Legos On the Loose

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By Ed Staskus

   Adam was a worm, at least he was until the day he became two worms. What happened was that Monk Kennedy, when he was digging up his stolen jewels where he had hidden them at the back of a barn on Doyle’s Cove, sliced Adam in half with his Army General Entrenchment shovel. It was commonly used to dig latrines, but worked for treasure hunting, too. He didn’t know he was doing it when he did it. Adam never knew what hit him. When it happened, even though he didn’t have ribs to speak of, the two new parts of him became Eve and Elvira. It was a Two for One Special.

   He took a deep breath, breathing through his skin, and tried to make the best of it. His breathing was shallow getting over the shock, even though he didn’t have lungs. Adam’s biological make-up was like a cylindrical tube-in-a-tube. There are more than  6,000 species of earthworms. He  was a Canadian Nightcrawler. His face looked the same as his rear end. He didn’t have arms or legs. All worms have both male and female private parts. He was a kind of rain worm. He thanked his lucky stars he wasn’t an angleworm, who are destined to become fishing bait. 

   Fishermen on the island stuck worms on a hook, under a bobber, or on a weighted rig. Some anglers balled them up on a hook to improve their odds. Others threaded them to make them look more natural. It amounted to brutality against worms. Adam wanted to know why there wasn’t some kind of  International Criminal Court to deal with the horror.

   Times could get tough for worms in an instant. Everybody remarked about the good luck of the early bird but never the bad luck of the early worm. The bird got breakfast. The worm became breakfast. Almost half of every Robin’s diet was made up of worms. Adam’s one consolation was that God gave every bird its due but at least didn’t throw it into the bird’s beak. His other consolation was that worms were going to inherit the earth. The unbroken circle was worm to frog, frog to snake, snake to pig, pig to man, and all men and women, sooner or later, back to worms.

   Eve and Elvira wanted to thank Monk, but the words wouldn’t come. By the time they thought of something to say, Monk was gone on his Havoc motorcycle, the stolen jewels hidden in his saddlebags. He had lifted them from a store in the Charlottetown Court Mall where he had swapped worthless cubic zirconia for diamonds. He was a sleight of hand man. The worms looked around for him, wanting to wave goodbye, except they didn’t have eyes to see or hands to wave. They wiggled and began to burrow back into the ground. It was what they did best. They squinted as they worked, the morning light hurting their eyes.

   They didn’t have eyes, but they could sense light, especially at their front end. They might become paralyzed if exposed to light for too long, so they stayed in the shade more often than not. It was bad enough that rats, toads, and birds were always eating them. They couldn’t eat all of them, though. There were up to a million of them in every acre of land. By Adam’s calculations there were about one trillion four hundred billion worms in the ground on Prince Edward Island, plus one more now that he had been split into two.

   They were good for the island’s well-being. They supported plant growth in multiple ways, building good soil structure, assisting in water capture, and churning organic matter so that nutrients became more available to plants. The National Science Foundation said they were responsible for 7% of global grain production.

   They tunneled into soil and brought subsoil closer to the surface mixing it with topsoil. Their slime contained nitrogen, which is an essential nutrient for plants. The sticky slime helped to hold clusters of soil particles together in a form called aggregate. It was hard work, straining their five hearts, but since they breathed through their skin, they never ran out of breath. They were always eating and digested what amounted to most of their body weight every day,

   After Eve and Elvira joined the worm world Adam told them they had joined a world that was older than dinosaurs, who were around 230 million years ago before a giant asteroid put them out of commission. Worms went back 600 million years. A giant asteroid might have killed all the big dinosaurs way back when, but the little worms shrugged it off and kept on churning.

   Whenever they went underground they liked going six feet deep, creating permanent tunnels in which to shelter. They had heard some worms went exploring two miles deep. No worms ever slept, especially not the ones trying to get to the center of the earth.

   “Did you know the famous scientist Charles Darwin spent almost 40 years studying worms ?” Eve asked Elvira.

   “No, I didn’t know that. Why did he spend so many years studying us? I mean, we are as simple as radishes.”

   “It may be doubted whether there are many other animals which have played so important a part in the history of the world, as have those lowly organized creatures, the worms,” Charles Darwin said.

   “Lowly? That’s an insult,” Elvira sniffed. If Charles Darwin had still been alive, she might have sent her South African cousins after him, even though they lived 20,000 kilometers away. She had never seen or talked to any of them, but had heard they could grow to be as long as 10 feet long. He would have to take the “lowly” crack back or the big squeeze would be coming his way. 

   Whenever anybody on Prince Edward island complained to Adam about there being too many worms, he always told them, “Life is hard. Then you die. Then they throw dirt in your face. Then the worms eat you. Be grateful it happens in that order.”

   Worms weren’t the fastest creatures on the island. They wiggled like geriatric go-go dancers to get anywhere. They were just about the slowest moving things on the island. They could go as far as 150 feet a day if they kept it up all day, although no worm could keep it up all day. They were always stopping to eat and poop. They stopped for rest and recreation when they weren’t eating or pooping. When Eve and Elvira looked around, poking up out of the ground, they saw a storm coming. It looked like a whopper.

   Rain hitting the ground usually made worms think moles were after them. When that happened they made a beeline for the surface. But they were near enough to the surface  of the ground already, so they weren’t worried about any moles. When soil got soaked was when it was express time for worms. A soaking rain enabled them to move quickly and gracefully over the ground. Eve and Elvira slithered to the crest of the croplands sloping up from the barn. From there they had a good view. They looked down on Doyle’s Cove, where ocean waves were hurling and breaking themselves to pieces on the shore. The sky had gone dark in the middle of the day.

   “I hope the man who made us what we are doesn’t get soaked riding on his motorcycle,” Eve said. She felt like they owed him a debt of gratitude.

   “Some men ride in the rain, others just get wet,” Elvira said, somewhat mysteriously.

   “Rain is always wet, but who am I to judge?” Eve said.

   “I wonder what kind of man the man who created us is?” Elvira asked.

   “I think he is going to be a hangdog soon enough,” Eve said as the rain got colder and harder. “Money can’t buy happiness. Anybody who flashes their bank roll to buy it is putting his money on a can of worms. Better to find someplace dark and damp that has got plenty of coffee grounds.” All worms loved coffee grounds. It put pep into their accordion-like crawl.

   “Amen to that, sister.”

Illustration by Everett Schaser.

“Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

Coming of age in the rough and tumble of the 1960s and 1970s. A collection of street level stories set in Cleveland, Ohio.

Available on Amazon:

A Crying of Lot 49 Production

Melon Heads

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By Ed Staskus

   Oliver and Emma were standing at the side of the road looking up at a sign. it was a road sign for Wisner Rd., which was in Geauga County, next door to Lake County where they lived. They were in Geauga County for the annual Maple Festival, which included rides and concessions, a lumberjack competition, and a parade through Chardon Square. Ricky & the Rockets played classic rock favorites on the Entertainment Stage.

   It was Sunday morning. Sunshine had been rumored since the  festival opened on Thursday. It had finally shown up. They had breakfast in the Pancake Tent and were looking forward to seeing Swifty the Clown, Jungle Terry, and the Grand Parade later on. In the meantime, they were  on Wisner Rd. waiting to high-five their father running in the five mile Sap Race.

   “They’re going to be coming right by here, right?” Olver asked. 

   “That’s what the map says” Emma said.

    “After that we’ll go looking for the Melon Heads.”

   “What if we find them?”

   Oliver pulled a homemade ray gun out of his pocket.

   “Did you ever get that thing to work?”

   “Sort of.”

   “That’s better than nothing.”

   After finishing their buttermilk pancakes, and while walking through Chardon Square, they saw a man at a booth selling a book called “Monsters of Ohio.” The man was J. C. Raphael. They stopped at the booth.

   “Are there any monsters around here?” Oliver asked.

   “There are the Melon Heads,” J. C. Raphael said. ‘If you go just a little ways down the road, you get to Wisner, which is sort of the epicenter of the legend. If you ask anyone in Geauga County about Melon Heads, they’ll have at least a story or they’ll know someone who has searched for them personally. I think there’s something exciting about that.”

   The Melon Heads were once children. A Geauga County doctor by the name of Dr. Crow had started treating some of them after World War Two. He lived in the woods off Wisner Rd. where he had a small institute. The children he treated had water on the brain. The large pockets of water in their brains made their heads look like melons. 

   The children lived with Dr. Crow. Nobody else wanted them. They were ostracized because of their big heads. Families, orphanages, and local authorities sent children to him. He studied them, explored remedies, and looked for a cure. He never found one and passed away of old age. His home and institute fell into disrepair. 

