I Write Short Stories
"The Forsaken"
-The fire had started long before there was actually any flame. From deep down within my soul, within my very being… A spark from hell, dark clouds of smoke in my brain.
Some say I was gifted, others say I was cursed. Which is true, you will have to decide for yourself. I know that it was neither. It was not a curse, nor fate, nor a gift from God. All I know is that it just happened, and it happened to me. This is my story, I believe it to be true, but the question is-
Will you?
I was five years old when JFK was killed. I don’t remember much about him as President, I just remember his death. My brother’s birthday was Thursday, and President Kennedy was killed the next day, Friday, November 22nd, 1963. Everybody was crying, and I remember the name of the man who shot him- Oswald. I had told my mother that I had seen him before the shooting. I told her I even knew where he lived. Of course, she brushed it off, not believing me, saying that I had been watching too much TV and what a big imagination I had. That was all that was ever said about that subject again.
When I turned ten, I had an unexpected visitor at my birthday party. He told me his name was James Earl. Nobody knew he was there, except me. He told me he had a special gift for me, but that I couldn’t have it until the spring. “Just you wait and see,” He told me.
That next spring, I had forgotten all about my surprise birthday visit from a crazy man named James Earl. It was Thursday, April 4, 1968, and I had just finished doing my homework and sat down for dinner, my favorite, Mac & Cheese. My mother was just preparing my bowl and my daddy was watching TV when a news bulletin came across the screen. There was utter chaos, reporters shouting questions, flashing cameras. There had been another shooting, another assassination- It was a famous black man named Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. They had a man in custody, and they said his name- James Earl Ray.
As the policemen were taking him to jail, they were again mobbed by reporters trying to get details about his arrest. One of the reporters asked something about what James Earl had said at the time of his arrest. He had madly uttered only two words: “Happy Birthday!”
Later that summer, in early June, 1968, my family took a vacation out west. We hit all the hotspots; Sturgis, SD. (saw the Hell’s Angels,) Yellowstone, (saw more Hell’s Angels,) The Grand Canyon, (The Hell’s Angels must be a Big motorcycle club,) Las Vegas,(saw Elvis,) Yosemite, and finally, San Francisco.
Our main reason in San Fran. was to see a family friend, a Catholic Priest, whose name was Father Cause. (Really, I’m not bullshittin’ you) He was going to take us out to dinner at the famous Chinese Restaurant, but unfortunately, it was booked. Some Senator was there for the evening, and it was impossible to get within 50 yards of the place. We headed to another famous spot he knew, just down the hill on the bay.
While walking down, we happened by a strange fellow; a crazed man in tattered clothes, wild, un-kept hair, and eyes that burned through me- eyes that I had seen before. “Hey man! Eastwood’s down at the theater!” He said through rotten teeth and foul breath. We all assumed that he was referring to a movie that Clint Eastwood was in, but we were wrong. At the bottom of the hill, in shadows cast by a cluster of movie lights, was a tall, lanky man who could only be the famous movie star himself. We stood in the midst of a small crowd that had gathered and watched Clint Eastwood climb off a Policeman’s Harley Davidson, and the Director said, “Cut, that’s a wrap!” The crowd clapped and cheered as Mr. Eastwood ducked into a film crew bus.
Within the crowd, I noticed “The Crazy Man” again. He had on a torn, white shirt with a repetitive phrase on it. He was only a few feet away, and he looked right into my eyes- and for a moment, I thought I was going to pass out. He said something to me, but I was so dazed, that I didn’t quite catch it. Then, he said it again, “Happy Birthday!” Then, he was gone. I felt dizzy and sick and I sat down on the curb to catch my breath. My mom noticed me and told my dad to get me back to the hotel, so we all got into a Trolley Car and started up the steep hill. Father Cause got out half-way up to go get the car, telling us he’d meet us at the top.
We started up again, when I notice my “Crazy” friend again. He sat at the rear of the trolley, his face covered by his long matted hair. I continued to stare at him, fascinated by his un-kept appearance. Never had I seen such a man. We had almost reached the top of the hill, when all of a sudden the trolley car stopped going up-hill and forward, and instead, started rolling backward- back down the steep hill. Its speed increasing, everybody started to panic and they were screaming for the conductor who was in the front of the trolley.
