Have Scythe. Will Travel

The train left another Station. One of a few between Normal Illinois and Chicago. As the train picked up speed it passed though the small town of Dwight. Anna watched as the houses passed, some where small one level ranch style affairs; brick, aluminum siding, that kind of thing. Some of the houses where older, cracks at the edges, Victorian styles. Anna liked those. The chipped paint, the creaky stairs, it all made her think of the history of the old houses. She thought about who lived in the houses years ago, she thought about how they died. Did her predecessor have to help any of them. Mr. Snickers meowed next to her. She she rubbed her gentle finger tips over his skull. He purred.
The undead where funny like that. A zombie couldn’t talk at all, while a skeleton, which lacked the fleshy tissue needed for vocalization, usually had a raspy cough of a voice, and a wraith or banshee could sing... it sing like Madonna when it wanted to. It really depended on how much power you wanted to invest in it. Mr. Snickers started out as a zombie. He had died while Anna was working. it was her second harvest and she thought the mark was a middle aged business man on a street corner. while she was waiting for the man to get hit by a bus, a random kitty, a cat actually, spotted her and kept trying to pounce after the laces of her etnies. She looked at the shoes, DOOM sown into the backs in cursive pink, it made her smile. As the man was about to walk into the path of a bus The cat bolted of past him. The sudden flash of little black feline startled the man to a stand still, and the cat, who now sat next to her on the train, caught the 215 out of the loop instead.
Anna was totally prepared for dealing with humans. eventually they would figure out what happened and would follow Anna to their judgment (assuming they didn’t get there on their own), but this was different.
Anna stopped her reminiscing as a man came up to the second level of the train. Anna watched him, so did Mr. Snickers. He looked like a college student, His baby blue graphic tee was about four sizes too small, which was impressive since he looked like he wore a small normally, and his aviator sunglasses reflected the sunlight coming in from the windows of the train. He walked up to the Anna’s and Mr. Snickers’ seats and looked down at them. not actually at Anna or Mr. Snickers but more at the seats themselves. The aviator sunglasses came down to reveal eyes that looked like they saw a big black spider stretching across both seats. The man looked further down the train and left to find a someplace more comfortable. Mr. Snickers nipped at Anna’s finger.
Anna thought back to that day in Chicago. After the cat died, Anna didn’t know what to do. She never thought that a cat would have to be shown the way across. She thought that was something only humans went through. While she sat their wondering whether or not she screwed up and why nobody gave her a manual for the job, the cat went back into it’s body and started walking around.
Anna got out of her seat to get a drink. She told Mr. Snickers to stay put so that no one tried to take their seats. He meowed agreeably. Anna walked up the isle toward the snack car. People look out their windows as she passed. Or they looked at their laptops. Anything not to look at the petite redhead carrying a giant scythe. Five seats from the back of the train car a man began leering at the cleavage of the woman next to him, she didn’t seem to happy.
Mr. Snickers was so cute, remembered Anna. His little zombie shuffle took him only a few feet before he suddenly realized that he wanted brains. With one eye hanging loose, and leaving a trail of blood he shambled up to the business man trying to get at what he had in his skull. When it happened, Anna wondered why she thought the feline zombie was so cute. Seeing the living dead cat pawing at his leg, the man panicked and ran out into the path of his wife’s humvey.
Luckily, he had no problem dying and Anna didn’t have to worry about him.
Anna remembered that since the Whole thing seemed so coincidental, she made up her mind then that she would keep the cat with her, that was when she named him Mr. Snickers, and turned him into a wraith. The process wasn’t easy by any means, first she had to strip the meat, and she had to take two days off of work, which wasn’t terrible because there where only two complications and both where in Seattle, and lets face it, she thought, Seattle could do with a couple days of excitement before she got to it.
Anna was now in the snack car and as usual nobody noticed her, so she went around the counter and helped herself to some of the sweet iced tea. “MMMM,” she hummed after her first sip of the tea passed her lips. The women behind the counter excused herself to go the bathroom, “I have to fix my makeup,” she said in a hurry. Anna stepped back around the counter and headed for her seat in the passenger car.
Anna remembered how surprised she was that she made her first wraith with no problem, She was so surprised that she thought to herself, “I don’t need a manual after all.” As Mr. Snickers’ little skeletal body rose, bones holding together, an ethereal smoke grew out of him until it solidified into a little Kitty sized black cloak. The whole thing was so cute, that Anna Picked up Mr. Snickers, and rubbed her nose against where his used to be, just like she planned to do once she got back to her seat on the train. Also, She thought, she would snuggle him as well.
Anna came back to her seat on the second level of the passenger car and looked down at Mr. Snickers. The cat gave it’s creator a curious look. Anna made her move.
“KITTY,” she yelled as she executed a heartfelt scooping up and snuggling, Anna sat back in her seat with Mr. Snickers’ standing on her lap with his little smoky ghost tongue licking her nose.
“I don’t feel a pull today Mr. Snicker’s, So I think we have the day off, “Anna said as she focused her attention out of the window. “Maybe, when we get to Chicago, we can take another train somewhere, or maybe well have a look around city.” She could feel Mr. Snickers’ bony feet pressed against her chest, she scratched the back of his neck.
Mr. Snickers Meowed softly.