   In the 1980s a rumor made the rounds that Dr. Crow had performed medical experiments on the children, creating creatures with small, malformed bodies and even bigger heads. It was thought he had injected extra fluid into their heads to make them bigger. Some said the children killed Dr. Crow and ran away into the surrounding woodlands. One by one they went insane.

   When they did they started stealing pets and food. They attacked anyone who crossed their path. They had grown to hate human beings. Nobody went looking for them alone or at night. Most of the Melon Heads died off, but some had children of their own, passing on their deformities and insanity. Some believed they lived in a secret place beneath the ruins of Dr. Crow’s house.

   “That’s where we should start,” Oliver said.

   “Do you know where it is?” Emma asked

   “No, but Ralph said he would meet us here and help sniff it out.”

   Ralph was a honey badger who lived in the woods behind where Oliver and Emma lived in Perry. His favorite food was grubs and rodents, although he ate anything that came his way When he did he ate ail of the fur, feathers, and bones, too. Ralph wasn’t afraid of anything. If an insane Melon Head messed with him he would probably eat it, and  that would be that.

   They saw their father coming in in the middle of a long line of runners. He was easy to spot. He was wearing lime green Saucony running shoes. They waved at him and he waved at them. Ralph showed up a few minutes later and they tramped into the woodlands.

   The honey badger found the ruins of Dr. Crow’s house in ten minutes.

   “How does he do that?” Emma asked. “It would have taken us all day.”

   “He has a great sense of smell.”

   “He smelled the ruins out?”

   “I guess so,” Oliver said. “Anyway, the proof is in the pudding.”

   “Do you think there’s a secret place underneath there?”

   “If there is, Ralph will find it.”

   Honey badgers are excellent diggers. They have long, sharp claws. When they are away from home they dig burrows whenever they want to take a nap. It doesn’t take them long. The can dig out a hiding hole in a matter of minutes.

   Ralph sniffed out the secret place and started digging. He stopped digging when he found a passageway. Olver and Emma slid down into it behind him. Emma turned on her pocket flashlight, although Ralph led the way. They made their way to a warren. When Ralph saw it he nodded his approval and curled up in a corner to get some shut eye. It had been a long walk from Perry to Chardon.

   The Melon Heads weren’t what they expected. They looked like Ma and Pa Kettle. They were brother and sister. Pa Melon Head was in an armchair reading a newspaper. He was smoking a briar pipe.  Ma Melon Head was in another armchair knitting. She was smoking a pipe, too. It was a corncob pipe. Their heads were slightly larger than usual, but not by much.

   “Oh, we’re sorry to bother you,” Oliver said. “We were looking for the monster Melon Heads.”

   “You’ve come to the right place.”

   “No, the crazy ones with gigantic heads who terrorize everybody in this neighborhood.”

   “That’s us, sonny.”

   “But everybody says you’re dangerous.”

   Pa Melon Head coughed politely. Ma Melon Head laughed. 

   “We’ve heard all kinds of tall tales about us,” she said.  “One of them is that Dr. Crow and his wife were arguing, hepushed her, she hit her head on a cabinet and died, and that we then maliciously killed him and burned down the house. That didn’t happen. He wasn’t married anymore.”

   The house  burned down a long time after Dr. Crow’s death. Teenagers were partying in the abandoned house and burned it down playing with matches. “Another tall tale is that we steal people’s children and eat them. That isn’t true, either. We are both vegetarians.”

   “They say we have deformed limbs, glowing red eyes, and  razor-like teeth,” Pa Melon Head said. “I wear dentures and they are the least razor-like anything about me. Ma’s eyes only glow red when she hears the lies about us.”

   “Rumors are spread by fools and accepted by idiots,” Ma Melon Head said. “Especially in this day and age.”

   Oliver and Emma were chagrined. Oliver poked Ralph awake, who started looking around for something to eat. He was always hungry. “We are very sorry to have bothered you,” Emma said.

   “You won’t say anything about us to anybody, will you? We enjoy our privacy.”

   “Our lips are sealed,” Oliver said.

    They had just crossed Wisner Rd. on their way back to the Maple Festival when a woman stopped them, asking if they were looking for the Melon Heads.

   “We were but we found out there aren’t any.”

   “That’s good, foolish children are a nuisance,” Rosemary Richards said. “I know all about the crazy stories, but what can you do?” Trying to undo a crazy story is like trying to unring a bell. 

   “You could call it defamation of character, but we don’t care now that he’s gone.” Dr. Crow was Rosemary’s great-uncle. “I don’t know what he would have thought. He might have laughed about it, he might not. My cousin always said, don’t think about it, don’t even try to do anything about it.”

   “My dad always says never complain, never explain,” Oliver said.

   “Are you on your way back to the square?” Rosemary asked.

   “Yes, we don’t  want to miss Swifty the Clown.”

   “In that case, you had better hurry.”

   Oliver and Emma set off. Ralph led the way. He knew for sure there would be rich pickings at the fairgrounds, There were always scraps of fried pickles, fried cheese curds, and fried onion rings on the ground all over the place.

   “How he doesn’t gain weight is beyond me,” Emma said, looking down at Ralph going at a deep-fried Oreo.

   “He’s got a hollow leg, for sure,” Oliver said, biting into a slice of  muskmelon. It was juicy with a pungent aroma.

   Just then their father walked up, sweaty and flushed. 

   “Guess what kids, I think I saw a Melon Head behind a tree during the race.”

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

Coming of age in the rough and tumble of the 1960s and 1970s. A collection of street level short stories set in Cleveland, Ohio.

Available on Amazon:

A Crying of Lot 49 Production

Old Bones

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By Ed Staskus

   Even though he didn’t have much of a voice, Tommy Rawhead liked to sing. He liked to sing the one song everybody sang about him. “Rawhead and Bloody Bones, steals naughty children from their homes, takes them to his dirty den, and they are never seen again.” He loved that song. No child loved that song. Oliver didn’t like the song, especially since he was hearing it in a bad dream.

   He had gone to bed after dinner, after finishing his homework, working on a new ray gun, wrestling with his sister Emma, washing his face and brushing his teeth, and getting under the covers. It was early March. It was cold and windy. The electric wires attached to their house hummed in the air vortexes like the trilling of hummingbird wings.

   He had never heard of Tommy Rawhead, at least not until the middle of the night when the wind died down. The full moon drifted out from behind a cloud. He felt hot in his sleep and poked a leg out from under the bed cover to cool off. He started to dream. The song went round and round in his head.

   Tommy Rawhead and Bloody Bones came to fame in 1548 when he wrote the Last Will and Testament of the Devil. Tommy was the Devil’s secretary then. It was him to whom the devil dictated his will. “Written by my faithful secretary Rawhead and Bloody Bones in the spiteful audience of all the Court of Hell” is what the Devil said. He didn’t explain why Tommy had two names. 

   After he was downsized during one of Hell’s economic downturns  Tommy went on to become second-in-command to Thomas Lunford, a British Army Officer “of a very small and decayed fortune, with no good education, of a lawless disposition and a violent temper” in his Bishop’s Wars against the Scots.

   When the wars were over he began to haunt wells. After that he hooked up with Jenny Greenteeth and became the phantom of stagnant ponds. “Stay away from gravel pits or Rawhead and Bloody Bones will have you.” He was called Rawhead because all the skin from his skull had long ago been stripped away. He was called Bloody Bones because his favorite place to sit down was on a pile of bones.

   Oliver tossed and turned watching a bone man taking his ease on a seat of bones. He felt more hot than before. He pushed his bed cover aside. It fell to the floor. The wind rattled his window.

   Tommy Rawhead sailed across the Atlantic Ocean disguised as a deckhand and settled in Missouri. He went to live with Old Betty after he brought her beloved razorback, who had been gunned down by Old Dan, back to life. When the hog came to back to life it was a walking skeleton with a skinless head. Old Betty loved the beast, no matter what.

   Tommy Rawhead became a bogeyman in the 19th century. His No. 1 job was scaring children into obedience. That was how he made a living. His business card said “I awe children and keep them in subjection.” It was said he “lived in a dark cupboard, usually under the stairs. If you were heroic enough to peep through a crack you would get a glimpse of the dreadful, crouching creature, with blood running down his face, seated waiting on a pile of raw bones that had belonged to children who told lies or said bad words. If you peeped through the keyhole he got you anyway.”

