By Ed Staskus

   Ever since they were rug rats Oliver and Emma’s father packed their mother and them up and they went on a one-week road trip to West Virginia. He streamed Steve Earle and they sang along. “Now I’m standin’ on this highway and if you’re going my way, you know where I’m bound, hillbilly highway, hillbilly highway.” They always took Rt. 83 instead of the interstate. They sang out the back windows of their Jeep Cherokee. 

   “It’s God’s country,” Oliver’s father said, even though he had been born and bred in Cleveland, Ohio and had never gone to West Virginia until he was sent there as part of a refinery inspection team. He was an electrical engineer. Since he was an engineer he knew how to read a compass. He knew where the Mason-Dixon Line was.

   One summer they went to Elkins for a bluegrass festival. They stayed at the Cheat River Cabins, ate breakfast at diners, went hiking in the Stuart Area woods, and listened to bluegrass at night. It was in the air all over. The Augusta Heritage Festival is held every summer at the Davis & Elkins College. There are old-time tunes and bluegrass, Cajun and Zydeco, Irish and Contra dancing.

   They heard Molly Lewis whistle. She whistled songs everybody knew, standing all by herself in the middle of the stage. Whistling used to be big. Elmo Tanner and Muzzy Marcellino made careers for themselves back in the day pursing their lips and blowing. In 1967 the whistling song “I Was Kaiser Bill’s Batman” was an international hit.

   “If I’m out walking in the woods and hear a birdcall, I try to mimic it,” Molly said. “I have probably got a terrible accent in bird talk, but I do my best.”

   Another summer they went white water rafting on the New River, except Oliver and Emma didn’t. They were underage. They took pictures of their mom and dad pushing off and then ran to the Wonderland Water Park, all-day passes clutched in their hands. They navigated the inflatable obstacles and bounced, splashed, and jumped all around the five-acre spring-fed lake water park. They went on waterslides until they were exhausted and had to chill out on the white sandy beach.

   The summer they were near Flatwoods in central West Virginia they made an excursion to see what the monster sighting was all about. Seventy years earlier the town earned the nickname “Home of the Green Monster.” Some folks called it the Braxton County Monster. Others called it the Phantom of Flatwoods, or simply the Green Monster.

   They were having lunch at Moe’s in near-by Sutton, talking about the monster, when a man leaned over from his table and said to Oliver, “Don’t worry about the monster getting you, kid. You’ll smell it before it gets near enough to grab you.” Emma glared at him from behind her new glasses. She pushed them down her nose.

   “My brother and I take care of business where we live, mister. Just ask Godzilla. If anybody needs to worry, it’s you and your flying saucer monster.”

   Everybody started laughing and talking about spaceships, fireballs, glowing red eyes, and 10-foot-tall eat you alive creatures. Oliver didn’t pay them any mind. He would make up his own mind when he saw firsthand what he needed to see.

   They went to the Flatwoods Monster Museum first. “The story made the local news, then got picked up by national radio and big papers all over the country,” Andrew Smith, who runs the museum, told them. “The mother and the National Guard kid ended up going to New York to talk to CBS.”

   It was near dark in mid-September 1952 when the May brothers Eddie and Freddie, playing in the schoolyard with their friend Tommy, saw a bright light flash across the sky and hit the ground. Freddie ran and grabbed his mother. Several more boys and dogs and Eugene Lemon joined them. They ran up the hill where the light landed.

   “Seven Braxton County residents on Saturday reported seeing a 10-foot Frankenstein-like monster in the hills above Flatwoods,” the local newspaper reported. “A National Guard member, 17-year-old Gene Lemon, was leading the group when he saw what appeared to be a pair of bright eyes in a tree. He screamed and fell backward when he saw a monster with a blood-red body and a green face that seemed to glow.”

   They were nauseated by a stomach-churning smell and ran away fast and faster, including Gene Lemon, who had scrambled to his feet.

   “Those people were the most scared people I’ve ever seen,” said A. L. Stewart, the newspaper publisher. He marched up the hill with a loaded shotgun after witnesses told him what they saw. “People don’t make up that kind of story that quickly,” he said.

   “One of the boys peed his pants,” said John Gibson, who knew them all. “Their dog Rickie ran back home with his tail between his legs.”

   John Gibson didn’t run. He was a World War II veteran who helped guard Nazi war criminals at the Nuremberg trials after serving with an infantry division in the Battle of the Bulge. He still lived in Flatwoods. He sold 12-inch Green Monster lanterns, thousands of them to curious passersby. He had them made in Marietta, Ohio by a ceramic artisan. Each piece was hand molded, fired, and painted.

   “I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny,” he said. “I don’t believe in Santa. And I really don’t believe in the Flatwoods Monster. But I do want to boost our community. If anybody knows how I could get a 26-foot fiberglass Green Monster statue made for Flatwoods, let me know. That would be a big draw, don’t you think?”

   “I thought it was kind of a fake,” a friend of his said. “I didn’t fool with it.”

   “Everybody still talks about the Flatwoods Monster, and they talk about little green men, but I never run into any of them,” John said. 

   Another friend insisted he saw a flying saucer buzz his house around the same time in 1952. “What did you think when you saw the saucer?” John asked.

   “I thought it was Dwight D. Eisenhower on a broom stick.” 

   When the visitors from Ohio asked, he gave them directions to the exact spot of what everybody agreed had probably been a UFO incident, if it was anything at all. Oliver and Emma jumped into the back seat. It wasn’t far. It was on a hill on a nearby farm. The property owners were leery of the Green Monster’s popularity, and tourists were forbidden. They worried about city folk trampling their crops. “We’re sick and tired of hearing about that monster,” is what they said. There wasn’t anybody around, though, so Oliver and Emma walked up the hill, while their parents watched from below.

   Oliver stood where it all had happened. The sun was shining in the blue sky. There was no creature with a red face, hellzapoppin eyes, savage claws, and floating in the air like gravity didn’t matter. There was no eerie mist and no otherworldly evil stench.

   “What’s that awful smell?” Emma asked. There was a strong smell of cow manure.

   They ran back to where their parents were waiting.

   “What did you make of it?” Oliver’s father asked.

   “I only hunt monsters I can smell and see and hear,” Oliver said. “If they are in a museum their time has come and gone. There’s nothing for me to do here. Can we go back to gone fishing?”

   “Let’s go, bud,” his father said, shepherding everybody into the Jeep, giving it gas, and going down the state road to the next corner of the Mountain State. Oliver and Emma sang “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.” They made up most of the lyrics as they rolled along.

   They didn’t know it, but they were leaving the Green Monster behind. He was taking a nap in the hollow at the bottom of the hill, where he had been keeping himself to himself ever since landing in Flatwoods. They didn’t hear him snoring as they sang at the top of their lungs.

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.”

Help support these stories. $25.00 a year (7 cents a day). Contact edwardstaskus@gmail.com with “Contribution” in the subject line. Payments processed by Stripe.

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A stem-winder in the Maritimes.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVDP8B58

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Two hired guns from Montreal. One rookie RCMP constable stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

By Ed Staskus

   Godzilla came to yoga late in life. He was 68 years old and getting long in the tooth. His lower back and rear end hurt. He thought it might be sciatica. He had trouble twisting to see who was gaining on him. When he tried to touch his toes, it seemed like they were miles away, even though they were only a couple of hundred feet away. He was losing his vim and vigor. He was on the edge of losing his edge. He knew it better than anybody. He had to do something about it.

   The first thing he had done after being accidentally brought up from the deep in the 1950s and getting used to his land legs was stomp on Tokyo. When he was done, he lapped up all the spilled milk he could find. Then he took a long nap, sleeping all day and part of the next day.

   No sooner did Tokyo rebuild itself than he destroyed it again and again. In the ensuing years he destroyed New York City three times. He destroyed Osaka and Paris twice. In between he traveled extensively and destroyed London, Moscow, Sydney, and Las Vegas, among others.

   It seemed like his pulverizing days might be over. He tried supplements and new-fangled red light devices. He tried long walks and strength training. He tried massage and acupuncture. He tried leafy vegetables, even though his favorite meal was eating cars and transmission towers.

   When he went to a wellness clinic, they told him there wasn’t anything they could do for him. First of all, he didn’t have medical insurance. On top of that he had never worked a day in his life and didn’t have Medicare. No cash no wellness. Don’t let the door slam on your way out. Besides, there wasn’t anything fundamentally wrong with him, except for his advancing years.