“The Brakes are in the back!” He screamed as he fought through the crowded car to get to the rear and to the brakes. Everybody watched in horror as the trolley plummeted down the hill wildly, heading for a very busy intersection. It all happened so fast, yet to me, it was all in slow motion. Just before the conductor reached the brake lever, “The Crazy Man,” who was sitting calmly in the rear, got up and made his way towards me. The conductor hit the brake lever just in time to stop the trolley before it would have slammed into a passing Limo. “The Crazy Man” was in my face, his foul breath hissed at me in a whisper- “Son-of-a-bitch! We were all just fine, till the priest got off!”
The next night, we had just returned from a late Mass and had sat down at the table at Father Cause’s when he got a phone call. He listened only for a brief moment, then hung up and went to the TV, and flicked it on.
“BULLETIN! This just in- Senator Robert Kennedy has just been shot! Let’s switch to our correspondent live in LA.”
“My God! It appears that shots rang out – just moments ago- Senator Kennedy has been shot! Senator Kennedy has been shot! Oh my God! That man’s got a gun! Get that gun! Break his hand if you have to!”
The News reporter was pushed into a frenzied crowd that had wrestled down the gunman, and gotten the gun away from him. As policemen subdued and cuffed him, they picked him up off the ground- Through his bloodied face, and his matted hair- were those nightmarish eyes that I had seen the night before- the eyes of “The Crazy Man.”
The news cameras were concentrating on Senator Kennedy, as he lay dying on a cold floor in an L.A. hotel kitchen- His head in a pool of blood. My mother was crying, saying over and over- “Oh my God, not again! Not Again!” We watched the TV for what seemed like hours, the news coverage non-stop. There was an official news conference when they announced the death of Senator Robert Kennedy. The identity of the assassin was a man by the name of Sirhan Sirhan.
Crazy. It was all so crazy.
-Kelly.
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-The fire had started long before there was actually any flame. From deep down within my soul, within my very being… A spark from hell, dark clouds of smoke in my brain.
Some say I was gifted, others say I was cursed. Which is true, you will have to decide for yourself. I know that it was neither. It was not a curse, nor fate, nor a gift from God. All I know is that it just happened, and it happened to me. This is my story, I believe it to be true, but the question is-
Will you?
I was five years old when JFK was killed. I don’t remember much about him as President, I just remember his death. My brother’s birthday was Thursday, and President Kennedy was killed the next day, Friday, November 22nd, 1963. Everybody was crying, and I remember the name of the man who shot him- Oswald. I had told my mother that I had seen him before the shooting. I told her I even knew where he lived. Of course, she brushed it off, not believing me, saying that I had been watching too much TV and what a big imagination I had. That was all that was ever said about that subject again.
When I turned ten, I had an unexpected visitor at my birthday party. He told me his name was James Earl. Nobody knew he was there, except me. He told me he had a special gift for me, but that I couldn’t have it until the spring. “Just you wait and see,” He told me.
That next spring, I had forgotten all about my surprise birthday visit from a crazy man named James Earl. It was Thursday, April 4, 1968, and I had just finished doing my homework and sat down for dinner, my favorite, Mac & Cheese. My mother was just preparing my bowl and my daddy was watching TV when a news bulletin came across the screen. There was utter chaos, reporters shouting questions, flashing cameras. There had been another shooting, another assassination- It was a famous black man named Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. They had a man in custody, and they said his name- James Earl Ray.
As the policemen were taking him to jail, they were again mobbed by reporters trying to get details about his arrest. One of the reporters asked something about what James Earl had said at the time of his arrest. He had madly uttered only two words: “Happy Birthday!”
Later that summer, in early June, 1968, my family took a vacation out west. We hit all the hotspots; Sturgis, SD. (saw the Hell’s Angels,) Yellowstone, (saw more Hell’s Angels,) The Grand Canyon, (The Hell’s Angels must be a Big motorcycle club,) Las Vegas,(saw Elvis,) Yosemite, and finally, San Francisco.