   Oliver saw himself peeping through a keyhole. He saw Tommy Rawhead clicking and clacking down S. Ridge Rd. past Carst Monuments. Tommy stopped at Mr. Lee’s Bar and Grill and got a pint of ale to slake his thirst, but the ale poured out of him as fast as he poured it down his throat. Oliver watched him trudge past the Heritage Bible Church, spitting into the roadside channel as he passed.

   He woke up with a start. He knew in a flash where Tommy Rawhead was going. He was coming to their neighborhood. He was going to the house up the street and around the corner where the Lawson’s lived. Mrs. Lawson went to work somewhere every morning and didn’t come back until after six o’clock. Mr. Lawson worked at home, although nobody knew what he did. Whenever anybody asked he told them to mind their own business.

   The Lawson’s had twin boys. Oliver thought they were around six years old. They didn’t go to school. Mr. Lawson was home schooling them. He didn’t seem to like being a teacher, since he was always complaining about his boys acting up. “They’re always misbehaving,” he said. He was a strict master. Oliver often heard him yelling at his sons, reprimanding them, and telling them if they didn’t shape up the bogeyman would get them.

   They hadn’t gotten any vaccinations because Mr. Lawson didn’t believe in them. Oliver’s father told him and Emma, his sister, to be careful and not spend too much time around the boys.

   “We have all our vaccines, don’t we?” Oliver asked.

   “Yes, but that’s no reason to ask for trouble.”

   “Why does Mr. Lawson not believe in vaccines?”

   “He’s a vaccine skeptic.”

   “What’s that.”

   “That’s somebody who doesn’t believe in vaccines, maybe because he thinks there are bad ingredients and side effects or they have religious objections because they believe the body is sacred and shouldn’t be violated by foreign substances. They have faith in divine healing. Sometimes they don’t want anybody, like the government, telling them what to do.”

   “I hope he stops at red lights, even though the government is telling him to do that.”

   “I’m sure he doesn’t want to get a ticket every time he’s out driving somewhere.”

   “What if his kids get sick because they’re not vaccinated? Isn’t that the same as going through a red light and getting a ticket? Is somebody going to give him a ticket if they do?”

   “Shouldn’t you be working on your ray gun?”

   “OK, dad.”

   Oliver jumped out of bed and crept into his sister’s room. He poked her until Emma woke up.

   “What’s up?’ she asked.

   “Tommy Rawhead is coming to get the Lawson boys. We have to stop him.”

   “What should we do?”

   “We have to make him fall down.”

   “Wait a minute, who is Tommy Rawhead and why do we want to make him fall down?”

   “I’ll explain later. Do you still have that bag of marbles from Christmas?”

   “They’re downstairs.”

   “Good, let’s get our coats, the marbles, and go outside.”

   It was dark as pitch on S. Ridge Rd. Where they lived in Lake County didn’t believe in too many streetlights.

   “Where is this Rawhead, anyway?” Emma asked.

   “He’s coming from over there,” Oliver said, pointing to his left. “Let’s hide behind this tree until he gets here. When he turns the corner is when we’ll trip him up.”

   It wasn’t long before Tommy Rawhead came down S. Ridge Rd. clicking and clacking in the wind. He turned into their neighborhood.  Oliver told Emma to wait.

   “I’m going to jump out when he gets near us. When he starts chasing me I’m going to run. When we’re running past you throw all the marbles at his feet. Make sure at his feet and not my feet.”

   “All right.”

   “Hey Mr. Bogeyman, come and get me, you old bag of bones.”

   Tommy Rawhead didn’t like that. He whirled, fixed his empty eye sockets on Oliver, and ran straight at him. Oliver tossed him a chin flick and ran the other way. As they ran past Emma she threw the marbles at Tommy Rawhead’s feet. He saw the danger right away, but it was too late. His arms windmilled wildly. He kicked a leg out looking for firm ground but there wasn’t any. His legs splayed. He yelped as he hit the ground hard landing flat on his back. When he did he fell apart, his bones scattering every which way. When they did, Mrs. Lawson, who was  going to work early, ran over them and splintered them into little pieces.

   “Did you know that was going to happen?” Emma asked.

    “I didn’t know Mrs.  Lawson was going to run over him, but I thought if we could make him take a hard fall he might fall apart. Skeletons are just a  collection of bones held together by ligaments, which eventually decay. He was plenty old enough. I didn’t think through what we would have done with the bones, but Mrs. Lawson took care of that.”

   “All’s well that ends well,” Emma said.

   They went home, snuck up to their bedrooms, got under their covers, and fell into dreamless sleep. A tree branch in the wind clapped itself against the side of the house. It might as well have been one hand clapping.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

Coming of age in the rough and tumble of the 1960s and 1970s. A collection of street level short stories set in Cleveland, Ohio.

Available on Amazon:

A Crying of Lot 49 Production

Emma’s Black Cake

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By Ed Staskus

   Emma started baking when she was six  years old, although it wasn’t exactly real baking. She baked small cakes in an Easy-Bake oven, which was a working toy oven. At first, when it was introduced in 1963, the heat source was two light bulbs. Hers had been the newer Ultimate Oven model, which used a real heating element. The baking was easy. There were Easy-Bake cake mixes and small round pans. She poured the cake mix into a pan, added water, blended it, and then pushed the pan through a slot into the oven. After the baking was done she pushed the pan out through a slot at the back end of the oven.

   Now that she was thirteen years old she baked for real. Her mother was a good cook, but her father was a better baker. He was an electrical engineer and knew all about energy getting the job done. “Baking is a science,” he said when he began teaching her everything he knew. “It’s all about precise measurements and proper techniques.  It’s about the chemical reactions that happen when ingredients are combined and exposed to heat, like the leavening agents in baking powder that create bubbles in batter. Do you follow me?”

   “I guess so.” 

    “All right, let’s start at the beginning by cracking eggs.”

   She wasn’t a beginner anymore. She knew the four pillars of baking, which were flour, eggs, sugar, and fat. Flour and eggs were structure builders while sugar and fat were tenderizers. She wasn’t good enough to make yeasted breads and laminated pastries, yet, but she was a hotshot with cookies, brownies, and cakes.

   Her brother Oliver was going to be eleven years old in exactly one day. She was planning on baking a cake for him. It was going to be a black cake made from a recipe by Emily Dickinson. Black cake is a kind of Caribbean Christmas cake, a close relative of British fruit cake. 

   Emma was a big fan of reading. She had started reading Emily Dickinson’s poems when her aunt gave her “Poetry for Kids: Emily Dickinson” two years ago for her birthday. Since then she had read “A Voice of Her Own: Becoming Emily Dickinson,” which was a biography, and read every one of her poems, all one thousand eight hundred of them, in one library book after another. Only ten of the poems were ever published during Emily Dickinson’s lifetime.

   “A bird came down the walk, he did not know I saw, he bit an angleworm in halves and ate the fellow, raw, and then he drank a dew from a convenient grass, and then hopped sideways to the wall to let a beetle pass.”

   What most people didn’t know about Emily Dickinson was that she  was a very good baker. She was better known for her desserts than her poems. She was especially skillful with bread. She won second prize at the 1856 Amherst Cattle Show for her rye and Indian round bread. Emma knew all about  her baking prowess because she had discovered “The Emily Dickinson Cookbook” which was full of recipes for gingerbread and chocolate caramels. It was where she found the recipe for black cake.

   There was a copy of the hand-written recipe, written in Emily Dickinson’s hand, in the book. She had a funny way of forming her letters. It took some getting used to. Emma had the book propped open on the kitchen counter.

   She had her work cut out for her. The recipe called for two pounds of flour, two pounds of butter, five pounds of raisins, and nineteen eggs, among other ingredients. It made a twenty pound cake. She didn’t have a cake pan that could contain any such thing. She wasn’t sure if such a thing would even fit in their oven.

   She got to work, cutting the recipe down to size, leaving the brandy it called for out of the batter, and by the end of the afternoon the cake was in the oven, baking away. That is when she heard a voice speaking from the oven.

   “You do know that’s a Christmas cake, don’t you?” the voice, which sounded like Foghorn Leghorn, said.

   “I know, but it’s February, which is close enough,” Emma said.

   “Do you know the roots of that cake go back to slavery?”

   “I didn’t know that.”

   “And Emily Dickinson couldn’t have ever baked it if it wasn’t for the slaves in America.”

   “What do you mean? Her family never had slaves. They didn’t like slavery. Her father was a lawyer and he stood up for three black men who rescued a girl who was about to be sold into slavery. Their gardener, Jeremiah, was black. He got paid for his work. He wasn’t a slave.”

