reprimand if indeed they even got that. And now we got a case where the government is spending millions of dollars and man-hours chasing an old man around the world for having sex with a thirteen year old girl that perhaps had more to do with it than she’s saying. What kind of a system is this—and we call it justice? If this isn’t blind justice, I don’t know what is. The old man has spent enough years dodging law, let him be, justice has been served.

What is Poetry? and Who is a True Poet?

What is Poetry? And who is A True Poet?


The Dictionary says: poetry, it is literature in metrical form. So if I do a sonnet and do it according to form, I’m a poet? Correct? Well, that is what the dictionary is implying, so I feel. I think it’s a little more than that. I think one need to take a step further out onto the dock, look down into the waters below, and feel your pulse increasing, that is poetry. Let me explain it a different way. Poetry is not about poetical talents or skill or meter per se, it can’t be, it’s too superficial, it can’t simply be about men in general either, it’s bigger than that, more involved than that. Poetry is of the true Poet—the one who can evoke the emotions inside of you—that is poetry and that is a poet. Take an audience and change them; produce an effect inside of them, with his poem, perhaps his verbal reading, expressions. That is poetry, and that is the poet, they are one, called: the True Poet.

Dennis L. Siluk July 11, 2011

World Cup Final--2010 (Spain Wins but...? Howard Webb! )

World Cup Final—2010: Spain Wins but… (With Help by Ref’s)

It is very sad, and most obvious to anyone watching the 2010 game of football, the World Cup final game, in Johannesburg July 11th. Every time you turned around the goofball referee was giving Holland a yellow card (and gave one red one), undeservingly. What kind of sportsmanship is this? It cheapens the game, and almost made me turn the television set off. You want your team to win, but win fair. I’m not saying Spain was not the better team, maybe they were, but now we’ll never know, or at least we’ll have to wait another four-years to see if they deserved it. They should not allow this Referee to participate in anymore World Cup Games. Why they allowed this to continue in the sight of a billion people on earth watching the game is beyond me, this one referee controlled the whole final game; and then got a medal to boot. I noticed the coach of Holland took his medal off as soon as he walked off the platform—good for him, he should have thrown it at the residing host’s face who gave it to him, I would have. And to be honest, Holland should have simply walked off the court and waited for a replacement, I doubt anyone would have complained about that, not even Spain.

Day of the Dead Horses (Revised chapter story, 2010)

Day of the Dead Horses
((A Day in the battle for Verdun, WWI, 1916) (A Shannon O’Day story))


The War and the Machine Gun Nest

(It is 1964; Shannon O’Day’s daughter Cantina is twelve-years old. She is with him for the weekend. They are out at Como Park, sitting along the banks of Como Lake. He often talks about the Great War with her, the one he was in as a young lad, and she always listens, but it is often a repeat, but nonetheless she listens to him, and today, Saturday, he is talking to her about it again, they have cool-aid and hotdogs, sitting on an Indian type blanket in the grass:)


Says Shannon to his daughter, Cantina (whose real name is Catherine O’Day, but he has called, a nickname), “I came, I saw, and I concurred, in the Great War…” then paused to look deep into her eyes, to see if she was really attentive, listening, “I was a man alone, like an island in the middle of the sea, entire of itself, like a continent, or part of one, that is how I felt in the war, especially in this one day of battle I had, and I had two days that were special in that 300-day battle—oh, perhaps more, but two that haunt me, one of victory, one of tragedy, both during the Battle for Verdun, in 1916, let me tell you about the first one, I call it ‘The Day of the ‘Dead Horses.’” She nods her head yes, up and down slowly, she’s heard it before, each time though she gets something new out of it, something he was fearful before of releasing, so she has learned to not show discontent for him bringing it up for the umpteenth time, she knows when his dead, gone forever, these will be her private stockpile photos of his trying days war and battle, ones he only shared with her, and only her.
Cantina knew—ever since he had come back from his war—some forty years ago, as Shannon called it, World War One, there was a since of duty that remained in him. As if he should have died, but survived for some reason.
She knows, but she can’t put it in words, verbal words that echo, she knows: He sees no hope for triumph in the long run for mankind, but finds he can live a full life in the hours God has left him, as those before him have, and those after him will—he even told her once: “When will all this useless suffering stop, suffering for the sake of suffering, suffering nothing just to show mankind what it looks like, feels like, and start suffering for a cause—the war I went to, there wasn’t a crisis over here in America, that’s called a cause, or a reason. We had to go across the Atlantic Ocean where they created a crisis, telling everyone, the cause or the reason, it was to stop the suffering of our friends, so we could suffer with them, because Germany couldn’t make us suffer over here, in America; so how do like those apples.”
She also knows—and, has told herself this in so many words (talking to herself, thinking but not saying thoughts to her second self), saying only those things that are pleasing to him, because, she knows, he doesn’t fear death or solitude, never has and he finds love is possible, but everything for him is so loosely netted—and it wouldn’t do no good to argue the point—why create hurdles. And those horse, those damn horses, and dead damned horses, he remembers them well—all to well, and all too often. And these are some of her thoughts as she is sitting on that Indian blanket out at Como Lake.
“What are you thinking?” asks Shannon to his daughter.
“The way you might be thinking.” She says back to her father, and it actually makes him smile, what daughter would try to understand a man like him, a good and fine daughter, that is who, he confirms this to his second self, ‘She doesn’t judge him,’ he tells himself, ‘How funny, everyone else does.’
And so on this day, in 1964, in the park, sitting on the Indian blanket, here is the story he tells Cantina, I shall tell it in my own words, as he tried to tell her in his, and so Shannon O’ Day started his story like this:


I was making my stand in a trench. I did not like this trench and when I saw it I thought it had a shape of a woman’s womb. But I had no choice this was the trench, and I selected it because it was as far away as a battlefield would allow it to be, away from the German artillery shells. But not as far away as the sound of automatic machine gun bullets could reach, banging away night and day, halting and then starting back up again, firing: our reactions at first were hesitant, uncertain, and then they’d fire again and again, to give my platoon of eleven men—me being number twelve, a nervous case of the jitters, and a light case of being shell-shocked.
There still was snow on the ground, frost for the most part, it had ruined the ground, made it muddy, chilled and hardened at night, when the sun sank, and when the horses came pulling wagons of supplies, jerking, and climbing, and staggering their way through the mud, and snow, hauling equipment, men pulling their bridles, and the rains pouring over their heads and shoulders, holding the horses by the mane, many had to be shot, and many got shot in the line of battle, and there they lay dead, where they fell, for the flies and the worms and the rats to feast on—hot guts pouring out of their stomach regions, warm blood burning and seeping into the soil.
The horses sometimes were used for barricades, if the battle took place within the timeframe allowed—and if the carcass were still plump, and not gutted by animals, and at times my men, as well as I, we shot over their bodies on occasions, their burnt hides, laying their with our hot muzzles on their dead flesh and firing at the enemy instead of within the trench, allowing at times for us to advance, knowing all that was behind us were empty trenches, in particular this one empty trench this day of battle, and so we used these dead horses, fifty shot in one day to advance from one point to another, giving, and this one day I had an idea, one that could take out that nest of machine-gunners, and give us some peace and quiet for awhile. Incidentally, did you know there were eight-million horses killed in World War One? (Catherine nods her head no.) I’ll bet you also didn’t know Germany and Great Britain each had a Calvary force of 100,000. (Catherine nods her head no, again.) Well in any case, this was the war to end all wars, but that was all bull, as we all know now. I mean we had WWII, and the Korean War, and now there’s something starting up in South East Asia again. Well before I get back into the story, I’ll just say, when we went over the top, we’d first chow down, go over the top and hit the deck and we never really expected to come back alive we figured the Germans would nail our coffin right there, we all figured we’d end up kicking the bucket, if you know what I mean? (And Catherine knew what he meant, by using all that war slang, especial, WWI slang, he used it so often in his war stories, she knew it by heart. Well, said Catherine “You’re not pushing up the daisies, correct?” trying to talk the same slang her pa was and he replied, “I’m not dead—right?” and then continued with his story :)
This day, this one early spring day—a humdinger of a day too, one of 300-days in the Battle for Verdun, in France, but a humdinger of a day nonetheless—an unusual day to say the least, once my eleven men had reached the enemy’s perimeter, now within pistol distance, there were several more horses laying dead thereabouts, we had succeeded in stealing foot by foot, to get to the edge of the enemy’s nest, and now behind those several horses we waited until night fall—I was so nervous I was almost a basket case—you know what I mean (“Almost going crazy” said Catherine.) yes, that’s it, and not knowing when the next shooting would start between them and us, and the enemy not knowing how close we really were, and how many had perished in the previous battle, which none had, we had ourselves a slight advantage, for the advance we were planning.
Of the twelve men, I included, we had reached the outer rim of the boarder where the enemy had their machineguns, two of my men were wounded—that ticked me off, Henry Sanchez and Elmer Boswell. Henry was from New Mexico a young lad of eighteen, and Elmer, was a man from Wisconsin, a son of a baker, he also was eighteen.