Our main reason in San Fran. was to see a family friend, a Catholic Priest, whose name was Father Cause. (Really, I’m not bullshittin’ you) He was going to take us out to dinner at the famous Chinese Restaurant, but unfortunately, it was booked. Some Senator was there for the evening, and it was impossible to get within 50 yards of the place. We headed to another famous spot he knew, just down the hill on the bay.
While walking down, we happened by a strange fellow; a crazed man in tattered clothes, wild, un-kept hair, and eyes that burned through me- eyes that I had seen before. “Hey man! Eastwood’s down at the theater!” He said through rotten teeth and foul breath. We all assumed that he was referring to a movie that Clint Eastwood was in, but we were wrong. At the bottom of the hill, in shadows cast by a cluster of movie lights, was a tall, lanky man who could only be the famous movie star himself. We stood in the midst of a small crowd that had gathered and watched Clint Eastwood climb off a Policeman’s Harley Davidson, and the Director said, “Cut, that’s a wrap!” The crowd clapped and cheered as Mr. Eastwood ducked into a film crew bus.
Within the crowd, I noticed “The Crazy Man” again. He had on a torn, white shirt with a repetitive phrase on it. He was only a few feet away, and he looked right into my eyes- and for a moment, I thought I was going to pass out. He said something to me, but I was so dazed, that I didn’t quite catch it. Then, he said it again, “Happy Birthday!” Then, he was gone. I felt dizzy and sick and I sat down on the curb to catch my breath. My mom noticed me and told my dad to get me back to the hotel, so we all got into a Trolley Car and started up the steep hill. Father Cause got out half-way up to go get the car, telling us he’d meet us at the top.
We started up again, when I notice my “Crazy” friend again. He sat at the rear of the trolley, his face covered by his long matted hair. I continued to stare at him, fascinated by his un-kept appearance. Never had I seen such a man. We had almost reached the top of the hill, when all of a sudden the trolley car stopped going up-hill and forward, and instead, started rolling backward- back down the steep hill. Its speed increasing, everybody started to panic and they were screaming for the conductor who was in the front of the trolley.
“The Brakes are in the back!” He screamed as he fought through the crowded car to get to the rear and to the brakes. Everybody watched in horror as the trolley plummeted down the hill wildly, heading for a very busy intersection. It all happened so fast, yet to me, it was all in slow motion. Just before the conductor reached the brake lever, “The Crazy Man,” who was sitting calmly in the rear, got up and made his way towards me. The conductor hit the brake lever just in time to stop the trolley before it would have slammed into a passing Limo. “The Crazy Man” was in my face, his foul breath hissed at me in a whisper- “Son-of-a-bitch! We were all just fine, till the priest got off!”
The next night, we had just returned from a late Mass and had sat down at the table at Father Cause’s when he got a phone call. He listened only for a brief moment, then hung up and went to the TV, and flicked it on.
“BULLETIN! This just in- Senator Robert Kennedy has just been shot! Let’s switch to our correspondent live in LA.”
“My God! It appears that shots rang out – just moments ago- Senator Kennedy has been shot! Senator Kennedy has been shot! Oh my God! That man’s got a gun! Get that gun! Break his hand if you have to!”
The News reporter was pushed into a frenzied crowd that had wrestled down the gunman, and gotten the gun away from him. As policemen subdued and cuffed him, they picked him up off the ground- Through his bloodied face, and his matted hair- were those nightmarish eyes that I had seen the night before- the eyes of “The Crazy Man.”
The news cameras were concentrating on Senator Kennedy, as he lay dying on a cold floor in an L.A. hotel kitchen- His head in a pool of blood. My mother was crying, saying over and over- “Oh my God, not again! Not Again!” We watched the TV for what seemed like hours, the news coverage non-stop. There was an official news conference when they announced the death of Senator Robert Kennedy. The identity of the assassin was a man by the name of Sirhan Sirhan.
Crazy. It was all so crazy.
-Kelly.