   “Emily Dickinson hated black people,” Foghorn Leghorn said. 

   “How do you know that?”

   “Everybody knows that.”

   Emma didn’t know that. If everybody knew it, how come she didn’t know it? None of the poems had anything about black people or slavery in them. She should know, since she had read all of them.

   “Have you read her poems?” she asked the voice.

    No, but it’s like the Bible. You don’t have to read the Good Book to know what its message is.”

   “That doesn’t sound right.”

   “You’re too young to understand.”

   Emma didn’t like being told she was too young to understand.

   “I understand full well that you can’t know what’s in a book unless you read it. Talking about Emily Dickinson without reading what she wrote would be like giving a fish a bath.”

   “You do know why the cake is black, don’t you, little girl?”

   Emma did not like being called a little girl, either. “No, I don’t know, but I don’t see why it matters.” She was getting tired of Foghorn Leghorn.

   “It’s called black cake because the color comes from molasses and spices, which were sourced from slave plantations in the Caribbean.”

   “I didn’t use molasses, smarty pants, I used sugar.”

   “Burnt sugar?” 

   “Yes, otherwise the cake wouldn’t be black.”

   “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

   “I’m the one baking it and whether it comes our black, or not, I say it’s a black cake,” Emma said, digging in her heels. Why was Foghorn Leghorn in her oven? She looked inside of  it but didn’t see anything except for the cake. Where was he? Did he get burned up? She didn’t see any ashes.

   “Emily Dickinson’s poems  should be burned on the bonfire of bad history. She was an elitist.”

   “What does  elitist mean?”

   “Elitists think wealth, intellect, and social status make them superior and those who have those qualities should have more power and influence.”

   “She lived on a farm, not in a mansion,” Emma said. “They had pigs, cows, horses, a fruit orchard, and a hay meadow. They grew most of their own food. She had a big garden and was always working in it. Everybody said she had a green thumb. She baked twenty pound cakes. She sometimes complained about all the work she had to do. Lots of her poems are about fields and farm life.”

    “To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee. One clover, and a bee, and reverie. The reverie alone will do, If bees are few.”

   “If she wasn’t an elitist, why was she always wearing white?” Foghorn Leghorn crowed.

   “Who says she always wore white?” 

   “Everybody says so.”

   “Everybody is wrong, just like you. There’s only one photograph of her and she’s wearing a dark dress. She wore clothes made from unbleached linen and hemp and wool. Most of her clothes were brown-hued. Most of the time she probably wore simple linen skirts as an underlayer topped by a dark woolen overskirt.”

   “How do you know that?”

   “I read it in a book.”

   “I don’t like reading, too much work. I like watching TV. I like movies that are based on comic books and cell phone apps. I like the internet. There are lots of pictures.”

   “Why are you picking on Emily Dickinson?”

   “She thinks she’s all that with her fancy poems.”

   “I’m sorry Mr. Leghorn, but you’ve got to go. My cake is almost done and I’m done listening to you.”

   The next morning  was a cold February morning, but sunny. 

   “Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door,” is what Emily Dickinson said about mornings.

   Oliver had black cake for breakfast on his birthday.

   “This cake is boss, sis, thanks so much,” he said.

   “My pleasure,” Emma said.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

Coming of age in the Midwest in the 1960s and 1970s.

“A collection of street level short stories blended with the historical timesl, set in Cleveland, Ohio. The storytelling is plugged in.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

Available on Amazon:

A Crying of Lot 49 Production

Old Man Time

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By Ed Staskus

   It was getting close to midnight and Father Time was still trying to throw Baby New Year out the window. It was proving to be harder than he thought it would be. Who knew a newborn, even though he looked more like  toddler, could be so hefty? Who knew a newborn had any idea about how to throw a left jab? Or throw a left jab that knew where to land where it hurt the most?

   Father Time hadn’t started the fight, although he had declared he wasn’t ready to leave, new year or no new year. Baby New Year had started it when he had tried to kick Father Time out the back door. “Your time is over and done with,” he said. “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.” Father Time didn’t see the kick coming. It got him just below the back of the knee and buckled his leg. When it did he stumbled and hit his head on the door jamb. He was already angry, but that got his dander way up.

   He wasn’t just anybody to mess with. Way back when, when the Greeks were in charge, he had been Chronos. When the Romans took over he became Saturn. During the Renaissance he started carrying an hourglass and stood shoulder to shoulder with the Grim Reaper. By the 20th century he was carrying a scythe, representing the cyclical nature of time.

   He kept his scythe in good working order. He cleaned the blade after every use. He sharpened it with a whetstone. He peened it to restore the edge after it had been overworked. He could swing it with the best of them.

   Father Time got up from where he had stumbled. He whirled around. Baby New Year had a fork in his hand. Father Time grabbed his scythe.

   “What’s gotten into those two?” Oliver asked his sister.

   “Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good,” Emma said. 

   They were at a New Year’s Eve party with their parents at their aunt’s swank house in Bratenahl. It was the first time they had ever been there. It was the first time they had ever been invited. The house was a waterfront mansion. It had a great view of Lake Erie. The ceilings were sky high and all the sofas and armchairs were white. There were four bedrooms and five bathrooms.

   “She must go to the toilet a lot,” Emma said.

   Their aunt’s grown-up children and their spouses and some of their children were there. Oliver and Emma’s parents and everybody else were in the great room testing their paper tube noisemakers and pouring champagne into tulip-shaped glasses. The glasses were so clean they glistened like Vin Diesel’s bald head.

   Oliver and Emma were in the kitchen, although they were keeping their distance from the combatants, who were circling each other.

   “You’re the old year, you codger, and I’m the new year,” Baby New Year said. “It’s always been that way. You’ve got to hand the new year over to me. It’s time to pass the baton.” He had his 2026 sash at the ready. He waved his fork for emphasis.

   Baby New Year went back to when the Greeks were in charge, just like Father Time. He went back to the Great Dionysia, which celebrated the springtime resurrection of Dionysius, who was the god of wine and fertility. After the parade and during the buffet, Dionysius’s birth was celebrated by putting the baby in a winnowing fan, which was a kind of bread basket, and showing him off. Everybody made sure not to eat him by mistake.

   “Pass the baton?” Father Time said. “What do you know? You don’t know anything. You’ll just screw things up worse than they already are. Your kind always does, starry-eyed and incompetent. I’ve got plenty of experience. I’ll keep the ship on course.”

   “On course?” Baby New Year exclaimed. “The train is running off the rails. The future needs new blood. That means me. Now give me that hourglass you’ve got hidden inside your robe.” By all rights Father Time was supposed to hand the hourglass over and pass on his wisdom and duties.

    “What I say is what Percy Shelly wrote in his poem,” Baby New Year said. “My Father Time is weak and gray, with waiting for a better day, see how idiot-like he stands, fumbling with his palsied hands.”

   Baby New Year had gone through hell and high water to get to the handover on time. He had been stuck on the Archipelago of Last Years, which were islands where all the old years retired. He had gone there to prep for the new year, hoping to gain insights and absorb wisdom about what were going to be his new duties. 

   When he got there, however, he was taken prisoner by Eon the Terrible, who was a supersized vulture. From birth the big evil bird had been destined to live a half a million years. His problem was the half a million years were coming to an end at the end of the year. When that happened he was going to suddenly turn into dust and be blown away by the wind. Keeping Baby New Year prisoner would stop time and keep the year from ending. It would keep him alive, too.

   When Santa Claus found out what was happening he was appalled. Stopping time would stop Christmas. He sent Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer to rescue Baby New Year. It was easier said than done. Eon the Terrible took the reindeer prisoner, too, and locked him up on his Island of No-Name, located north of the North Pole. When Rudolph escaped Eon the Terrible unleashed an avalanche that trapped the reindeer inside a gigantic snowball. Rudolph melted the snow with his bright shiny nose, climbed up to Eon the Terrible’s nest, and set Baby New Year free.

   “After all I’ve gone through, give me that hourglass.” Baby New Year said. Time was running short. It was ten minutes to midnight. That’s when the rumble in the kitchen got serous. Father Time swung his scythe at Baby New Year’s head. But since he had a bad back and couldn’t bend even an inch, he missed by a mile. Baby New Year stuck his fork into Father Time’s foot.

   “Ouch!” Father Time yelped, limping this way and that, using his scythe as a cane. The cook, who had been washing dishes, had backed herself into a corner, using a chopping board as a shield. She had a spatula she was prepared to use for protection, if it came to that.

   Father Time groaned and lowered himself onto a stool.