Repeat After Me.

"Hey, Mom?" Julie walked down the stares, a curious look on her face, "Mom?"

"In here hun," Her mother called from the den, "You should see this." Julie's mother was watching TV. A psychic was telling the talk show host and a woman with a cartoon puppy on her shirt that the woman with the cartoon puppy on her shirt was having relationship problems. The Woman (puppy shirt and all) was shocked as she confessed that she hadn't had a steady relationship in years... in fact she hadn't been with a man since her husband left her... years ago.

"I seriously, can't believe that you buy into this," Said Julie.

Her mother didn't answer, but sipped her red wine while still watching the TV, "did you need something?"

"Yeah, I found this in the basement," Julie handed her mother a hard bound book, a round red stain was visible on the cover.

"Oh my god, I haven't seen that in year's, how did you find this," Julie's mother opened the pages of the book to reveal slightly smudged pen and pencil sketches.

"I had to get something out of the basement," probably better to keep vague, thought Julie. She came across the book while in the basement with Bill, her boyfriend. her shoulders blades were still sore from the concrete floor. Bill liked being on top.

"Are these your drawings?" Julie asked her mother, as she leaned against the love seat to look over her mother's shoulder.

Her mother nodded as she sipped her wine. "yeah, but I forgot all about these, I haven't seen it since we moved out of the apartment."

"I didn't know you could draw like that," Julie looked over her mother's shoulder as they flipped through the pages.

Her mother sighed, "Oh yeah, I used to love drawing, in high school I used to illustrate for the school magazine."

"I love this one," Julie pointed over her mother's shoulder, "It reminds me of the story I wrote."

"Which one, hun," Her mother said it almost as if she had no idea that Julie wrote.

"The one for class," She searched her mother's face for recognition, "I gave it to you and dad last week..."

"Oh, that reminds me," her mother said, "your father's working late again tonight and the home owners association is meeting here because the Pickinses have been running their sprinkler system at off hours, so can you go out in a bit and pick up drinks and snacks?"
Julie rolled her eyes, "yeah, no problem."

Her mother sipped her wine and went back to the book of sketches, "You know? When I was younger I wanted to be an artist."

"Seriously?"

"Uh huh," her mother flipped a page.

"Did you ever do anything with it?"

Julie's mother coughed a laugh, "No, I don't think it would've gone anywhere, plus art school would have taken me away from your father, and I didn't want that to happen."

"You gave up art school for dad?"