   He didn’t like their answers and stomped on the building, flattening it like a pancake. His best days might be behind him, but he still had his trademark stomp. However, when he lumbered away it was with a pronounced limp.

   “Man, oh man,” he muttered. “I think I hurt my back some more.”

   He was ready to take advice from anybody, including his grandson Goo Goo Godzilla, who was an insufferable know-it-all. He thought he knew everything just because he could ask the Gods of Google anything. Whenever Godzilla saw a cell phone, tablet, laptop, or desktop he chewed it up and spit it out because it tasted so bad. That was what he thought about knowing everything all the time.

   “You can’t turn back the hands of time, pops, but you can slow them down,” Goo Goo said. “I’ve heard one way to do that is by doing yoga.”

   Godzilla had never heard of yoga.

   “It’s a mind spirit body discipline,” Goo Goo said. “It’s thousands of years old. Ask Oliver and Emma, the Monster Hunters in Perry, my pals in Ohio. They have a friend of the family who’s a yoga teacher. His name is Barron Cannon. Maybe he could help.”

   “There’s nothing wrong with my mind or spirit,” Godzilla said. “It’s my body that needs a tune-up. I’m ready to try anything, even if it’s mumbo jumbo.”

   Although few were aware he could fly, Godzilla could fly. When he let loose an atomic breath of fire he could blast off like a missile and rocket himself anywhere in the world. In the summer one of his favorite places for R & R was Middle Sister Island. It was one of the Lake Erie islands. It was small but big enough for him. It was uninhabited. It was quiet. Goo Goo didn’t know where it was, and Godzilla meant to keep it that way. His grandson could be a nuisance.

   One evening it rained hard. In the middle of the night fog rolled in. The next morning, he woke up stiff and achy. It had been happening more sand more often, too often for comfort. He was finally determined to do something about it. He blasted off for Perry, where Oliver and Emma lived. Unfortunately, when he got there the shades were drawn. A neighbor told Godzilla the family had gone to West Virginia on vacation. 

   Godzilla took off and headed back towards Cleveland.  When he landed, he looked for a phone book to locate a yoga studio, but there were none to be had. The Yellow Pages had disappeared. Phone booths had disappeared. He put his quarter away.

   He roared off again, circling the city, and with his still keen eyesight located a studio on the west side of town. So long as he could see and stomp, he was still the boss man. He just had to limber up his old bones, get lean and mean again.

   He signed up for a complimentary class at the front desk. He didn’t have a mat, so the yoga instructor unfurled a hundred studio mats for him. The first pose, mountain pose, was just the right one for him. He was, after all, as big as a mountain. After that it was all downhill. Midway through class, frustrated and peevish, he let loose a breath of atomic fire and accidentally burnt the studio down. All the men and women fled. The fire department raced to the scene.

   The same thing happened at the next yoga studio and the one after that. Cleveland’s yoga owners called a hasty business meeting and quickly resolved to ban the monster from all their places of business. They were, however, undecided about how to keep him out. He was as big as a forty- story building. He wasn’t hiding in any corners. He weighed in at 90,000 tons. It was matter over mind with him.

   Godzilla was determined to learn the yoga moves and carry the lessons away with him. He had too many mean streets to cross to adopt its beliefs as a lifestyle, but he had too many enemies to not get on the mat. He had to be able to do to his archenemies what they wanted to do to him.

   “How about if we offer him free private lessons, somewhere outdoors, somewhere there is plenty of outdoors?” one teacher offered.

   Everybody thought it was a good idea, but nobody wanted to be the teacher doing the teaching. One false move and they might get squashed. After much hemming and hawing all eyes turned to Barron Cannon. He was a single man, didn’t have a family who would mourn him, and was an anarchist to boot. Most of Cleveland’s yoga teachers avoided him, his social and political views making them fit to be tied, no matter how much they meditated and tried to think the better of their fellow man. It struck them he was the perfect candidate. He was irascible. He was self-centered and hot-tempered and would give Godzilla as good as he got. 

What Barron thought was that he had never met anyone worth a damn who wasn’t irascible.

   “How about it, Barron?” one of the teachers asked.

    “Sure,” he said and left the meeting to find Godzilla.

   Barron was notoriously tight-lipped when it came to small talk. Another teacher once bet him two dollars that she could get him to say more than two words.

   “You lose,” he said.

   The behemoth wasn’t hard to find. It was like looking for a skyscraper. He wasn’t hard to convince, either. He thought one-on-one lessons were just the ticket. 

   “I’ve heard of you,” the monster said to Barron. “Do you know the Monster Hunter?”

   “I know the little rascal,” Barron said.

   Godzilla motioned for him to hop on his back, and when he was hanging on tight, Godzilla rocketed back to Middle Sister Island. Before he did, he landed in the parking lot of a Heinen’s grocery store so Barron could stock up on protein bars and bottled water.

   They were no sooner airborne again than they heard sirens and watched police cars and SWAT teams from Lakewood, Rocky River, and Fairview Park descend on the grocery store, where shoppers were scattering in every direction. It wasn’t often that the King of the Monsters visited and didn’t destroy your city. They should have counted their blessings, but they were all boomers and echo boomers and felt as blessed as they were ever going to feel.

   On the island Barron got to work early the next day, even though Godzilla was cranky, wanting to sleep in. Hour after hour, day after day, he led Godzilla through endless sun salutations, until he could do them in his sleep. When he tried to beg off, Barron tongue lashed him.

   “Do you think Ghidora is laying around gazing at his navel? Do you think Mothra is lounging around eating grapes? Do you think Destoroyah is gaping at gals at some dance hall?”

   Godzilla had to admit none of them were doing any of that. They were all probably on the prowl. They were all like him. None of them had a friend in the world, only enemies. King Kong was the only creature Godzilla was remotely close to. They had fought to a draw several times and harbored a sullen respect for each other. 

   “I’m not going to bother you with the beliefs and principles of yoga,” Barron said. “I’m not going to read to you from ‘The Light of Yoga.’ It’s not because I don’t think it’s vital to the practice, but because that’s the nature of the yoga beast these days. Everybody is only interested in what yoga can do for them right now. I get it. We’re going to move on to intermediate practice next, and after that to Ashtanga Yoga. You’re a quick study, big guy. Another week-or-so and I think you’ll be ready to make these exercises your own.”

   Godzilla whooped his approval. Barron dodged the monster’s inadvertent bad fiery breath. At the end of the day Godzilla curled up and Barron curled up inside Godzilla’s curl, staying warm. At the end of the week Barron pinned a gold star on Godzilla’s chest and declared him ready to go. The monster touched his toes with ease and beamed his appreciation. He was loose as a goose.

   After dropping Barron off at his apartment in Lakewood and promising to never destroy his hometown, no matter what, so long as Barron lived there, Godzilla got ready to blast off back to Japan. He had some scores to settle. He had nothing left to prove, but he thought he might destroy Tokyo again, just to show he could still do it.

   He circled over downtown Cleveland before turning west for the Pacific. Below him was the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Thousands of people on thousands of mats were doing sun salutations in the sunshine on the plaza in front of the blue glass tent. It was the annual Believe in Cleveland yoga love-in. He swooped low and belched fire. Everybody looked up and saluted his mighty yogic Breath of Fire.

   His enemies were going to pay for all the slanderous things they had been saying about him, things like blobby slow and over the hill. With his newfound reptilian quickness, he was going to make mincemeat of them. He was as physically fast and aware as he had ever been, slimmed down to 80,000 tons.

   He couldn’t wait to put the moves on his glib grandson Goo Goo, either. He would show him the path to Hell was paved with good intentions, even though he knew no monsters, not even his kith and kin, had anything but bad intentions. Barron Cannon had been right to not bring up the “Light of Yoga.” 

   The light in Godzilla’s eyes had nothing to do with yoga.

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.”

Help support these stories. $25.00 a year (7 cents a day). Contact edwardstaskus@gmail.com with “Contribution” in the subject line. Payments processed by Stripe.

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A stem-winder in the Maritimes.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVDP8B58

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Two hired guns from Montreal. One rookie RCMP constable stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

By Ed Staskus

   Billy Destoroyah was all grown up and raring to go. When he was a little darling, everybody called him either Junior or Boom Boom. Now only Bill Destoroyah, Sr. called him Junior anymore. Everybody else called him Boom Boom, for good reason. He was red all over and had a bad temper. He was almost three hundred feet tall. Nobody bothered trying to guess his weight, since it didn’t matter. He was going to throw his weight around no matter what.