   “He looks all worn out,’ Oliver said. ‘He should give it up.”

   “Maybe he thinks Baby New Year just isn’t ready,” Emma said.

   “Babies are never ready. They just have to jump in with both feet.”

   “I was the most happening man at the party all this past year, but now I think it’s time to leave,” Father Time said. He stood up and went towards the back door. He put his hourglass on the floor and leaned his scythe against the wall. 

   “You’ll need these things,” he said while looking down at the half-pint who was going to take his place. “Good luck, you’ll need it.” He left his shadow behind, but even that soon disappeared. It was like he had never been there.

   Oliver lifted Baby New Year onto his shoulders, and with Emma beside him, carried him into the great room where everybody was waiting. A cheer went up. Champagne went down throats.

   Out with the old and in with the new.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

Coming of age in the Midwest in the 1960s and 1970s.

“A collection of street level short stories blended with the historical, set in Cleveland, Ohio. The storytelling is plugged in.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

Available on Amazon:

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

The Mighty Draco

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By Ed Staskus

   It was twilight on Christmas Eve when Santa Claus landed his sled in Oliver and Emma’s backyard in Perry, Ohio. He skidded to a stop and was right away followed by nine larger supply sleds manned by elves. When they landed they formed a kind of wagon train circle. Two more sleds landed in the middle. They were stealth sleds. The elves in them were Santa Claus’s bodyguards. They were dressed all in black and wore AI-powered smart glasses.

   The stealth sleds were invisible to radar, infrared, and acoustic sensors. They were built with special radar-absorbent materials. They weren’t pulled by reindeers. They were powered by a jet engine designed to mask its heat signature. The elf bodyguards unloaded the ray guns they carried inside internal bays and distributed them to all the other elves. Three of them huddled with Santa Claus. They scanned the sky anxiously.

   “It’s all hands on deck tonight,” Santa Claus said, “although not in the way we expected.”

   “We’ve been watching Draco, but we didn’t anticipate him attacking us on this of all days,” one of the elf bodyguards said.

   “He tried to surprise us,” Santa Claus said. “It’s a good thing Rudolph sniffed out the danger.”

   The youngest of Santa’s reindeer team, Rudolph was the lead reindeer. He was brown with some white on his muzzle. He had a glowing red nose. It was what he used to guide Santa Claus’s sleigh through darkness and snow storms. He could sniff out trouble in thick fog and around the corner. He didn’t say much but he was reliable and brave.

   “That is more elves than I’ve ever seen in my life,” Emma said, looking out the window. “Although, to be honest I’ve never even seen one before today.”

   “I wasn’t sure Santa Claus was real,” Oliver said, “but there he is.”

   “Why is he out there with all those sleds?”

   “Let’s go find out.”

   They went through the sliding doors leading to their patio and out to the field behind their house. The Assembly of God was at the front end of the field and a cell phone tower was at the back end of the field. The church was small. The cell phone tower was large.

   One of the elf bodyguards tried to wave them back, but Oliver and Emma ran right up to Santa Claus. He was younger and taller than they thought he would be. He wasn’t roly-poly. He was fit as a fiddle. He was wearing a bright red coat and matching pants, trimmed with white fur. The fabric, however, wasn’t cloth. It was ripcord. “It resists wear and tear,” Santa Claus said. The rest of him was fitted with a black belt dressed up with  a gold buckle, a red hat with a white pom-pom, and black boots. He didn’t look jolly. He looked commanding.

   “What’s going on?” Oliver asked. “Why are you here and not delivering gifts?”

   “It’s the Mighty Draco,” Sanra Claus said. “He’s from far away, from outer space. He’s been circling our planet for years. He intends to take over the earth. He is starting by destabilizing our institutions. One of his body snatchers is in Washington,  D.C. spreading lies and shutting down the federal agencies that help people. Another one of his body snatchers is in Moscow, spreading death and destruction wherever he can. One is in North Korea. There are others, powerful body snatchers with a lust for riches and power.”

   “But what does that have to do with you?” Emma asked.

   “He wants to strip us of our holidays, starting with me. “The Easter Bunny will be next and after that the Thanksgiving Turkey. He doesn’t want us celebrating the things we hold dear. He’s a tyrant, the unhappiest of creatures. He wants everybody to be unhappy like him.”

   Just then an intergalactic flying saucer landed. The Mighty Draco floated down from his spacecraft, followed by his shock troops. He was green from tip to toe, naked except for a pair of red Speedo’s, with horns sticking out from his temples and webbed hands and feet. He and his shock troops were carrying ray guns. They looked fearsome. The Mighty Draco’s face was twisted with a sneer.

   “Earthmen,” he said in a voice that had the icy chill of deep space in it. “I have come to destroy Santa Claus and everything he stands for. When I am done with him and his kind I shall issue an ultimatum which will bring everyone to their knees, making them subject to the rule of the Mighty Draco.”

   Why is he talking about himself in the third person? Emma wondered. One of her pet peeves was blowhards talking about themselves in the third person.

   “Since you say you are starting with me,” Santa Claus sad, “I am taking it upon myself to stop you right here.”

   The Mighty Draco roared with laughter. “You and your midgets are going to stop me? That’ll be the day!” No sooner had he said that than he and his shock troops began blasting the circle of sleds with their ray guns. Santa Claus and his elves began blasting back. There was the crackle of hundreds of electric energy beams. The air stank with acrid smoke. Beams clanged off the force field the bodyguard elves had thrown over their sleds. Their beams bounced off the shock troops, protected by their own force fields. When the shooting stopped, the ground was black and smoking, but no one had gained the upper hand. Both sides were reloading their ray guns when Oliver stuck his index fingers into his mouth, forming an “A” shape, He curled his tongue back and pressed it down with his fingers. He whistled, a piercing sound that brought everybody to a stop.

   “Are you calling Ralph?” Emmas asked.

   “Yes,” Oliver said.” He’ll put the clamps on that Mighty Draco.”

   Ralph was a honey badger who lived in the woods beyond the cell phone tower. He had helped Oliver and Emma a couple of times over the years. He was stocky with thick skin. He was black with a white stripe running from his head to the base of his tail. His front feet featured large claws. He was very strong and fearless. He was tougher than woodpecker beaks and saltwater crocodiles. He came trotting out of the woods. Oliver rubbed the top of his head and pointed at the Mighty Draco.

   “He needs to go back to where he came from,” he said. 

   “That thing is your champion?” the Mighty Draco hooted. “It’s no bigger than a dog. I’ll make hamburger meat out of him in two seconds.”

   He started blasting Ralph with his ray gun. Ralph steadied himself, growled, and made a beeline for the creature from beyond the stars.  His African relatives fought lions and Cape buffaloes day in and day out. A green knucklehead wearing red Speedo’s wasn’t going to get the better of him. 

   Ralph advanced, glowing, the ray gun lighting him up.  His eyes went shiny red and his coarse fur bristled with static. He broke into a trot and bull rushed the Mighty Draco, head butting him in the front of his red shorts. The creature went down like a shot. Ralph got behind him, sunk his teeth into his rear end, and dragged him back to his flying saucer. He lifted him overhead, swung him around in circles, and finally  heaved him into his spacecraft. The Mighty Draco lay groaning just inside the hatch. The swinging had made him dizzy. He threw up all over.

   All the air went out of the shock troops. They floated up to their master, mopped up the vomit, closed the hatch, and fired up the engines. The flying saucer sped away.

   Santa Claus walked up to Ralph and thanked him for a job well done. 

   “It was child’s play,” Ralph said, snorting. 

    “I wish I had something for you,” Santa Claus said. “Next year I will, and it will be something special.” 

   The honey badger grunted and sauntered back into the words. He needed a nap.

   “He’s a man of few words,” Santa Claus said to Oliver and Emma. “Do you happen to have any more like him that I can drop down chimneys in Washington, D.C., Moscow, and North Korea?”

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

Coming of age in the Midwest in the 1960s and 1970s.

“A collection of street level short stories blended with the historical, set in Cleveland, Ohio. The storytelling is plugged in.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

Available on Amazon:

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Front Lawn of Fear

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By Ed Staskus

   Oliver had heard about the house with the front lawn full of life-size skeletons, but had never seen the Halloween display himself. It was down Canyon Ridge Dr. on the east side of the street. The street was about a ten minute walk from where he lived. “There‘s a bunch of skeletons carrying some kind of hatchet and one really big one who’s the leader of the pack,” Tommy One Shoe said. “They’re all chained together, but they’ve been getting loose in the middle of the night the closer it gets to fright night.”