Henry had a leg wound, shot twice, in two places. And Elmer had an arm wound. All the men were very thirsty, and the wounds of the men were starting to stiffen, yet I, the only Corporal, and in charge was too close to victory to halt the operation—in the pink, as they say—it must go forward I told my men, wounds or not. Henry had told me his wound was very painful. And this brought on a severe annoyance to me—again it ticked me off, and I told the soldier, plainly told him, “You’ll have to endure the pain, or kick the bucket, because we’re not gong to stop now, and if you don’t shut up, I’ll put a sock in your mouth to boot, or if you have an aspirin, that might help, whatever you chose, make it quick, and if you can’t fight anymore, stay put, and if you can, continue to do as you were doing, but this is no longer debatable.”
It was no joke, reality, it was the mission first, not the men in particular, at this stage of the battle to be, and if nausea became deeper and deeper throughout the night for the two soldiers, they were considered no longer usable in battle and therefore, second in priority. That’s the way the Army thinks, the way we are taught, the only way to win a battle—what I didn’t want was a washout—I mean, I didn’t want to lose the advantage by retreating, giving up the ground we so dearly fought for.
I, along with the other nine capable men was spread out likened to the Little Dipper. Using the horses for cover, we simply waited; the horses were big like mounds linking the soldiers together like baseball bases, from one point to another, and we were ready and eager for the fight, to continue at our pace, we felt it was better than living night and day in those long trenches, cold and wet—rat infested trenches. I moved on my belly from one horse to the other checking my men to make sure they kept their steel helmets on, a few had bullet holes through them, a few had hammered them out, yet some of the edges were still unsmoothed.
When the shooting started at, 3:00 a.m., and all the helmets had been clapped, you could hear a few of those bullets banging against the helmets, and the heads inside of them swaying, the sounds were death sounds: mouth-draying sounds, spiting sounds, cracking sounds, mechanical sounds, machine-like sounds, desperation sounds, and then a final sounds—throaty voices saying, “No more, there are no more sounds from the nest!” Then when I looked inside the nest, they were all dead: all the Germans.
The dryness and fear I had in my mouth, and the agony in my gut, were on hold, as I looked in the nest among the bodies of the enemy, I had thrown in three grenades, men were laying flat on their faces, arms torn off, looking as if they were reaching—but reaching while unconnected to their bodies somehow, for more machinegun rounds I would expect.
I walked among the dead, I wondered, said to my second self my mind’s eye, or maybe my subconscious was talking to my awaken eye, who’s to say—maybe my subconscious was fed up, and just said—and I thought it when it said it: give it to him straight: ‘What were their last words inside their heads, their last thoughts, was it to one another, to the comrade next to them; to God, or their mothers or wives or perhaps children? Why am I not one of those dead?’
I said to Henry, as now he had taken and endured the pain, and simply held it at bay; he had ended up being part of the onslaught, now standing by my side I said, “It is better to die on your feet isn’t it, than on your belly? Rise and shine, we won the skirmish.”
Another man said in back of me, “Why should they die and not us?” He must have been reading my mind.
And of course, in days to come, that voice would die, in a trench, but I had no wisdom, or witty words for the older man, older than I by far, so I said not a word. But I was thinking—nonetheless, thinking, none of us kicked the bucket, none of us were pushing up daises, none of us got knocked off today, and in war you just live day to day: it’s early now, and soon would be first light, and I could take my men back to the General and tell him, if he didn’t already know, the machinegun nest was silenced, and we did it, and to give us all a three to seven day pass to Paris or someplace safe, and a good breakfast; and for Henry, the war was over, he’d go home, with or without the General’s blessings, and so was it for Elmer. And I’d get two replacements in a week or so.’
I looked around carefully, looked in back of me at the dead horses, in front of me at the machineguns, I looked at the mud where I had crawled, at the bodies I had killed, not one of my men died today, just two wounded, but this was a good day— so I felt, I knew there would be bad days also.

Note: Chapter one of four chapters (a Chapter Story); No: 412 (6-9-2009); reedited and revised slightly, 7-10-2010.
Originally named “Day of the Damned Horses” with all four chapters intact; as a single and revised story “Day of the Dead Horses”