   The first Destoroyah was born and morphed out of a colony of crustaceans who were awakened when an Oxygen Destroyer was detonated in Tokyo Bay in a misguided attempt to destroy Godzilla. Growing and evolving by combining with each other, the crustaceans took on several forms before converging into a colossal trouble making monster.

   In the beginning they adopted a flying form to battle Godzilla Junior. He swatted them away. It was then that one of the Destoroyahs morphed bigger and badder finally towering over the teenaged Godzilla. He became “the most heartless and cruel of any kaiju” to ever walk the earth.  After he killed Godzilla Jr., Godzilla went on the warpath, tracking him down at the Haneda Airport. It was a rumble to the death. Grandpa Destoroyah did an about face, reduced to death, dust, and memory. There was no satisfaction in it for Godzilla, but it was something that had to be done.

   Boom Boom was on his own warpath. He didn’t have any reason for it except that Goo Goo Godzilla was a kaiju grandson, like him, and was on the wrong side of the monster line-up. It was the Hatfields and McCoys. He put it into his own brain that Goo Goo had to go.

   Goo Goo chose a spot for the fight south of Ontario’s Long Point National Wildlife Area, in the middle of Lake Erie. Goo Goo could fly there like a rocket from anywhere in no time and train for a week-or-two while Boom Boom was slow poking from his hideout in Japan halfway across the world. Goo Goo would be rested and ready. He would also have Oliver, the Monster Hunter of Lake County, in his corner. Emma, Oliver’s sister and right-hand man, would be at his side. Boom Boom would be by his own bad self.

   Oliver lived in nearby Perry, Ohio, near the lake, not far from the nuclear power plant. He was in second grade, having finished first grade with honors, although with a warning about daydreaming. Goo Goo picked him up after school. Neither he nor Emma had a passport, but if the ICE made an issue of it, Goo Goo would deal with them. ICE was tough as nails on human migrants, but not so much when it came to migrant kaiju. 

   Boom Boom didn’t give a thought to flying across the Pacific Ocean, even though his small wings barely got him launched and when they did, he could only fly at about 20 MPH. He didn’t give a thought to crossing the wide-open Canadian grain fields, He didn’t give a thought to navigating the Great Lakes. He was a big boy but wasn’t big on thinking about geography, or anything else.

   Oliver and Emma sat Goo Goo down on the day of the fight to the finish. Emma explained what Goo Goo was up against. Oliver listened with half an ear, putting the finishing touches on his plan.

   “He has got a razor-sharp tail, clawed hands, and taloned feet that can tear almost anything apart in the blink of an eye,” Emma explained. “But Boom Boom is a pudge boy when it comes to hand-to-hand fighting. He is slow and sluggish. You are way faster. He likes to stay back and puff up stinking clouds of micro-oxygen, spit out explosive globs of micro-oxygen, and sneeze micro-oxygen comets of annihilation. Those are bad enough but watch out for his Laser Horn, especially when he lowers his head. The laser energy can take down a skyscraper. It can slice through monster scales and melt monster flesh.”

   She put her spiral bound notebook away. Goo Goo was doing one-arm push-ups. He was going to put the bite on Boom Boom. He switched over to the other arm. The last monster standing was going to be him, not some stinking cloud of micro oxygen.

   Oliver climbed to the top of Goo Goo’s head. He glued a strip of Velcro to his scaly crown and another strip to the seat of his shorts. When he sat down, he felt good and stuck. Goo Goo shook his head back and forth to make sure. Oliver stayed put. They were on the tip of Long Point. Goo Goo waded out into Lake Erie until he straddled the border of the USA and Canada.

   Emma stayed on the crest of a sand dune. When she saw Boom Boom approaching, she used her semaphore flags to signal Goo Goo and her brother. They flapped and snapped in the strong breeze. Oliver gave her a thumb’s up and pulled his auto darkening welder’s goggles down over his eyes.

   The young Godzilla had worried that the sun might be in his eyes, but the young Destoroyah came swooping down in slow motion from the sky to the north, over Simcoe and Turkey Point. Oliver tapped a message out on the top of Goo Goo’s head with the butt of the jackknife he had borrowed from Emma. Most monsters knew Morse code.

   “Don’t mess around,” he said. “The Mounted Police will have seen him over Kitchener. They’ll be here soon, probably with helicopters, but they won’t have any idea what they’re getting into.”

   Goo Goo did the Ali Shuffle on the bedrock, jabbing with his left, and unleashed a burst of fire breath. When Boom Boom landed a hundred yards away, he made a tidal wave. Goo Goo stood his ground. Clouds and globs of micro-oxygen came at him but were blown away by the wind, which was gusting at 40 knots over the water.

   Boom Boom roared and Goo Goo roared back. Boom Boom tried to do the Ali Shuffle but almost fell over. He thought about getting closer until he saw Goo Goo shadow boxing, throwing ten and twelve shadow punches every second. 

   “I won’t last long if I get too close,” he thought. “But I got to get a little closer.” He was going to lay it on the line with his Laser Horn. “One beam of my laser will open him up like a rotten tomato.”

   He waddled toward Goo Goo, staying just out of reach of his atomic fire breath. He turned to face him and lowered his head. The Laser Horn was primed and ready.

   Oliver had brought a 12-inch square of polished Super Mirror 8, stainless steel his dad had laying around in the garage. He unwrapped it from one of his mom’s kitchen towels. He knew the laser was coming but didn’t know how fast it would happen. He almost didn’t get the mirror set up in time, but he did. The laser light beam was aimed at the spot between Goo’s Goo’s eyes. Oliver lowered the mirrored square and the beam hit it smack dab in the center. It reflected right back at the Destoroyah. When it hit him, it was the end of Boom Boom. He fell over with a plunk and sank to the bottom of Lake Erie. The water sizzled all around him.

   Emma saw Mounted Police helicopters coming and waved her semaphore flags. Goo Goo blasted off back to Long Point. He lowered his head and Emma clambered on board. Oliver used another strip of Velcro to stick her in place. Goo Goo flew them back to Perry and dropped them off on the other side of the forest from where they lived.

   “Thanks for all your help,” he said. 

   “Bye bye, pal,” Oliver and Emma both said at the same time. 

   Walking home Emma glanced at the dent in the square of stainless steel. She suddenly thought of something.

   “Where’s the towel?” she asked.

   “I must have dropped it somewhere,” Oliver said, looking around.

   “Dad’s not going to care about that dent, but you know mom’s not going to like you losing her favorite navy blue with yellow ducks on it kitchen towel,” Emma said, clapping Oliver on the back of the head. “Why didn’t you use some of that velcro.”

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.”

Help support these stories. $25.00 a year (7 cents a day). Contact edwardstaskus@gmail.com with “Contribution” in the subject line. Payments processed by Stripe.

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A stem-winder in the Maritimes.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVDP8B58

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Two hired guns from Montreal. One rookie RCMP constable stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

By Ed Staskus

   Oliver was an all-American boy, half German and half Lithuanian. So was his sister Emma. Their black and white cat Sylvester was a stray they had rescued and nobody knew her background. When they asked her, she said, even though she couldn’t talk, that she didn’t have a clue.

   When Christmas came Sylvester lay low, so that Oliver and Emma couldn’t put bows, ribbons, and bells on her. They tried squeezing her into a sweater one holiday season, but when the cat scratch fever growling hissing and clawing was over, the sweater was a mess.

   “I was born to be deadly stealthy, not a gay girl on parade,” Sylvester grumbled, searching for a quiet corner.

   St. Nicholas Day is a favorite holiday with Germans. Every night on December 5^th Oliver and Emma cleaned their shoes and left them outside the front door before going to sleep. The next morning they always found them filled with candy, cookies, and small gifts from St Nicholas, or whoever the delivery service was.

   What they didn’t know was anything about Krampus, who is a devilish self-styled sidekick of St Nicholas, was on the loose. He tags along with St. Nick to teach bad children a hard-earned lesson. Even though Oliver and Emma had been generally good all year, Krampus got his signals crossed and messed with their footwear that year. Their boots lay scattered in the snow in the front yard, thrown here and there. There were no candy bars, nuts, or gifts. What happened, they asked themselves, scratching their heads.