   “If they’re carrying something, it’s probably a scythe,” Oliver said.

   “What’s that?”

   “A farming thing from long ago.”

   “Oh.”

   Oliver knew which house it was, at least he knew the backyard of it. He had seen it many times looking up from Masons Landing Metropolitan Park on the Grand River where there was a bend and a stretch of bank. He could see it from the bank. It was the only house on the street with a side yard. It was the only house with a sweet gum tree. The fruit of the tree was a hard spiky ball he called a monkey ball. Nobody wanted to step barefooted on a monkey ball. He knew that from personal experience.

   “What do you mean they’ve been getting loose?” Oliver asked.

   “They get loose from their chains somehow and roam around at night waking everybody up. Their bones rub against each other clicking, clacking, and rattling.”

   “I guess that might be a nuisance,” Oliver said, “but it doesn’t sound menacing.”

   “That’s not all they do.”

   “What else do they do?” 

   “They swing their scythe things at shrubs, the mailboxes, and cats on the loose. All the shrubs look terrible, like a really bad haircut.  A bunch of mailboxes have holes in them. One cat ran up a tree and wouldn’t come down for two days.”

   “That sort of sounds like teenagers on the loose.”

   “Maybe it does, but last night a lady was walking her dog. It was late. She was looking one way, the skeleton was looking the other way, and they bumped into each other. She ran home and the dog chased the skeleton to South Ridge Rd.”

   “The skeleton ran away?”

   “That’s what she said, and she said the dog came back with a scrap of black fabric stuck in his teeth.”

   “I see,” Oliver said. “Can you sneak out tonight and meet me across the street from the skeletons?”

   “What time?” 

   “Let’s say three. My parents don’t get up at three in the morning for anything.”

    “No problemo,” Tommy said. “Mine don’t get up for anything between midnight and sunrise, unless maybe the end of the world was happening.”

   That night at three in the morning Oliver and Tommy met across the street from the front lawn of fear. Both of them were wearing jeans and dark sweatshirts. Oliver had a flashlight with him. He would have brought his sister Emma for back-up, but she was at a sleepover in Painesville. Tommy had a plastic Ninja Sword he had gotten from the Spirit Halloween store in Mentor. He whacked the bark of the pin oak tree they were hiding behind.

   “You’re going to break it,” Oliver said.

   “No, that’s some tough bark.”

   “I meant the sword, and besides, we need to be quiet.”

   “What’s the plan?”

   “The plan is to throw some light on whoever it is in that house who is pretending to be a skeleton, and why.”

   They almost fell asleep. It was nearly five in the morning when they were roused by a car coming down the street. Oliver had been wool-gathering the new ray gun he was inventing. The car pulled into the driveway of the house where they were hiding. They squeezed close together behind the pin oak tree. A man in a uniform got out of the car. He had a rolling carry-on suitcase and a flight bag full of manuals, a headset, and an iPad. He was a Southwest Airlines pilot.

   He was fumbling in his pocket for his house keys when Tommy saw a skeleton wielding a scythe crossing the street. He was heading straight for the pilot, one determined step after another. A full moon illumined him. It wasn’t a real skeleton. It was man dressed in black tights and a form-fitting long sleeve spandex t-shirt.  The bones had been stenciled on the fabric with glow-in-the-dark paint.

   Tommy poked Oliver in the ribs.

   “Hey,” Oliver grunted.

   “Look,” Tommy said.

   “I thought it was going to be something like that,” Oliver said.

   When the skeleton got close to the pilot he raised his scythe.

   “Oh, my God, put that thing down and take that stupid mask off,” the pilot said. “Who do you think you are, the Grim Reaper? I just got in from Hawaii and the last thing I need to do is fool around with you.”

   “The last thing I need is you fooling around with my wife anymore,” the skeleton said.

   “I wouldn’t be doing that if you spent more time fooling around with her.”

   “I told you to stop, but you didn’t. Now I’ve got you where I want you. Everybody on the street thinks my skeletons have been coming to life. No one dares to be out at night anymore. There aren’t going to be any witnesses and everybody will chalk it up to the supernatural.”

   “That’s crazy,” the pilot said.

   “Crazy as a fox,” the skeleton said and advanced on the pilot. He raised his scythe and swung it down at him, who raised his ballistic nylon flight bag to parry the blade. The blade cut through the bag like butter. When it did the force of the swing, its trajectory altered,  carried the scythe downwards towards the skeleton’s feet. The front point of it pierced his left tennis shoe, sinking an inch deep into the top of his  foot.

   “Youch!” the skeleton cried out, going to his knees and reaching for his foot. He tore his tennis shoe off. Blood gushed out of his foot, soaking the grass. The pilot staunched the bleeding with a spare shirt he pulled out of his carry-all.

   “Who knew skeletons could bleed,” Tommy said, dumbfounded.

   The pilot called 911 and an EMS truck showed up in five minutes, followed by a police car. After the skeleton had been put on a stretcher and driven away, a policeman asked Oliver and Tommy what they were doing there. 

   “We heard there were skeletons walking around at night,” Tommy said. “We wanted to see what was going on. We saw the skeleton come across the street and swing his scythe thing at the man in the uniform who came home, but he missed, and cut himself.”

   “What do you have to say?” the policeman asked Oliver.

   “The same thing,” Oliver said.

   “All right, go home, and stay there.”

   They started up Canyon Ridge Dr. The moon was setting. Dawn was on the horizon.

   “What was that all about?” Tommy asked. “All they talked about was fooling around, although the skeleton sounded mad, and the other man looked annoyed, and the next thing you know the skeleton was trying to slice and dice that man.”

   “I don’t know,” Oliver said. “Grown-ups confuse me. Sometimes they seem more crazy than not.”

   “I know all about that,” Tommy said. “My parents are totally crazy.”

   They were exchanging shaggy-dog stories about their parents, aunts, and uncles, and were so absorbed in their critique of grown-ups they didn’t see the Headless Horseman, who was carrying his severed head on his saddle, go past them at the crossroad of Canyon Ridge Dr. and South Ridge Rd. on his way back to the Perry Cemetery.

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

Coming of age in the Midwest in the 1960s and 1970s.

“A collection of street level short stories blended with the historical, set in Cleveland, Ohio. The storytelling is plugged in.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

Available on Amazon:

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Busting Out of Franklin Castle

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By Ed Staskus

   “Well, well,” the Grim Reaper said. “What have we got here, Hansel and Gretel?” He grinned looking down on them and then laughed like a hen with hiccups.

   “Oh, oh,” Emma said, looking him up and down. She didn’t like what she was seeing or hearing. Who laughs like a hen with hiccups?

   “No, we’re not Hansel and Gretel,” Oliver said. “Who do you think you are? It’s not Halloween. And what’s with the laugh?”

   “Who do I think I am? I am the Prince of Darkness, Lord of the Flies, and Old Nick all wrapped up in one. I am Scratch and that’s no Halloween nonsense. I am the Grim Reaper.”

   “All right, Mr. Grim, but what’s with the laugh?”

   “I’ve got something in my craw I just can’t shake.”

   “Would that be the Angel of Life?”

   “Never you mind, young man.”

   “Why are you calling us Hansel and Gretel? Do you think you are going to eat us?”

   “I ask the questions around here,” the Grim Reaper said. “What are you doing in this castle?”

   “We have a professional interest in Franklin Castle,” Oliver said. “We’re the Monster Hunters of Lake County.”

   “Have you lost your way? This is Cuyahoga County. On top of that, you’re nothing but children. What kind of professional interest could you possibly have in anything? Are you half-pints even in school?”

   “I just started middle school, I’ll have you know,” Emma said.

   She had seen the Grim Reaper in a history book, a long-haired skeletal figure from the 14th century wearing wings and carrying a scythe. His black clothing went back to the early 19th century, when people started wearing  black at funerals. The full Monty, hooded skeleton, black robe, and scythe, became common around the mid-19th century. That’s what he looked like in “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens, wearing a dark cloak with only a single gesturing hand to be seen. 

   “People fear me, you know,” the Grim Reaper said.

   “I once heard a song called ’Don’t Fear the Reaper,’” Oliver said.

   “All our times have come here, but now they’re gone, seasons don’t fear the reaper,
nor do the wind, the sun, or the rain.”

   “That was some tough talk by the Blue Oyster Cult,” the Grim Reaper said. “Do you know what their new album last year was called?”

   “No.” 