Her mother nodded, licking her lips, "Well, I loved you father, and I knew that I would never find something as good as what your father and I had again." Julia's mother sighed deep and flipped a few more pages. She stopped on a drawing of a middle aged Elizabeth Taylor snapping her finger, "I don't even think I would have been that great of an artist, I just did it as a hobby."
The conversation became quite. Only the sounds of psychics and TV talk show hosts could be heard with the occasional sound of swallowing.

"They're really great," said Julie walking out of the den and up the stairs to her room. Books filled a shelf in the corner and a hand full of scribbled notebooks sat on her desk next too her computer. She had a message from Bill:

Hey Babe,
Just got my room assignment for ill. State
WE"RE IN THE SAME DORM!!!! :-D
next year is gonna B great!
Call me, Luv U.

Julie smiled as she read the message and looked at the welcome folder from Illinois State University, the red bird mascot stood out from behind the university logo, and the tag line, "Spread the Red" seemed vaguely sexual to Julia. She just stared into the folder and then, without any reason that she could remember, she reached into her desk drawer, where she put it months ago, and pulled out an application to the University of Iowa. She began filling it out.

Office Without a View

Sarriel looked at the files on his desk. Today he had a new charge. This one was here for various wrong doings in the area of excess. Drugs, food, sex, religion, it didn't matter, they all ended up here. At least their files did. Sarriel was a clerk of assessment and recommendation, in the department of excesses (formerly called the department of gluttony and later changed due to the word becoming passe'). But Sarriel liked gluttony. The word was straight forward and easy to understand. Hell's legal attendants would argue that the word did not adequately convey the charges for which individuals where damned, because most souls perceived gluttony as pertaining only to the action of eating, while excess was more... universal.

Sarriel didn't get what the big deal was.

with a lazy sigh, Sarriel jabbed his pen tip into the bloody face, shaped like a bowl, that sat on his desk, and wrote his recommendations on the file. "subject has lead a life of self victimization. It is recommended that rehabilitation should consist of urging the subject to cater to the needs of others... for eternity," Sarriel was no longer sure why he even bothered to write eternity. As if anything else would have been recommended.

Sarriel spaced out looking at the clock. It was from the souls of procrastinators, and it told him he wasn't getting off anytime soon. Sarriel remembering his motivational poster's assurance that "if nobody worked the bellows, hell would freeze over."

"Hey, Afraim," he called over his cubicle wall, where he heard a repetitive bumping, " what are you doing."

"Working," came the casual voice of the demon.

Afraim was actually bouncing a crusher, a ball made from the soul's of the slothful, against the wall of his cubicle. It had something to do with idleness. Sarriel slid his chair in behind Afraim.

"What the hell are we doing here?"

"Well, if the pain monster comes around, I'm working."

"That's not what I mean, when I came down here, I thought we were gonna fashion a new destiny for ourselves, It's all Lucifer ever talked about. So when he marched against ... the throne, I was right there next to him."

"Next to him?" Afraim was considering a heap of lint that he had pulled from his belly button before he wiped it under his chair, "nobody marched next to The Light Bringer, he was out in front the whole time, ahead of all of us."

"You know what I mean, at least I was in rank, and I pushed to the front, you might not have seen that from the back."

"Hey, I provided a pivotal support function... I served as the back end of the bell curve, and made all of you look much more fierce."

"Whatever," Sarriel primmed his horns, "what I'm saying is that we came down here to be master's of our own destinies..."

"I came down so I didn't have to deal with all the singing," said Afraim.

Sarriel shook his head, "look at where we are, all I do all day is recommend standardized punishments for the damned, why the hell am I doing this."

"Page fifteen of the department handbook," Afraim announced with as much pride as could be mustered without any effort, "'by punishment we extract vital energy from the sinner.' We have to keep this place running," Afraim chucked the crusher, it hit a jagged spike on the lip of the cubicle wall and stuck there. It let out a quite scream.

"Ouch," laughed Afraim, "that has to hurt."

"I'm not even a demon of Gluttony..."

"Excess," reminded Afraim.