   Their father found them disappointed and slumped on the sofa in the living room. They told him about their barren St. Nicholas Day. They had put boots instead of shoes out expecting a big payday, even a bonus, since they both agreed they had batted a thousand that year, which was none too shabby for them. 

   After their father cleared his throat, he told them about Krampus.

   “He’s the Christmas Devil,” he said. “He’s dark and hairy, other times he’s damp white and hairy, has got the horns of a Billy goat, cloven hooves, and a long tongue with a pointy tip that hangs out of his mouth. He has fangs like a vampire. He carries chains and rattles them, and birch branches that he swats the bottoms of children with. There is a basket strapped to his back where he puts bad children so he can eat them later that night. After he’s done, he goes home to Hell.”

   It was a lot of holiday cheerlessness for Oliver and Emma to digest. When their father was done filling them in about Krampus Emma was sweating up a storm and even Oliver was taken aback. He soon recovered his poise, however, and asked where he could find the ogre.

   “We were good most of the year, weren’t we dad?”

   “Both of you were good, better than ever. I’m proud of both of you.”

   “So why did he pick on us?

   “Maybe he made a mistake.”

    Monsters don’t make mistakes,” Oliver said, a determined look on his face.

   That night Emma and Oliver bundled up and went looking for Krampus. They didn’t have to go far. When they looked through one of the windows of the Church of Jesus Christ right around the corner, he was sleeping on a pew curled up like a lamb.

   “You go in and rile him up,” Oliver said to Emma. “When he starts chasing you, take off through the front door and I’ll take it from there.”

   “OK bud,” Emma said hitching up her pants.

   “Hey, you termite infested lousy lice pole skunk, I don’t like that you stole stuff from our boots,” she shouted straight into his sleeping face. He smelled like sulfur and old socks. “They were filled up with rocks instead of chocolate yesterday morning. We’re going to get you for that.”

   When Krampus shook the sandman out of his eyes what he saw was an eight-year-old girl bundled up like a blimp shaking her little fist at him. She was much less than half his size. She didn’t have horns or razor-sharp three-inch teeth. He could eat her in two seconds. He grabbed for Emma, but she was quicker than him and dashed out the door. He ran after her right into Oliver’s trap.

    Oliver was outside with his Wonder Boomerang in his hand. “Hey cream cheese face, over here,” he shouted.

   Krampus whirled, snarled, and made a beeline for Oliver. The monster hunter sidestepped the cloven hooves and threw his boomerang straight up. It came down in tight circles releasing a line of silky spider thread behind it. It whirled around and around Krampus until it bound his arms and legs so tight that when he tried to take another step he toppled over, landing face first in the snow.

    He roared and belched and complained until Oliver told him to quiet down, or else. The heat of his breath melted the snow around him until it was a puddle. Oliver stepped up to the monster. Emma stayed back. Krampus was seething with frustration. 

   “Why did you mess with our boots when we’ve been good all year?”

   “Why do you want to know?”

   “I ask the questions here, Krampy,” Oliver said. “Spit it out.”

   “When I was at Jimmy the Jet’s house, he said he knew kids down the street who had been worse than him and if I let him off the hook, I could get two for one, so that’s why I went looking for your house. On the way I found out you weren’t nearly as bad as he said you were. All I got for my trouble was some crappy candy and cookies.”

   “Watch your mouth,” Emma seethed. “I baked those cookies.”

   Jimmy the Jet lived up the road on Ridge Rd. He was the fastest boy in Lake County. He ate fast, walked fast, and talked fast. Sometimes he talked too fast. When Krampus showed up at his door he had talked even faster.

   “He scared me out of my shorts,” Jimmy said when Oliver and Emma showed up. “When he started talking about eating me, I got really worried. Mom and dad were gone, and my sisters were upstairs fighting so I had to think fast. All I could think of was to put it on somebody else. You were the closest kids I could think of, so I gave him your address and he went away.”

   “Sheesh!” Emma said making a stink.

    “I’m sorry,” Jimmy said.

   “That’s OK,” Oliver said.

   “What did you do with Krampus after you got him all tied up with your Spiderman boomerang?” Jimmy asked.

   “We paid a visit to our friend the honey badger in the forest. He said he knew what to do with the mean old fiend. He came with us and then dragged him away by one of his horns. When he started belly aching the honey badger bit him on the butt and that was the end of that.”

   “Where did he take him?”

   “He took him to the new Vrooman Rd. bridge, the one over the Grand River, looped the end of the spider thread around the top of one of the piers, and threw him over the side. He’s dangling a hundred feet above the river. I’ve never heard anybody say so many bad words.”

   “What about all the bad kids he’s supposed to punish?” Jimmy asked.

   “They will have the rest of the year to straighten themselves out, just like you,” Emma said. 

   “It would be best to not give him a reason to ever come back to our neighborhood,” Oliver said, throwing Jimmy a slow look. “But if push comes to shove, and we have good reason, Emma might go to the bridge one night with her jackknife, cut him loose, and tell him our neighbor Jimmy is why he’s been spinning in the wind all this time. Do you know what I mean?”

   “That’s a thumb’s up loud and clear, bossman,” Jimmy the Jet said, saluting Oliver with his thumb.

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.”

Help support these stories. $25.00 a year (7 cents a day). Contact edwardstaskus@gmail.com with “Contribution” in the subject line. Payments processed by Stripe.

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A stem-winder in the Maritimes.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVDP8B58

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Two hired guns from Montreal. One rookie RCMP constable stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

By Ed Staskus

   Looking down at the Great Lakes, Goo Goo Godzilla wondered what they were and where he was. He had flown past a whopping big lake and could see four more, each one smaller than the one before. The two he was over were like kidneys facing each other and the one ahead reminded him of home. It was shaped like Japan. He swooped lower to get a better look.

   When he saw the 500-foot-tall cooling towers of the Perry Nuclear Generating Station, his eyes got wide, and he dove straight for them. One of them was billowing steam, but the other one looked quiet. He knew exactly what they were. He didn’t like their looks. The Godzilla’s had a love hate relationship with fission.

   Oliver also knew what the cooling towers were. He lived nearby, just south of the power plant, but didn’t pay the place much mind. As long as the lights worked he was happy. He looked up and saw something strange. Was it Goo Goo?

   Goo Goo couldn’t fly, not exactly, but he could launch himself like a rocket with his atomic breath. Once he was up and away, he was able to glide the jet stream for hours, adjusting his course with bursts of red-hot. His grandfather had taught him how to do it..

   “It was fifty years ago when I was battling Hedorah that I first flew,” Godzilla said. “I was beating him into mashed potatoes with my tail but then he morphed into a flying saucer and escaped. I was helpless but wouldn’t give up. I ran as fast as I could, but he just got farther and farther away. At the last minute I had a brainstorm and took off using my atomic breath. I caught him, wrestled him down to the ground, and knocked him for a loop.  When I was done, I blasted off again and went home.”

   “Can you teach me?” Goo Goo asked.

   “I will, but don’t tell your grandmother,” Godzilla said. “She thinks flying is dangerous.”

   “What about Mothra and Rodan?” Goo Goo said. “They will always have the upper hand if you don’t go airborne. There’s King Ghidorra, too, he never stops giving you fits.”

   “I know, I know,” Godzilla said, the memory getting on his nerves. “Let’s just keep the flying thing to ourselves, OK?”

   “OK pops.”

   When Oliver heard the emergency siren coming from the direction of Lake Erie, he ran to the TV and turned it on. He knew Goo Goo Godzilla was roaming around and feared the worst. Sure enough, it was the boy mountain circling the power plant on the lakeshore. He ran upstairs where his mother was brushing her teeth.

   “Mom, can I borrow your cellphone?”

   “Of course,” she said, spitting out Colgate and a mouthful of water. “What is that sound out there?”

   Oliver ran downstairs without answering and called school. He begged off his first-grade class. The lesson that day was going to be about the difference between living and non-living things. He didn’t have any trouble with that kind of thing. He explained he was rushing to the power plant.

   “Do the best you can,” the vice-principal said. “We are all counting on you. Oh, and tell your mother we won’t need a note this time.”

   Oliver was the Monster Hunter of Lake County. Even though he was only six years old he had a sixth sense about monsters. He knew when they were under his bed. He knew when they were in the basement. He knew when they were lurking in the woods.

   “Emma, can you skip school today?” he asked his sister. She was in third grade.

   “You bet I can!”

   “It might get dangerous.”

    “I’m right behind you,” she said. She could be fearless in spite of herself.

    They tossed monster hunting gear in their backpacks, strapped them on, and jumped on their pedal power go karts. Oliver’s was built for business while Emma’s was raked for style. They pedaled down Lane Rd, through front yards and backyards, through crop fields and nurseries, past Lane Grove and Birchfield Meadows, and at North Ridge Rd. stopped at the Dairy Queen for ice cream. Pressed for time, they had to lick their cones on the go, zipping under Rt. 20 to Lake Erie, where they took a right and raced to the nuclear power plant.

   They followed the shoreline past the bluffs. Goo Goo was stomping around the cooling towers, unleashing bursts of fury. They saw him plain as day. Police cars were everywhere, but what could they do? Goo Goo’s skin was a kind of battle armor that bullets and bombs bounced off of.

   When the police chief saw Oliver coming, he waved for him to hurry.

   “What’s your plan of attack?” he asked.

   “All Godzilla’s have two brains, one in their head and one down their back where the tail starts,” Oliver said. “I’m going to climb up his tail and go after his second brain.”

   “That sounds good. We’ll swing around to the front of him and try to distract him.”

   Oliver and Emma scrambled behind Goo Goo, who was snorting at the policemen. Oliver stopped at the tip of his tail and started climbing up. When he reached the spot where Goo Goo’s second brain was, Emma tossed a small ballpeen hammer up to him. Oliver peeled back the scales that covered the brain and started banging out a message with the hammer in Morse code.

   All monsters know Morse code, although they never tell anybody who isn’t a monster. Since most of them don’t know how to talk, only growl, snarl, and roar, the code was their way of talking to each other. The Godzilla’s had their own secret language, of course, but they knew Morse code, as well.

   “Stop messing with those reactors.” Oliver tapped. “Scram!”

   Goo Goo stopped dead in his tracks. He whirled around in all directions, almost sending Oliver flying, looking for the buttinsky trying to be the boss of him. Where was he? Was it an invisible monster? That could be real trouble. Maybe he had better fly back to Japan and tell his grandfather about this. He would know what to do.

   Before leaving he bellowed and tail-thumped a police car. Oliver had already scrambled off Goo Goo. He and Emma dashed a safe distance away while the junior dinosaur monster lifted up into the sky with a mighty roar. Before they knew it, he was gone.

   The police chief thanked Oliver and clapped him on the back, almost sending him sprawling. “You saved the day. Whatever you did took care of that stinkweed. We owe you a debt of gratitude.”

   “C’mon bud, we better beat it back home, otherwise we’ll be late for dinner,” Emma said.

   “All right,” Oliver said, and they slid into their go karts and in a second left the power plant behind them.

   By that time Goo Goo was far to the west, gliding over Sandusky, where he spied a Laser Wash car wash. He had flown almost ten thousand miles and hadn’t taken a bath in days. He was sure lasers would clean him up like nobody’s business. But when he landed, he discovered there were no lasers, just water. It was a scam! He was vexed and stamped his feet. When he noticed an American Pride car wash across the street, he liked what he saw. He lay down at the entrance of it, exhaled, getting skinny like a snake, tucked in this legs and arms and let the roller conveyor pull him. The water was cold, so he heated it up with a short blast of hot fire. When he came out the other end he felt like a new man and flew away.

   Oliver and Emma didn’t stop for anything on their way home and walked in through the back patio door just as their mother was setting the table. Their father was playing his new old-school Legend electric piano in the living room.

   “Ollie, Emmie, dinner’s almost ready,” their mother said looking at them over her shoulder. The kitchen was warm and smelled wonderful. “Where have you been and what have you been doing? Make sure you wash up, you’re both dirty as can be.” 

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.”

Help support these stories. $25.00 a year (7 cents a day). Contact edwardstaskus@gmail.com with “Contribution” in the subject line. Payments processed by Stripe.

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A stem-winder in the Maritimes.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVDP8B58

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Two hired guns from Montreal. One rookie RCMP constable stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

By Ed Staskus

   The Minerva Monster of Ohio should have stayed in Minerva but he didn’t. That was his first mistake. When he didn’t stay where he was, he got tangled up with Oliver, the Monster Hunter of Lake County. That was his second mistake. 

   The monster’s name was Minnie and since he was always on the prowl for grub, and since he never had cash or a credit card, he was known as Minnie the Moocher, even though he was willing to play his saxophone in return for dinner. He played a mean Jackie McLean.

   The first time Oliver saw the creature in the forest behind his house he was practicing scales. He was wearing a blue bandana wrapped around his head and dark sunglasses. He was as naked as the day he was born.

   When Minnie was done practicing, he burst into “Take the A Train.” He played the Dave Brubeck Quartet version. “Hurry, get on, now it’s coming, listen to those rails a-thrumming, all aboard, get on the A train, soon you will be on Sugar Hill.” He played it for his own satisfaction.

   When he was finished and Oliver started clapping, Minnie almost jumped out of his fur. He thought he was alone. He couldn’t see around the oak tree behind which Oliver was standing. When he roared Oliver didn’t jump out of his skin. He had heard plenty of monstrous roars in his time.

   Minnie had been an outdoorsman for a long time, but the first time anybody ever caught sight of him was in Minerva more than forty years earlier. Herbert Cayton had dug a garbage pit behind his house. Everything went into it, including food scraps. When Minnie went rummaging for food scraps the farm dogs went berserk, barking up a storm. Herbie and his mother Evelyn went to the pit to investigate. They got the surprise of their life.

   “It just stood there. It didn’t move, but I almost broke my neck running back down the hill,” Evelyn said.

   “What do you want?” Minnie bellowed at Oliver, who came out from behind the tree. When he saw who it was, Minnie almost laughed. It was a pipsqueak of a boy. Minnie stood up on his hind legs making himself even bigger and roared again even louder. He was roaring at the wrong boy.

   When Dave White had run into the creature behind his Paris Township home near Minerva, and Minnie roared at him, he couldn’t lock himself in his house fast enough. “It’s a blood chilling sound,” he said. “A curdling sound. It will scare the hell out of you.”

   Oliver had been roared at by three-hundred-foot-tall monsters. A hairy twelve-footer who scavenged garbage dumps wasn’t going to faze him. He nonchalantly walked back home whistling the A Train song.

   When Deputy Sheriff Jim Shannon of Minerva investigated a complaint about Minnie, he thought the simple explanation had to be food. “Those folks heard something at the kitchen window, kind of clawing and pawing. I don’t think the creature, whatever the hell it was, was trying to get in as much as it was saying, ‘Hey, feed me!’” The lawman hit it on the nose. Minnie the Moocher was always on the make for a ten-course meal. He could eat anything anywhere anytime.

   Every time somebody spotted Minnie the papers, radio, and TV made a big stink about it. Newspapermen and photographers started showing up in Minerva. They were followed by curiosity seekers and hunters. The orange vested hunters came armed with Bowie knives and shotguns. Most of them had cases of beer in coolers in their pick-up trucks. When they started taking potshots at him was when Minnie decided to move on. He was sick and tired of being the bad guy. He hit the open road. 

   “It was moving pretty good on two legs, pumping its arms like a track star. I got back in the car, rolled up the windows and locked the door,” Herbert Burke said, parked on the side of a country road.

   When Minnie got to Lake County in northeast Ohio, he thought he had stumbled onto paradise. There were farmers markets galore to steal food from and plenty of forest land to hide in. He broke into Mentor, Painesville, and Willoughby markets. Before long the police got plenty concerned about it. 911 was ringing off the hook. Squad cars sped in all directions.

   The Lake County Visitors Bureau got concerned about it, too. Minnie had been spotted at campgrounds while gleaning. He had been spotted at beaches working on his tan, even though he was hairy as could be. He had been spotted in backyard gardens. Travelers and tourists were avoiding Lake County like the plague. The Visitors Bureau knocked on Oliver’s door.

   “i saw him a few weeks ago,” Oliver told them. “He plays a mean saxophone. He wasn’t friendly, but he wasn’t unfriendly either.”

   “He’s scaring the tourists to death,” they said. “Something has to be done.”

   Oliver and Emma put on their thinking caps. Even though Minnie wasn’t messing with people, people saw him as a menace. Even though he was god-like on the sax, nobody was coming to his shows. Every time he showed himself in person everybody ran the other way.

   “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Emma said.

    ‘What does that mean?” Oliver asked.

   “I don’t know but grownups say it all the time, and since they’re in charge, it must mean something. Anyway, I think it means we have to find him a girlfriend who will become his wife,

who will cook three meals a day for him, and who will keep him at home.”

   “You might be on to something,” Oliver said.

   “Where have you been,” Emma asked. She had long thought she was the brains behind Oliver’s monster hunting. He did the hunting but she did the thinking.

   “Did you say something?”

   “Oh, never mind,” she said.

   They secretly borrowed their mom’s laptop and found a dating service for Bigfeet. It was hard to tell who might be right for Minnie. All the Bigfeet girls looked the same, all of them hairy and about ten feet tall. When they found Bonnie the Bigfoot Babe, who lived in the woods between Sudbury, Ontario and the Lady Evelyn Smoothwater Provincial Park, both of them perked up.

   “Bingo,” Emma said.

   “How do we get him there?”

   “Maybe Uncle Ed will drive him there. He’s from Sudbury.”

   “Good idea,” Oliver said.

   “What?” Uncle Ed said when they asked him. “You want me to drive a Bigfoot to Sudbury? Where did you find a Bigfoot, anyway? Are you sure Sudbury wants him?”

   “Not Sudbury exactly, more like the middle of nowhere,” Emma said.

   “That sounds even worse,” Uncle Ed said.

   In the end he and Aunt Vanessa agreed to do it. They could drop him off, stop for a walk at Lake Nipissing, stop in Toronto for dinner, and be back by Monday morning.

   “How are we going to get him to go?” Uncle Ed asked.

   “Leave that to us,” Oliver said.

   Emma went to work. She made a scrambled egg breakfast. She made ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch. She made a pot roast for dinner. She made a strawberry and rhubarb pie for dessert. When Uber Eats delivered the food, Minnie ate all of it all at once. When he was done and picking his teeth, Oliver explained that he could have the same food every day. All he had to do was go to Canada and get married. Minnie had never heard of Canada or marriage, but he unleashed a whopping burp. The burp was his way of agreeing to go.

   “Yeti or not, here I come,” he said.

   Uncle Ed and Aunt Vanessa picked him up the next day in their SUV, lowered the back seats so he could stretch out, and left for the border. They drove with all the windows open because Minnie smelled so bad.

   “When was the last time you took a shower?”

    “Never.”

   “Do you have a passport?”

   “No.”

   Aunt Vanessa threw a blanket over him when they got to Buffalo and were crossing the border. When they got to Sudbury, they turned right. They took Route 84 north and dropped Minnie off near a lake with no name. Bonnie the Bigfoot Babe was waiting and ran out to them, throwing her arms around Minnie.

   “Aw shucks,” he bumbled and stumbled. They disappeared into the woods holding hands.

   Uncle Ed and Aunt Vanessa spent a day walking around and swimming in Lake Nipissing, a day sightseeing and eating in Toronto, and after they got home to Lakewood, Ohio where they lived, they dropped their car off at the Meticulous Car Wash & Detailing Center.

   “What was in this car?” the cleaning man asked putting a clean rag over his nose.

   “You know how pictures of Bigfoot are always blurry?”

   “Sure.”

   “That’s what we had in the car, a blur.”

   “All right,” the cleaning man said. “Let me get to work cleaning up the blur.”

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.”

Help support these stories. $25.00 a year (7 cents a day). Contact edwardstaskus@gmail.com with “Contribution” in the subject line. Payments processed by Stripe.

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A stem-winder in the Maritimes.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVDP8B58

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Two hired guns from Montreal. One rookie RCMP constable stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

By Ed Staskus

   The summer vacation Oliver, his sister Emma, and their mother and father went on had too many parts to it. Oliver and Emma wanted to go somewhere where they could run around outside. Their mom wanted to go somewhere where she wouldn’t have to do much of anything. Their dad wanted to go to the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn. He was an electrical engineer by trade, but he was a car nut, too.

   Henry Ford was the man who made cars go, who made them for everybody, and who made himself one of the richest men in the world. That’s all he ever wanted to do and it’s what he did. But in the end he got too rich for his own good. He forgot real riches are those inside of you, not those in your wallet.

   He was born on a farm but wasn’t interested in farming. He became a machinist. When his family needed somebody to fix their pigheaded steam engine, he was their man. “Don’t find fault, find a remedy,” he said. He got so good at it, he got hired as a serviceman. He founded the Ford Motor Company in 1903 when he was 40 years old and introduced the first Model T in 1908. They were easy to drive and simple to repair. 

   Ten years later more than half of all the cars in the United States were Model T’s. All of them were black. “Any customer can have a car painted any color he wants so long as it is black,” he said when his Madison Avenue men suggested colors.

   By that time, he was becoming a mean old man with a chip on his shoulder. Everything was black and white. It was his way or the highway.

   When he was young he said, “Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty. Anyone who keeps learning stays young. The greatest thing in life is to keep your mind young.” The older he got the more he put learning behind him and let his mind go to stale bread. He hated trade unions, colored people of any color, and Jews. He didn’t trust banks or his fellow man. He believed trust was the first step on the road to ruin.

   The first place their parents took Oliver and Emma on their vacation was Kelleys Island. They left their car behind on shore and took the Jet Express. They went to a beach, played putt-putt, and toured the Island Wine Company. Their mom tasted some white wines.

   “When I was a teenager, we used to come here to drink too much” they overheard her say to their father.

   “Why did mom have to come here to drink?” Oliver asked Emma. “Grandma always has plenty of grape juice at home.”

   Emma rolled her eyes. She was two years older than Oliver, but he got all the glory for fighting monsters, and she had to settle for teaching him the facts of life. She had to admit, though, it was Oliver who took care of business because he never let facts get in the way.

   The next day their mother went to the Kalahari Spa while they went to Cedar Point with their father. It was hot, in the 90s, and steamy, like their backyard in August. They went on dozens of rides, walked dozens of miles, and were exhausted by the time they got back to their motel. They were sweaty and dirty. Their mother was at the pool looking good. She was relaxed and rejuvenated.

   “I got a pedicure and a manicure. I got a honey scrub and a full body salt stone massage. I got a facial treatment, too” she added, looking her family over. “The three of you look like you got lost in a swamp. I order you to take a shower and let’s go out to eat.”

   The next day they walked down to the Lake Erie shoreline, and when it got dark built a fire and roasted Max Mallows. A million stars twinkled in the night sky. It was quiet as could be. They didn’t hear the tires or engine of a single car until they got back to their car.

   When they got to Dearborn, they started early the next morning and roamed Greenfield Village. They saw the real bike shop where the Wright brothers worked. They saw the real Menlo Park where Thomas Edison worked. They saw the real house Henry Ford grew up in. They went on the Ford Rouge Factory Tour. They took in the Ford Giant Screen Experience.

   “I’m getting Ford on the brain,” Emma said. “Can’t we do something else?”

   “Not yet, bunny,” her father said. “There’s the Ford Museum of American Innovation coming up next.” 

   “How big is this place?”

   “250 acres.”

   “Oh my gosh!” Emma exclaimed, even though she had no idea how big an acre was.

   Oliver and Emma didn’t like museums. They would rather be doing something rather than looking at things somebody else had done a long time ago. But they loved their father and knew he wanted to go to the museum, so they didn’t complain.

   The museum was more than cars, although there were lots of cars, new, old, and older. There was the Roper, the first American-made car. There were muscle cars. There were electric cars that everybody would be driving soon. There were old machines from the farming, railroad, and flying worlds. There was the Ford airplane Richard Byrd flew to become the first man to barnstorm over the South Pole.

   There were Model T rides. It was a rough ride. There were touch screen displays. They were slick and smooth. What Oliver and Emma wanted to see the most, however, was the Wienermobile. It was near the end of the day. They hurried to find it. When they asked where it was, the museum guard said the room was off-limits.

   “Why is it off-limits?” Oliver asked.

   “It’s because of the two Henry Ford ghosts who won’t leave that room,” the guard said. “The old Henry Ford ghost hates Jews. He thinks Adolf Hitler was a hero. The young Henry Ford ghost doesn’t hate anybody, except maybe the old ghost and Adolf Hitler. They have been going at it tooth and nail lately. They get loud and scare our guests. One day we found the Wienermobile a mess, the bumpers and doors torn off, the windows busted, and graffiti spray-painted all over it.”

    “Why don’t you tell them to leave?”

   “We’ve had exorcists, ghostbusters, and witch doctors try, but they say the hold this place has on Henry Ford, both Henry Fords, is just too strong.”

   “I could get rid of them in no time. It would be child’s play.”  

   The guard looked skeptical looking down at the boy. “Run along now,” he said.

   “My brother is the monster hunter where we live,” Emma said.

   “Where’s that?” 

   “Perry, Ohio. He saved our power plant from Goo Goo Godzilla.”

   “My little boy told me all about that,” the guard said. “He looks up to you.”

   “I helped,” Emma said. The guard patted her on the head. Emma looked misunderstood.

   Before they knew it, they were whisked into the director’s office. Oliver outlined his plan and said he just needed three or four guards for five minutes to help, to make sure the Henry Fords both knew he meant business.

   They marched into the Wienermobile room. Oliver started insulting Adolf Hitler in a loud voice, calling him a tinhorn crumb bum of a dictator. It didn’t take long for the old Henry Ford to show up, followed by the young Henry Ford. The old ghost started complaining and casting spells. The guards, Oliver, and Emma made a circle around the two Henry Fords, holding hands to close the circle. The old Henry Ford scowled. The young Henry Ford scowled. Oliver smiled at them.

   “Do you remember when the two of you said, ‘If there is any one secret of success, it lies in the ability to get the other person’s point of view and see things from that person’s angle as well as from your own.’ Until the two of you put your heads together and agree on one point of view, you’re both going to have to leave. Now move along.”

   “Why should we?” both Henry Ford’s said.

   “If you’re going to be that way, I’m going to have to get down to business,” Oliver said.

   He squeezed the hands holding his. He concentrated. His eyes glowed. He said something nobody could understand. He stopped his breathing. His forehead got shiny with sweat. “Go, go, go!” he cried out.

   “All of a sudden, you could feel the electrical energy moving,” the guard later said. “It was so intense all the hair on the back of my neck stood up. When the little guy said, go, go, go, we all got a zapped feeling in our guts. Both Fords shot straight up and through the ceiling. We ran to the window and saw them floating away. They haven’t been back since.”

   The Wienermobile room reopened the next day

   “It was like smoke chasing its own tail,” Emma said.

   “Dad, can you drive us to DQ for a cone?” Oliver asked when they were in the parking lot.

   “You bet bud,” and they sped away in their red Jeep Cherokee.

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.”

Help support these stories. $25.00 a year (7 cents a day). Contact edwardstaskus@gmail.com with “Contribution” in the subject line. Payments processed by Stripe.

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A stem-winder in the Maritimes.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVDP8B58

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Two hired guns from Montreal. One rookie RCMP constable stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

By Ed Staskus

   “Dad, since Godzilla is King of the Monsters, does that mean nobody can get the better of him?” Oliver asked his father.

   “That’s right.”

   “Is the virus a monster?”

   “Some people would say so.”

   “Then how come nobody has asked Godzilla to take care of the virus? It’s been more than a year.”

   It was the year 2021. They were on their back patio on a mild mid-March Saturday afternoon. It was breezy and unseasonably warm in Perry, Ohio. Oliver’s father was grilling burgers and his mother was in the kitchen preparing wide-cut fries and coleslaw. His sister Emma was pulling a chocolate upside down cake out of the oven. She was Oliver’s right-hand man in the monster hunting game, although she told all er friends she was the No. 1 man since she did all the thinking.

   “You just pour in the pecans, coconut, brown sugar, and presto-o change-o,” she said about her cake. “It’s fuss-free.”

   Oliver’s father was an electrical engineer. In his spare time, he was restoring a 1968 Chevy Camaro. It had pony car style and a muscle engine. He knew how to repair almost everything inside and outside the house. He knew his way around and didn’t like being backed into a rhetorical corner by a six-year-old, whether he was his son, or not. He was part Transylvanian German and knew something about monsters himself. He tried to remember what he knew about Godzilla.

   “That’s a good question bud,” he said. “I might not know the answer, but maybe it’s because he can’t get a handle on the virus since it’s invisible. All the other monsters he ever defeated, Mothra, Ghidorah, and Destoroyah, were all right in front of his eyes. He could get a grip on them.” Destoroyah was one of Godzilla’s most powerful rivals ever. In the end he didn’t stand a chance, though. When push came to shove, he got pushed aside.

   “You’re right, dad,” Oliver said. “Remember Garbara, that cat-faced wart-covered giant crocodile man? Godzilla showed him where to go in no time flat.”

   “About the virus, it is scientists with chemistry sets like yours who are the ones beating it,” his father said. “They have the tools to see the invisible.”

   “How come the president doesn’t like scientists?” Oliver asked.

   “That man is his own personal clown car, that’s why.”

   The hamburger patties were done and the fries were hot and crisp. Oliver ate with little notice of his burger. He was thinking. Emma’s cake was delicious. Thei mother made it even better when she added a scoop of ice cream. Oliver forgot what he was thinking about while downing it, but later in his room he remembered. If he could somehow make the virus seeable Godzilla would be able to stamp it out in a second.

   He rummaged around in his closet until he found his Extreme Kids Chemistry Kit and National Geographic student microscope. All he needed now was a virus to examine. Where could he find one, he wondered? They were everywhere, which was why everybody and been wearing masks for so long, but he had never actually seen one.

   He smeared a spot of honey on a glass slide when his mother went to the grocery store. Taking him with her. He trailed behind her with the slide in his hand, waving it in the air now and then whenever anybody coughed and his mother wasn’t watching. He was sure he’d catch a bug.

   In his bedroom, the door closed, and the shades drawn, he slid the slide into the stage clips. He turned the illuminator on and looked through the eyepiece tube. He didn’t see anything. Oliver turned on all the lights in his bedroom and threw the shades open. He still didn’t see anything. He needed more light. He ran out to find his sister.

   “Can you get your flashlight and come with me?” he asked.

   “Sure,” Emma said.

   Oliver looked in the eyepiece again while Emma fixed the beam of her flashlight on the slide. “Keep it steady,” he said. Emma tightened her grip and concentrated.

   “Hey, get that light out of my eyes,” a squeaky voice floated up to them.

   “I didn’t know viruses could talk,” Emma said, surprised.

   “Of course, we can talk, young lady, whenever we have something to say,” the voice of the virus said.

   It was blobby, blue, black, red, with spiky tubers radiating from the outside edges of it. The blob wiggled, never staying still. Emma moved the flashlight slightly to the side. The blob stopped wiggling.

   “OK, since you can talk, why are you being so mean and hurting everybody?” Oliver asked.

   “What do you mean? I haven’t hurt anybody.”

   “Yes, you have. Millions and millions of people have gotten sick because of you and lots of them have died. School was cancelled and we are wearing masks all the time.”

   “There are many of us, gazillions of us, all over the place,” the blob said. “Some of us are inside you to help guard your body against dangerous infections, and others of us help plants. Maybe you’re mistaking me for another virus.”

   “I don’t think so,” Oliver said. “You are a coronavirus 19, aren’t you?”

   “Yes, but what’s that got to do with anything? I just float around minding my own business until I can get into something and replicate myself.”

   “What does that mean?” Oliver asked.

   “Make a copy of myself.”

   “Why do you have to sneak inside of us to do that?”

   “We do it all the time. We don’t have the means to make copies of ourselves, so we have to get into you and trick your cells into becoming virus-making machines for us.”

   “I don’t like the sound of that,” Emma said.

   “We were here first,” the blob sniffed. “If it wasn’t for us, you probably wouldn’t even be here. You wouldn’t exist.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “We came from the primordial genetic pool. Modern cells are, well, modern. We started out in a pre-cellular world as self-replicating units. Over time some of us changed, becoming more organized and more complex. Eventually, enzymes for the synthesis of membranes and cell walls evolved, resulting in the formation of cells, which is what you are made of. We existed before bacteria, archaea, or eukaryotes.”

   Oliver and Emma had no idea what the blob was talking about. Emma decided to sweat the truth out of him. She turned her flashlight on the slide again, as close as she could get it. Maybe he would confess in the heat of the moment.

   “Hey, are you trying to kill me?” the blob whined. “Too much heat could be the end of me.”

   “I don’t know archaea from rat finks,” Emma said. “But I know you’ve been bad. Are you going to stop making us sick, or not?”

   “I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to,” the blob admitted. “I only do one thing and that’s try to make copies of myself. I don’t go out of my way to do anything else. Whatever else happens is out of my control. I’m sorry if I’m making people sick. I don’t mean to but that’s life.”

   “OK, we believe you,” Oliver said. Emma moved the flashlight away. The blob breathed a sigh of relief.

   “That was a close call,” he said. “Hey. who are you, anyway?”

   “He’s the Monster Hunter of Lake County,” Emma said. “And I’m his right-hand man.”

   “We thought you were a monster,” Oliver said. ”You are one, sort of, but aren’t really one, which is lucky for you. Godzilla is King of the Monsters. He doesn’t like it when anybody tries to muscle in on him.”

   “Who’s Godzilla?”

   “Better you don’t ever find out,” Oliver warned. “He doesn’t live with his tail between his legs. He could take care of you with one sneeze of his atomic breath.”

   “Tell him to come and get me,” the blob sneered, even though he didn’t like the sound of atomic sneezing. Pulling himself out of the sticky honey holding him to the slide, he floated away. Oliver and Emma didn’t saw where he went. He went into the wild blue yonder, from where he might come back, or not.

   “King of the Monsters my foot!” he snorted as he drifted under the door, across the living room, and through a tiny seam in the weather sealing around the front door. “We’ll see about that if he ever comes knocking. He better have his vaccine shots updated before he messes with me.”

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.”

Help support these stories. $25.00 a year (7 cents a day). Contact edwardstaskus@gmail.com with “Contribution” in the subject line. Payments processed by Stripe.

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A stem-winder in the Maritimes.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVDP8B58

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Two hired guns from Montreal. One rookie RCMP constable stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication

By Ed Staskus

   When Emma looked at her brother Oliver, she saw a towheaded boy about four feet tall and about fifty pounds. He wore his hair short, ran up and down the stairs, was a slow eater, could be shy but always spoke up, and was learning how to play the piano, although he wasn’t nearly as good as she was. He was an all-American boy, half German and half Lithuanian, like her. He was also the Unofficial Monster Hunter of Lake County. How did a first grader become that? She was in third grade, bigger, better looking, and smarter. She had mastered division and multiplication. Oliver was still learning how to read and write, for goodness’ sake.

   Sometimes she thought she should be the monster hunter, not her brother’s right-hand man. She wasn’t sure she liked that, although she had to live with it. She had to admit, though, that Oliver had nerves of steel, while she still got spooked by some of the monsters he went head-to-head with. He had taken care of Goo Goo Godzilla in less than five minutes when he was threatening the nuclear power plant in North Perry, not far from where they lived. He did it as easily as brushing a bug away.

   He got started in kindergarten chasing shadows, noises in the night, and wrestling with nightmares. Phantoms learned to beware of his reach, though. He flattened them like pancakes and tossed them out of the house like frisbees. He made his reputation the summer before first grade. There was a troll in the woods behind their house. Not behaving himself was the last mistake he made in Lake County.

   Trolls came to America from Scandinavia in the 18^th century on sailing ships. They can be big or small, slow-witted or sneaky charming, harmless or menacing, fast-talking liars or almost like the folks next door. They live apart from others, even other trolls, preferring their own company. They are often ungodly, kidnapping cats and dogs. When crossed they can be dangerous. They are afraid of lightning and church bells. Sunlight turns them into stone in a second. They stay out of the light.

   When the neighbor’s terrier disappeared, Oliver knew he had to step up. He saw the dog every day, fed him doggie treats, and treated him like a friend. A good neighbor is somebody who can play the bagpipes but doesn’t. The troll wasn’t being a good neighbor. Oliver didn’t like it when anything messed with his friends.

   He set his clock for an hour before dawn. It was still dark and very cloudy when he woke up. He threw his old Polaroid camera and some bungee cords in his backpack and snuck out of the house, but not before Emma spotted him, threw on sweatpants and a pullover, and joined him. Their parents were still asleep, his father softly snoring, their mother dreaming of a vacation somewhere in the sun.

   Oliver’s father had bought an old Polaroid and a dozen boxes of film for peanuts at a flea market in Grand River. He already had a fancy Minolta digital camera, so he gave the Polaroid to Oliver, who took pictures of spiders and praying mantises with it.

   “Are you going to try to get Chester back from that awful troll?”

   “Yes.”

   “What are you going to do?” Emma asked ready for action, but with no idea how her brother was going to deal with the creature. She had never seen a real troll before. She had only ever seen the garden variety kind.

   “We are going to find him and keep him from crawling under a rock until the sun comes up. We can use the camera’s flashbulb to herd him. If we can get him to step into sunlight he’ll turn into stone. Then we can save Chester.”

   “I brought my flashlight and jackknife,” Emma said.

   “Good,” Oliver said, nodding grimly.

   They walked into the forest, Emma leading the way with her flashlight. They saw the troll’s campfire and smelled him at the same time. He smelled like an old wet rat. He was a pint-sized Tusseladd troll with three heads and three noses as long as carrots. He had a round stomach and short stubby arms and legs. He was boiling water to make porridge. Chester was tied up next to the fire. It looked like the troll meant to eat him with his porridge.

   “We’re in luck,” Oliver said. “That kind of troll is usually gigantic. I think we can handle this runt.”

   When they stepped out of the dark into the light of the campfire the troll jumped up and his three mouths started jibbering. Chester whined and kicked his legs. Oliver held up his hands, palms out, and made a peace sign. He pointed to his stomach and said he and his sister had come a long way and were hungry.

   The troll calmed down and started dreaming and scheming right away. Maybe he could grab and cook these two children along with the dog. He would have more grub than he knew what to do with. He showed Oliver and Emma where to sit and went back to his pot. When the water started boiling, he started making his porridge.

   “Are you a betting man?” Oliver asked.

   “Of course,” the troll said.

   “I bet I can eat more porridge than you.”

   The troll laughed a mean-spirited laugh like he was the living soul of a funeral. That was fool’s gold. Nobody could eat more porridge than a troll. 

   “If you can eat more porridge than me then I won’t eat you,” the troll said.

   “I’m on for that,” Oliver said.

   I don’t know about this, Emma thought. She started thinking of all the things that could go wrong. There were too many to count. She didn’t want anybody eating her.

   They tended the fire while the troll went to get more water to make more porridge. Once it was ready, Oliver ate what looked like a barrelful of porridge while Emma nibbled. She hadn’t made a bet with the troll. What the creature didn’t know was that Oliver had shoved his backpack under his shirt and was filling it with the porridge, without the troll noticing. When the troll was full and couldn’t eat anymore, looking like he was on the losing end of the bet, Oliver suggested he cut a hole in his stomach so he could have as much as he wanted. He did and stuffed handfuls of porridge inside of himself. By the time he got to the bottom of the pot he was so heavy with the goo he fell over groaning.

   Oliver and Emma rushed him, bound him up with their bungee cords, and dragged him by his feet to a small clearing. His three heads bounced on the ground all the way there. The sun was already up and when its light washed over the troll he instantly turned into stone. They stood him up and took Polaroid pictures of him. Chester was barking up a storm, so they ran back to the campfire, untied him, threw dirt on the fire, and went home.

   The troll who turned to stone became a landmark. 

   “If you want to go to the valley, take a left at the stone troll,” everybody said. “If you want to go to the pond, take a right.”

   When show and tell day was announced at school, Oliver took his Polaroid pictures. Emma took the muffins she baked all by herself. They would have been a hit any other day, but on that day the spotlight belonged to Oliver. He had matched wits with a troll, ridding the neighborhood of a vile nuisance, and lived to tell the tale. From that day on he was known as the Monster Hunter of Lake County.

   On the Perry Local School District bus going home Emma pulled two muffins nobody had been interested in out of her book bag. She offered one to Oliver. They sat side by side eating them.

   “These are delicious,” Oliver said.

   “Better than the porridge?”

   “Better than anything that rotten old troll could ever have made,” Oliver said.

   When they got home, Chester dashed up to them, working up an appetite. They gave him a muffin and he forgot all about them. They walked into the house.

   “How was school?” their mother asked.

   “We had show-and-tell day and I learned that nobody knows what a Polaroid camera is,” Oliver 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.”

“Ebb Tide” by Ed Staskus

“A stem-winder in the Maritimes.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVDP8B58

Summer, 1989. A small town on Prince Edward Island. Mob money on the move gone missing. Two hired guns from Montreal. A rookie RCMP constable stands in the way.

A Crying of Lot 49 Publication