   “It was called ‘Ghost Stories.’ That’s what they’re going to be sooner or later. I saw one of their shows. After the show I made a joke, asking them, ‘What did the chicken say to the Grim Reaper?’ The drummer was like you. He asked me why I was asking. I told him because I was death myself.”

   “What did he say?” 

   “He said, ‘I’ll talk louder then.’ He was half deaf from his own loud music and misunderstood what I said.”

   “What did the chicken say, anyway?”

   “I should have looked both ways,” the Grim Reaper chuckled.

   “What’s with that stick with the curved knife at the bottom?” Oliver asked.

   “It’s not a stick and it’s not a knife. It’s a scythe. It’s for harvesting souls like a farmer harvests crops.”

   “Farmers use tractors, not that scythe thing.”

   “The scythe is what farmers used to work their fields with.”

   “Well, they don’t use them anymore. You should get a tractor.”

   “That’s not the point,” the Grim reaper said, annoyed. “It’s a symbol.”

   “Symbols don’t put food on the table,” Emma said. “Dad has to go to work every day and mom just got a job so we will have money for college. We are buying a new house soon, too. Does the FBI know you carry that scythe thing around? It looks like a deadly weapon. Is it legal?”

   The Grim Reaper was not used to being peppered with questions. “Why me, why now?” is what he sometimes heard, although most people were scared stiff and didn’t say much of anything. Whenever they asked he always said, “Life is for the living but then I arrive with my scythe and you are done with life. Then they throw dirt in your face. Then the worms eat you. Be glad it happens in that order.”

   “Did you hear what I asked you, Mr. Grim?” Emma asked. “Is that thing legal?”

   The Grim Reaper was losing his patience. He was normally very patient. Life spans, however, had been increasing century by century and appointed hours had become long in coming. The trend was taxing him. These children questioning his tools of the trade were irksome. Their appointed hour wasn’t close at hand, but if they kept it up he might lose his composure and go after them.

   “You should put that thing away and get some nicer clothes,” Emma said. “That robe has  got moth holes. It’s really dirty, too. Do you ever wash it?”

   That was all the Grim Reaper could stand. He raised his scythe and swung at Emma. She jumped away from the swing. She was a quick girl on her feet.

   “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Oliver shouted. “Leave my sister alone.”

   The Grim Reaper swung his scythe at Oliver, who dodged  the sharp blade, grabbed Emma’s hand, and pulled her towards the door. The Grim Reaper weas fuming. He never swung and missed. Was he getting old and feeble? That couldn’t be. He was ageless, after all.

   “This house has thirteen fireplaces,” he shouted. “ When I catch you I will burn you both in all of them.”

   He ran after Oliver and Emma, his bones clacking and the scythe hissing. He wasn’t fast enough. Oliver and Emma pushed the ballroom doors open and ran down the stairs. The Grim Reaper followed, making up time by straddling the handrail and sliding down it. 

   Oliver and Emma ran past the reading room on the third floor where a book was reading itself. It was a one thousand page weepie. Tears were splashing onto the pages. They ran past Hannes Tiedemann’s office on the second floor. The ledgers in the office had long since turned to yellow dust.

   By the time they got to the ground floor the Grim Reaper was hard on their heels. A voice called out to them, “Come this way.” It was the ghost of Hannes Tiedemann. “Get in this barrel,” he said, pointing to a barrel. They got in it. Hannes Tiedemann fitted a circular lid on top of the barrel.

   After coming from Germany as a boy Hannes Tiedemann had worked as an apprentice barrel maker before getting into wholesale groceries and later into banking. He liked money well enough, but never lost his fondness for barrels.

   The Grim Reaper searched the ground floor, the foyer, parlor, and dining room. He searched the toilet room. He came up empty. Gnashing his teeth he went up and came back down the servant’s stairwell. He was standing in the foyer when he noticed his reflection in a full-length mirror. Looking himself over he thought maybe the brat was right. He was looking shabby. He needed a new robe. He checked his wallet. He had enough cash to get something nice. He went out the front door and disappeared down Franklin Ave. towards the stores on W. 25th St.

   When Oliver and Emma were sure he was gone they got out of the barrel and ran outside to where they had left their Lime e-scooter. It wouldn’t start, however. It had timed out. Neither of them had a credit card. Neither of them had ever had a credit card. They pushed the e-scooter off the sidewalk and leaned it against the wrought-iron fence surrounding the house.

   It was a long walk back to St. Ignatius High School. They were very tired by the time they got there. Their father put them in the back seat of their Jeep SUV. He drove north to Lake Erie and took a right. He took the Shoreway back to Lake County. Oliver and Emma slept like the dead all the way home.

Previous: Franklin Castle Walkabout

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street  http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Made in Cleveland” by Ed Staskus

Coming of age in the Midwest in the 1960s and 1970s.

“A collection of street level short stories blended with the historical, set in Cleveland, Ohio. The storytelling is plugged in.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

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A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Franklin Castle Walkabout

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By Ed Staskus

   Emma almost jumped out of her bobby pins when the voice behind them said, “Who has broken into my castle?” Oliver, however, kept his nerve. He turned around and said to the eight-foot tall man spirit,  “Can I see your deed to this place?”

   The man spirit looked like a butler from an old movie. He was wearing a black suit with a white dress shirt, black bow tie, and a waistcoat. He had a long face and a nose that was as sharp as a hatchet. 

   “I don’t have a deed,” he said.

   “Then it’s not really your castle, is it?”

   “Well, no, but I live here.”

   “We heard the castle is haunted.”

   “You heard correctly, young man. There are ghosts and phantoms in every room.”

    “Are they mean?”

   “Not all of them, but you would be playing with fire if you thought otherwise.”

   “Can you show us around?”

   “No, I can’t. I have to return to my quarters.”

   “Are they upstairs? Maybe we could follow you.”

   “No, my quarters are in the carriage house in the back.” He pointed through a window. “There is an underground tunnel that runs from the basement, under the rose garden, and to my quarters.”

   Oliver and Emma looked through the window. There wasn’t a rose garden or a carriage house in the backyard. When they turned back to the butler, he wasn’t there anymore. There was a pile of sand where he had been standing.

   “Where did he go?”

   “Maybe he went down to the basement.”

   “Let’s go look.”

   The basement was dark and musty. It had a smell they didn’t recognize. They didn’t know liquor had been made in the basement during Prohibition. A whiskey still was still in a hidden room of the basement, behind a sealed panel in the wall. They saw a trapdoor in the floor.

   “Maybe he went down there,” Emma said.

   When they pulled the trapdoor open, it went nowhere. There wasn’t a tunnel, or anything, just loose-packed dirt. It was a dead-end. Worms were slithering in the dirt.

   “Oh, gross,” Emma said. 

   “I like glow worms the best,” Oliver said.

   “I like gummy worms the best,” Emma said.

   They went back upstairs. There was a large oil painting in the living room above the fireplace. The painting was of Hannes Tiedemann, his wife Louise, and their children, Dora and August. Every time Oliver looked at it out of the corner of his eye he thought they were moving their heads and looking at him. He stopped looking out of the corner of his eye. They stopped looking at him.

   There were built-in bookcases on both sides of the fireplace. The shelves were packed with books.  All the books were moldy except for one. The book looked new. It’s title was “The World Without Us.”

   “Let’s go upstairs,” Oliver said.

   The stairs were wide and the handrails were dark brown wood. They felt damp and sticky. There was a small round table on the landing halfway up. There was a recently lit cigar in an ash tray on the table. Smoke like a garden snake curled up to the ceiling.

   “That smells terrible,” Emma said.

   “It smells like old armpits,” Oliver said, stubbing the cigar out.

   When they got to the top of the stairs a wall of fog materialized in front of them. It was a green and yellow fog. Emma took a step into it. She began to lose her way. Oliver pulled her back.

   “I thought I was going to pass out,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

   There were four bedrooms on the second floor. There was a collection of small colored glass bottles full of liquids on a side table in the first of the bedrooms. The bottles were labeled. One said, “This Will Make You Larger.” Another one said, “This Will Make You Smaller.” 

   “It’s like Alice in Wonderland,” Oliver said.

   Only one bottle was made of clear glass. It said, “This Will Make You Disappear.”

   “I could use that on some bullies I know,” Emma said. She reached for the bottle. Just as she was about to put it in her pocket it disappeared. A voice whispered in her ear. “That’s not for you.”

   In another bedroom the outside shutters were loose. They banged against the window frame when the wind blew. When Oliver opened the window and reached for the shutters to secure them, they shut and locked themselves. As soon as he walked away they unlocked themselves and started flapping in the wind again.

   “Things have got a mind of their own in this house,” he said.