"You know I've never even been to earth, and everyday I have to hear about these guys who are up there everyday."

"Like who," asked Afraim, getting his crusher down.

"You know, the demons up there," Sarriel pointed to the ceiling, "fighting the fight, encouraging sin; getting to sin. Every day they get paid to do what I MIGHT be able to do for two weeks out of the century, if i can afford it. Which I can't," Sarriel let out a deep sigh, "how did they get that hook-up?"

Afraim shrugged his shoulders and tried to spin the crusher on the tip of one of his talons, "Luck I guess. Right place, right time, probably new the right demons, too."

Sarriel shook his head, "yeah, and I'm stuck here, you know I got passed up for promotion again," Sarriel waited for Afraim to nod, "I work just as hard as anyone here, I work harder than you," Sarriel jabbed a finger at the flab around his belly, considering how out of shape being at this job was making him "Anyway, I have to get back to work."

" 'Kay," Afraim shook the absent stare from his face, "you gonna be alright?"
"I'll be fine, it just feels like I'm never gonna get out of here," Sarriel slid back to his cubicle.

As he got back to his desk he heard Afraim mutter, "Isn't that the point."

Descending the Harmonic Minor

One
two
three
four

“We used to open for Styx, this had to have been over thirty years ago,”

G Em
Grace Cathedral hill, all wrapped in the
C
bones of a setting sun, all dust and stone and

moribund.


“Here try it like this,”
I can’t get the bar chords. I've had lessons with Glen for six months now and I still can't get bar chords as well as I should. The song starts easy enough but the second we get to the F Major my strings fret out. I just have to press harder. The wall at the back of the guitar studio Is filled with the past, God knows how many, years worth of Guitar World Magazines. While Keith Richards and Flea, stare at me from there issue covers, I wonder... I don’t want to think about it.
“You just have to practice more,”
I nod.
“Well that’s all for today, and do you have this months payment,”
I hand over fifty six dollars.
“See you next week.”
It dawns on me as I walk past the poster of his old band "WaaZoo" that, despite the fact that he will be making money off me, a man as Passionate as he is about his art must hate teaching me.

“our name was WaaZoo, and we toured with Styx in our last year,”

D
I paid twenty-five cents

To light
D7
a little white candle
G
for a New Year's Day.

The the towers of St. Mary's Basilica, are graceful spires overlooking the great square of Old Town Krakow. Every hour you can hear the Hejnal trumped from the taller of the Basilica's two towers. It ends abruptly on it's broken note, to commemorate the Trumpeter of Krakow, Shot through the throat by, of all things, a Mongol arrow.
Here the city is all a bustle with tourists, street performers, and Polish nationals out shopping or working in the many modern locals operating within building over 500 years old. A traveler might focus on the gothic architecture of the buildings and laugh at the name of the tavern "Under the Ram" until stumbling face first into an American who could have starred in a National Lampoon movie. I pretend to not speak English as he asks me where his kids can get a hotdog. If he did know that I spoke english he would want to talk to me, and tell me how strange Polish people are because they don't speak english, and I wouldn't want him to have to explain to his children what a douche bag is.
I head west, behind St. Mary's Basilica. Here things are quite, only a few people, a couple taverns, and a small fountain. Polish taverns will serve you beer with a little raspberry syrup in it, unless you say no. They also have a shot, it’s name translates into Rabid Dog, and it’s a double shot of vodka, half shot of raspberry syrup, and a few drops of tabasco sauce... it’s deliciously violent going down.
When the sunlight is trying to cascade down the buildings but only actually makes it half way from the southern wall of the cathedral to to the table that your sitting at outside of the tavern, your probably better off drinking hot tea with the shot of cream liqueur. Here the sound of the come and go of the great square is turned to a soft mumble by the old buildings, and tight roads amplify the echos from within. Further down two men are playing guitars. two nuns stop in an archway whispering to one another. The players' facial stubble blurs what might be a tan with what might be dust from across Europe. I sit back, fill my pipe...

(RECORD SCRATCH)

“dude you smoke a pipe?”
“yea, since, like, junior year in high-school, now stop interrupting,”

(and spin)

“why did you guys stopped touring?”

Em
I sat and watched it

burn away
C
Then turned and

weaved through the

slow decay.

"Just practice hammers and pulloffs for ten minutes each day."
I’m catching on quick, as always, but then I just hit a wall. I don’t want to tell him that I’m playing video games instead of practicing, “I’m piled under with homework,” (final Fantasy IX has gripping story).
Why can't I focus, I ask myself. After a year of lessons with someone as good as Glen I should be far more advanced than i am now. When I hear the CD all I can think about is being on stage again, Screaming death metal, at a crowd, but even then I’m not playing guitar, I only do that when I hear classical music, and those dreams don’t involve crowds. We’re not working on that same song anymore, I just hope the F major doesn’t come up again. As he explains to me that I all it takes is is an hour each day, pick five fingering techniques, do each for ten minutes and then work on a song for ten minutes. I wonder... I don’t want to think about it.
I want to be a musician. I know I do, don't tell me I can't. When I picked up the guitar I was better than most of my friends who were in bands... but I don't get any better, I play, but I should practice.

“Well, we actually were offered a record deal with Geffin”

D
I paid twenty-five cents

To light
D7
a little white candle.


The pipe smoke rolls inside my mouth like an intangible word, a word I don't want to let out. I inhale for a second, it’s something you know you shouldn’t do. the buzz comes on. I let the smoke fly... I watch as the wind between buildings is exposed for it’s shape as the smoke disperses and twirls into the ethereal to mingle it’s matter with the notes played by the guitar players.
The Streets of Old Town Krakow are cobbled. Back out toward the city square and the front of the Basilica, I hear the clop of horse hooves as carriages are being pulled. A few people are ushered out of the double doors at the back of the church, they shake hands and hug and walk down the street. Before the priest can close the door, a hint of incense permeates the aroma of burning tobacco. Sweet and bitter mix beneath the eyes of gargoyles and cherubs who are hiding among the moulding that adorns the gray, tan, and brown facades of the buildings.
I put the finishing touches on the drawing of a stone angel on the wall of the cathedral, it’s not perfect, but its good enough. Who is this angel? where did he come from what’s his story. the guitarist play their classical style, mixed with Polish folk. I can’t even imagine what how they move their hands. “there’s something in my I, but I’ll be fine,” I can’t play like that.

“But I decided that I didn’t want that, touring wasn’t in me, I wanted to teach, and I wanted to be in chicago. I didn’t want somebody telling me that there wasn’t any money in modern classical, I felt bad leaving the band, but it wasn’t what I was meant for, and I could have done it, but I wouldn’t have been happy with it. So, I teach, and I play on the weekends at bars to help with some of the bills, and I like it.”

C G
And the world may belong
Em
for you,
C G
but he'll never belong
Em
to you.

I’m leaving for Poland in a week, death metal is blasting in the car as I’m driving through the Chicago South Side. I know the shop isn’t too far out of my way so I take a detour. It’s still there “... Guitar Studios,” I haven’t talked to him in five, I think it was five, months, about one month after he told me about leaving "WaaZoo", I miss the lessons and I miss talking with him, but I’m usually too busy to stop in and when I do, he’s giving a lesson. I drive past, “oh well,” I think, “maybe another day.”

“Hey, things are getting busier, I think I’ll have to stop taking lessons for a while, but I want to thank you, you’ve been the best teacher I’ve ever had.”

C
But on a motorbike,
Cm
when all the city lights
D D7
blind your eyes tonight


I take a drag of the pipe, and finish off my tea. I will never be able to play like those two, it isn’t in me.

C D
Are you Feeling better now? ....
G Em
Are you feeling better now?
G Em
Are you feeling better now?