   The next bedroom had spiderwebs in every corner. There was fossilized cordwood laid in the fireplace grate. There was a bed and there was a sofa, too, big enough to sleep in. Rotting curtains rustled even though the windows were closed and the air in the room was fetid. There was a diary on the bedside table.

   “Let’s take a look at this book,” Emma said. “Maybe it will tell us something about this house.”

   When they opened the book, however, as they flipped the pages they crumbled into yellow fragments. A shred of a page whispered, “Whoever reads my journal, beware of the creature below.” The yellow fragments sprinkled themselves all over the floor. When Oliver and Emma turned to leave, the fragments gathered themselves and  transformed into an arm that reached for their legs. The fingers were long as carrots. They ran out of the room.

   When they opened the door of the last bedroom it was inky black inside, even though the curtains were pulled back and they could see through the window that it was sunny and bright outside.

   “Let’s not go in this room,” Emma said.

   “This house is creepy but it isn’t really any more creepy than that abandoned amusement park in Chippewa Lake dad stopped at last year,” Oliver said. “The one where he said they filmed the movie ‘Closed for the Season.’ The Ferris wheel, remember how it was all rusty, and the Fun House, some of the old walls were still there, painted in Day-Glo green, it was kind of sad.”

   “It was closed forever,” Emma said.

   “That’s a long time,” Oliver said.

   They took the stairs to the top floor ballroom. It was put in by Hannes Tiedemann to cheer up his wife, Louise, after the tragedies the family suffered. He thought she might dance her sorrows away. The ballroom was large, stretching the length of the house. When it was added to the house so were turrets and gargoyles. It was what made the house look like a castle.

   The ballroom was empty. They walked the length of it, their footsteps echoing behind them. The echo was behind time, always a few seconds behind their footsteps. When they turned around to go back the way they had come the echo was gone. There was a specter blocking their way. It was a skeleton wearing a black hooded cloak and carrying a scythe. It was the Grim Reaper.

   “Well, well,” the Grim Reaper said. “What have we got here, Hansel and Gretel?”

Previous: Breaking Into Franklin Castle

Next: Busting Out of Franklin Castle

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street at http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A thriller in the Maritimes, out of the past, a double cross, and a fight to the finish.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CV9MRG55

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Muscle from Montreal. A constable working the back roads stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

Breaking Into Franklin Castle

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By Ed Staskus

   The first thing Oliver and Emma’s father did when he pulled into the St. Ignatius High School parking lot on the near west side of Cleveland was park the car, get out, and take his children on a tour of the campus.

   “It’s a lot different than when I was here,” he told them.

   “When was that, dad?”

   “The middle 1980s,” he said.

   “That was another century,” Oliver said.

   “That’s right.”

   “That was another millennium,” Emma said. She was two years older than Oliver and knew more big words.

   “That’s right, too, although both of you are making me feel old.”

   “How is it different?” Oliver asked.

   “It’s bigger,” their father said, looking around.

   When St. Ignatius opened in 1886 as a school for Cleveland’s Catholic young men it was both a high school and a college. The college later became Jonn Carroll College and moved to the east side. St Ignatius stayed where it was in its Gothic edifice on W. 30th  St. and Carrol Ave. The grounds got bigger over the years, expanding to fifteen acres. The Saint Mary of the Assumption Chapel was built in 1998 and the O’Donnell Athletic Complex was unveiled in 2001. The Welsh Academy, a middle school for urban boys, was established in the former Foursquare Church building in 2019. By then the campus had grown to nineteen buildings and three athletic fields on twenty three acres. 

   “Are you giving a speech today?” Emma asked.

   “They asked me to speak at Career Day, but it’s not a speech, exactly, more like a panel discussion with other graduates followed up by questions from the students.”

   Their father was an electrical engineer and brought home the bacon so the home fires stayed lit. 

   “Dad, would it be alright if we went to see the Franklin Castle while you give your speech?” Emma asked.

   Oliver and Emma were the Monster Hunters of Lake County. No matter how scary, they couldn’t resist anyplace full of spooks and monsters, especially one that was old and creepy and that happened to be nearby.

   “It’s not far away, so it should be all right. Be careful crossing streets and be back here in two-and-a-half hours.”

   They were a block away when they found a Lime e-scooter with time still ticking on its clock. They had a short argument about who was going to pilot the e-scooter, an argument Emma won by hopping on it and grasping the handlebars. Oliver wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and they sped off in the bike lane. They went down Fulton Rd., turned on Woodbine Ave., went round at a traffic circle getting onto W. 38th St., and before they knew it they were at the Franklin Castle, which was on the north side of Franklin Blvd. They had gone about a mile.

   “You’re not going to tell mom and dad we rode this scooter, are you?” Emma asked her brother.

   “No way!” Oliver said.

   They loved their parents more than anything, but didn’t love everything they said and did. They weren’t in love with crime and punishment, for sure. They thought it was unfair that they couldn’t discipline their parents, who made mistakes just like them, because of the size difference between them.

   “It’s like Godzilla always says,” their friend Tommy One Shoe said. “Might makes right.”

   Franklin Castle was a big stone house built in the early 1880s. It was built where a two-story wood house called Bachelor’s Hall had once stood before being torn down. Bachelor’s Hall was built by the Wolverton brothers. They fought in the Civil War with the Ohio Light Artillery. Only two of the four brothers survived the war. Only one came back to Cleveland. After he died and after Franklin Castle was built visitors reported seeing ghostly soldiers in faded uniforms in the backyard galloping on desperate horses.

   The stone house was built by Hannes Tiedemann, a successful merchant and banker, for his family. His family was his mother, his wife Louise, and six children. His15-year-old daughter Emma died of diabetes. Then his mother Wiebeka died. In the space of no time he buried three more children who died of infectious diseases, two of them of measles. The last children, Dora and August, survived.

   The diminished family lived in their new home on Franklin Blvd. until Louise died in 1895. Soon after the new century dawned Dora and August died. Their father retired to Steinberg, his sprawling summer house on Lake Erie in nearby Lakewood. He passed away in 1908, alone and worn out by tragedy. Franklin Castle became the home of the German Socialist Party. When nobody liked socialists anymore it became the German American League for Culture. Their singing club was very popular, as was the beer garden. Singing in the garden while waving a stein was always a good time. Everybody called it Eintracht Hall in those days. 

   After the Germans moved out in 1968 the Romano family moved in. The lady of the house was warned that “this domicile is evil and you shouldn’t have come. You should move out.”  One winter day she sent her children to the top floor to play. When they came down they told their parents about finding a sad little girl in a ragged dress who asked for a cookie to cheer her up.

   They searched the top floor but no child was found. When it happened again they locked the door and kept it locked. They started hearing organ music on weekends, even though there was no organ in the house. Their children woke up in the middle of the night to find their blankets being yanked off them by unseen hands. The family moved out in 1974 and the house was taken over by a man who began offering public tours of “Haunted Franklin Castle.” 

   “What’s so haunted about it?” Emma asked.

   “Lights go on and off by themselves, mirrors suddenly fog up, voices can be heard in empty rooms, and doors fly off their hinge, for starters,” Oliver said.

   “Let’s go inside and see,” Emma said.

   “Does anybody live there?”

   “When I asked dad, he said nobody lives there anymore.”

   When they tried to get inside the house they discovered all the doors were locked. They knocked on the front door. They looked through windows. They knocked on the back door. Nobody answered.

   They were scratching their heads outside the back door when Emma plucked two bobby pins out of her hair. The first pin was going to be a replacement for a key. She bent the rounded end until it was perpendicular to the two free ends. She stuck the rounded end into the key slot. It would act as a handle. She unbent and flattened the second pin, making a long straight pick. She bent one end slightly and slid the bent end into the top half of the keyhole, above the pin she had already inserted into the lock. Emma used her bobby pin to push the pins up, one at a time, until the cylinder was free to turn. She turned it with the first pin she had made into a handle. It was easy as pie. The door opened and they went inside.

   “How did you learn to do that?” Oliver asked.

   “It’s a secret.”

   “No, tell me.”

   “I’ll tell you when you’re 12-years-old like me.”

   The back door suddenly slammed shut. The air got hot and gluey. It  got dark as a tar pit. They heard heavy footsteps.

   “Who has broken into my castle?” the voice of bad juju behind them said.

Next: Franklin Castle Walkabout

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street at http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Down East http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A thriller in the Maritimes, out of the past, a double cross, and a fight to the finish.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Books

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CV9MRG55

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Muscle from Montreal. A constable working the back roads stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication