Night Moves

They are always with me. At times they appear out of the ethereal mist, and other times they speak directly to my mind. I wish they would leave me to myself, but that they will not do. No, first I must do their bidding.

They come in the night and stay until the black sky fades to gray. When the stars leave the sky and the clouds to the east turn pink, I am allowed my rest. But I ask you, what respite can a murderer have? At their behest, I have killed again this night. And I will continue to kill until they go back from whence they came.

After all I’ve been through, I still remember the first time they came to me. It was a little over a year ago, and since then I have killed twenty-nine people. Please do not think me insane. I assure you these beings are real and not immanent. At first, I, too, thought myself demented when they stood before me telling me they came to save the human race, and to accomplish their mission, certain people must die. They explained that the demise of the race was not impending, but if action was not taken, and taken soon, it would be too late to set things on a course to ensure the continuance of mankind.

You are probably wondering, if you do not think me crazed, why they cannot do their own dirty work. That is a very good question and one I have asked them. They, of course, are not of our time and space. They appear—when they appear—as diaphanous specters; they cannot manipulate physical matter. Thus, I have become their instrument here on earth. Where or when they are from, I do not know. And why, out of all the billions on this planet, I was chosen, I know not. But it has been a long night and I must sleep. I will continue this at a later date, and continue it I shall, for I want there to be a record of my actions and the reasons for them.

I am back. It has been two days since my last entry in this journal, and tonight they had me kill again. That makes thirty people—thirty innocent people … men, women, and children—I have dispatched from this world. Yes … I am sorry to say that they have had me kill children. However, I was told that after tonight there would be no more need of my services. The human race was safe for the foreseeable future.

I refer to my tormentors as they or them because I do not know what they call themselves. Their form is vaguely human … two arms, two legs, and a head of sorts atop a torso, but their gossamer appearance precludes calling them human.

Tonight’s victim was a man in Moscow. I was directed to him and given his name. I then set about their business. I was told that his son, yet unborn, would one day invent something that would cause the death of billions. Being told the basis for this particular death was a departure from the norm. I had never been given rhyme nor reason for any of the others. The man’s name and the names of the other twenty-nine, including where and when they died, are in the addendum attached to this missive. I remember every one of my quarry.

I guess I should have mentioned this earlier, but my victims were scattered around the world. I do not know how they did it, but one minute I was in my room behind a locked door, and the next minute I was standing in a foreign locale with the name of that night’s victim swirling through my brain. Then into my mind came the place I could find him or her in the city, town, or hamlet.

Now, the thirty-first person will die. They, at last, have left me to myself. I am now free to end this the only way it can be ended—with my death. I’ve been saving and hiding my medication for quite a while now; there is enough to kill three of me. May God have mercy on my soul.

I affix my hand to this document this 3rd day of May in the year of our Lord 2017.

Signed,

Francis Fitzgerald

≈≈≈≈≈≈

When Dr. Allen had finished reading the above, he turned to Dr. Harris and said, “Interesting, but why have you brought it to me? We both know that the man was a certified, delusional schizophrenic. How long have we had him here at our institution?”

Dr. Harris hesitantly answered, “He’s been here at Oakwood twelve years, sir.”

“Well, there you have it. It’s too bad he took his own life; it doesn’t help our reputation any, but these things happen.”

“Yes, sir. However, there is something I think you ought to know.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of investigating a few of the names on Fitzgerald’s list. It’s taken me three weeks, but I’ve verified eleven of the deaths and their time and place. They all correspond with what Fitzgerald has written.”

Dr. Allen straightened in his seat, glanced at the papers in his hand, and looking Dr. Harris in the eye, forcefully said, “Preposterous! If there is any correlation, he read of the deaths in the newspaper or heard of them on the television.”

“Excuse me, sir, but Fitzgerald had no access to newspapers. He was denied them because they would agitate him to no end. And the only television he had access to was in the day room where the set is perpetually tuned to a movie channel.”

“That still does not give credence to this fairytale,” said Dr. Allen, waving the Fitzgerald papers in Dr. Harris’ direction.

“No, sir, it does not. However, there is one more thing I think I should make you aware of. My sister is married to a Russian physicist, speaks fluent Russian, and lives in Moscow. I called her about the last name on Fitzgerald’s list. She made a few calls for me and it turns out that Fitzgerald was dead before the body of the man he mentions was discovered. And just one more thing, sir. The man’s wallet was found in Fitzgerald’s room. I have it if you’d like to see it.”

Turning a color red that is not in the regular spectrum, Dr. Allen shouted, “NO! I DO NOT WANT TO SEE THE DAMN WALLET!” Then handing the Fitzgerald papers to Dr. Harris, he said with ice in his voice, “Burn these, burn them now. And if you value your position here at Oakwood, you will never speak of this matter again … to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

Dr. Harris accepted the papers with a meek, “Yes sir,” and walked out of the room. When he was in the hall and by himself, he muttered, “I’ll be goddamned … the old bastard is afraid.”

But Dr. Harris did not burn the papers. He placed them, along with the wallet, in his desk drawer and locked it. He had some thinking to do. As he started on his rounds, a quote of Shakespeare’s kept repeating itself in his head. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

 

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Night Moves

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They are always with me. At times, they appear out of the ethereal mist and at other times they speak directly to my mind. I wish they would leave me to myself, but that they will not do. No, first I must do their bidding.

   They come at night and stay until the black sky fades to gray. When the stars leave the sky and the clouds to the east turn pink, I am allowed to rest. But I ask you, what respite can a murderer have? At their behest, I have killed again this night. And I will continue to kill until they go back from whence they came.

   I remember the first time they came to me. It was a little over a year ago and since then I have killed twenty-nine people. Please do not think me insane. I assure you these beings are real and are not immanent. At first, I too thought myself demented when they stood before me telling me they came to save the human race, and to accomplish their mission certain people must die. They explained that the demise of the race was not imminent, but if action was not taken, and taken soon, it would be too late to set things on a course to ensure the continuance of mankind. 

   You are probably wondering, if you do not think me crazed, why they cannot do their own dirty work. And it is a good question, one I have asked. They, of course, are not of our time and space. They appear, when they appear, as diaphanous specters, they cannot manipulate physical matter. Thus I have become their instrument here on earth. Where or when they are from I do not know. And why, out of all the billions on this planet I was chosen, I know not. But it has been a long night and I must sleep. I will continue this at a later date, and continue it I shall, for I want there to be a record of my actions and the reasons for them.

   I am back. It has been two days since my last entry, and tonight they had me kill again. That makes thirty people, thirty innocent people—men, women and children, I have dispatched from this world. Yes, I am sorry to say that they have had me kill children. However, I was told that after tonight there would be no more need of my services, the human race was safe for the foreseeable future.

   I refer to my tormentors as they or them because I do not know what they call themselves. Their form is vaguely human, two arms, two legs, and a head of sorts atop a torso, but their gossamer appearance precludes calling them human.

   Tonight’s victim was a man in Moscow. I was directed to him and given his name. I then set about their business. I was told that his son, yet unborn, would one day invent something that would cause the death of billions. Being told the basis for this particular death was a departure from the norm; I had never been given rhyme nor reason for any of the others. The man’s name and the names of the other twenty-nine, with where and when they died, are in the addendum attached to this missive.  I remember every one of my quarry.

   I guess I should have mentioned this earlier, but my victims were scattered around the world. I do not know how they did it, but one minute I was in my room behind a locked door and the next minute I was standing in a foreign locale with the name of that night’s victim swirling through my brain. Then into my mind came the place I could find him or her in the city, town or hamlet.

   Now, the thirty-first person will die. They, at last, have left me to myself. I am now free to end this the only way it can be ended, with my death. I’ve been saving and hiding my medication for quite a while now, there is enough to kill me three times over. May God have mercy on my soul.

   I affix my hand to this document this 30th day of June in the year of our Lord 2011.

                                                                                                 Signed,

                                                                                                Francis Fitzgerald

 

When Dr. Allen had finished reading the above, he turned to Dr. Harris and said, “Interesting, but why have you brought it to me? We both know that the man was a certified, delusional schizophrenic. How long have we had him here at our institution?”

Dr. Harris hesitantly answered, “He’s been here at Oakwood twelve years sir.”

“Well there you have it. It’s too bad he took his own life, it doesn’t help our reputation any, but these things happen.”

“Yes sir. However, there is something I think you ought to know.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of investigating a few of the names on Fitzgerald’s list. It’s taken me three weeks, but I’ve verified eleven of the deaths and their time and place. They all correspond with what Fitzgerald has written.”

Dr. Allen straightened in his seat, glanced at the papers in his hand, and then looking Dr. Harris in the eye, very forcibly said, “Preposterous! If there is any correlation, he read of the deaths in the newspaper or heard of them on the television.”

“Excuse me sir, but Fitzgerald had no access to newspapers. He was denied them because they would agitate him to no end. And the only television he had access to was in the day room where the set is perpetually tuned to a movie channel.”

“That still does not give credence to this fairytale,” said Dr. Allen waving the Fitzgerald papers at Dr. Harris.

“No sir, it does not. However, there is one thing I think I should make you aware of. My sister is married to a Russian physicist, speaks fluent Russian and lives in Moscow. I called her about the last name on Fitzgerald’s list. She made a few calls for me and it turns out that Fitzgerald was dead before the body of the man he mentions was discovered. And just one more thing sir, the man’s wallet was found in Fitzgerald’s room. I have it if you’d like to see it.”

Turning a color red that is not in the spectrum, Dr. Allen shouted, “NO! I DO NOT WANT TO SEE THE DAMN WALLET!” And then handing the Fitzgerald papers to Dr. Harris, he said with ice in his voice, “Burn these, burn them now. And if you value your position here at Oakwood you will never speak of this matter again, to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

Dr. Harris accepted the papers, and with a meek, “Yes sir,” walked out of the room. When he was in the hall, and by himself, he let out with a, “I’ll be goddamned, the old bastard is afraid.”

But Dr. Harris did not burn the papers. He placed them, with the wallet in his desk drawer and then locked it. He had some thinking to do. And as he started on his rounds, a quote of Shakespeare’s kept repeating itself in his head. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, then are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Saturday’s Quotes

Shakespeare

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, then are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

“Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.”

— William Shakespeare

Night Moves

They are always with me. At times, they appear out of the ethereal mist and at other times they speak directly to my mind. I wish they would leave me to myself, but that they will not do. No, first I must do their bidding.

They come at night and stay until the black sky fades to gray. When the stars leave the sky and the clouds to the east turn pink I am allowed to rest. But I ask you, what respite can a murderer have? At their behest, I have killed again this night. And I will continue to kill until they go back from whence they came.

I remember the first time they came to me. It was a little over a year ago and since then I have killed twenty-nine people. Please do no think me insane. I assure you these beings are real and are not immanent. At first, I too thought myself demented when they stood before me telling me they came to save the human race, and to accomplish their mission certain people must die. They explained that the demise of the race was not imminent, but if action was not taken, and taken soon, it would be too late to set things on a course to ensure the continuance of mankind.

You are probably wondering, if you do not think me crazed, why they cannot do their own dirty work. And it is a good question, one I have asked. They, of course, are not of our time and space. They appear, when they appear, as diaphanous specters, they cannot manipulate physical matter. Thus I have become their instrument here on earth. Where or when they are from I do not know. And why, out of all the billions on this planet I was chosen, I know not. But it has been a long night and I must sleep, I will continue this at a later date, and continue it I shall, for I want there to be a record of my actions and the reasons for them.

I am back. It has been two days since my last entry, and tonight they had me kill again. That makes thirty people, thirty innocent people, men, women and children I have dispatched from this world. Yes, I am sorry to say that they have had me kill children. However, I was told that after tonight there would be no more need of my services, the human race was safe for the foreseeable future.

I refer to my tormentors as they or them because I do not know what they call themselves. Their form is vaguely human, two arms, two legs, and a head of sorts atop a torso, but their gossamer appearance precludes calling them human.

Tonight’s victim was a man in Moscow. I was directed to him and given his name. I then I set about their business. I was told that his son, yet unborn, would one day invent something that would cause the death of billions. Being told the basis for this particular death was a departure from the norm, I had never been given rhyme nor reason for any of the others. The man’s name and the names of the other twenty-nine, with where and when they died, are in the addendum attached to this missive.  I remember every one of my quarry.

I guess I should have mentioned this earlier, but my victims were scattered around the world. I do not know how they did it, but one minute I was in my room behind a locked door and the next minute I was standing in a foreign locale with the name of that night’s victim swirling through my brain. Then into my mind came the place I could find him or her in the city, town or hamlet.

Now, the thirty-first person will die. They, at last, have left me to myself. I am now free to end this the only way it can be ended, with my death. I’ve been saving and hiding my medication for quite a while now, there is enough to kill me three times over. May God have mercy on my soul.

I affix my hand to this document this 30th day of June in the year of our Lord 2011.

Signed,

Francis Fitzgerald

When Dr. Allen had finished reading the above, he turned to Dr. Harris and said, “Interesting, but why have you brought it to me? We both know that the man was a certified, delusional schizophrenic. How long have we had him here at our institution?”

Dr. Harris hesitantly answered, “He’s been here at Oakwood twelve years sir.”

‘Well there you have it. It’s too bad he took his own life, it doesn’t help our reputation any, but these things happen.”

“Yes sir; however there is something I think you ought to know.”

“Yes?”

I’ve taken the liberty of investigating a few of the names on Fitzgerald’s list. It’s taken me three weeks, but I’ve verified eleven of the deaths and their time and place. They all correspond with what Fitzgerald has written.”

Dr. Allen straightened in his seat, glanced at the papers in his hand, and then looking Dr. Harris in the eye, very forcibly said, “Preposterous! If there is any correlation, he read of the deaths in the newspaper or heard of them on the television.”

“Excuse me sir, but Fitzgerald had no access to newspapers, he was denied them because they would agitate him to no end. And the only television he had access to was in the day room where the set is perpetually tuned to a movie channel.”

“That still does not give credence to this fairytale,” said Dr, Allen waving the Fitzgerald papers at Dr. Harris.

“No sir it does not. However there is one thing I think I should make you aware of. My sister is married to a Russian physicist, speaks fluent Russian and lives in Moscow. I called her about the last name on Fitzgerald’s list. She made a few calls for me and it turns out that Fitzgerald was dead before the body of the man he mentions was discovered. And just one more thing sir, the man’s wallet was found in Fitzgerald’s room. I have it if you’d like to see it.”

Turning a color red that is not in the spectrum, Dr. Allen shouted, “NO! I DO NOT WANT TO SEE THE DAMN WALLET!” And then handing the Fitzgerald papers to Dr. Harris, he said with ice in his voice, “Burn these, burn them now. And if you value your position here at Oakwood you will never speak of this matter again, to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

Dr. Harris accepted the papers, and with a meek, “Yes sir,” walked out of the room. When he was in the hall, and by himself, he let out with a, “I’ll be goddamned, the old bastard is afraid.”

But Dr. Harris did not burn the papers. He placed them with the wallet in his desk drawer and then locked it. He had some thinking to do. And as he started on his rounds, a quote of Shakespeare’s kept repeating itself in his head. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, then are dreamt of in your philosophy.”     

Danny’s Dilemma

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To run or not to run, that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them? To paraphrase Billy Shakespeare.

Howdy folks. it’s me Danny, we spoke the other day. If you remember I was talking about my friend Andrew and how at times he made me sleep out on the deck of our boat. So today I’m here to talk about outrageous fortune. No, not the sleeping outside. Don’t tell Andrew, but I like it. Feeling the ocean breeze on my fur, smelling the salt water; it’s good for a dog, and let’s face it I am a dog.

The outrageous fortune of which I speak is the insidious leash the sonavabitch makes me wear. I mean really, just because I’ve run away a few times he thinks I can’t be trusted. I’m a big boy, hell I’m ten years old for Christ sake! I can go out catting (excuse the expression) around at night and still make my way home all by myself.

So here’s my bitch. He doesn’t use a regular leash like any sane person would use. No, he’s gotta use a line from the boat, a twenty foot long line, or rope to you landlubbers out there. I mean it’s demeaning.

The other night we went to a local biker bar. Andrew doesn’t like going there because he’s a sissy and he thinks the bikers will beat him up. Me, I love the place because the biker girls always crowd around me and pet me and tell me how cute I am. I know that, but it’s always nice to hear, especially when it comes from women with multiple tattoos claiming they belong to Big Bear or Grunge or whomever. It makes me feel special.

So there we are, Andrew is sitting by himself, naturally, and I’m the star of the show with the females of the pack, naturally. Now, because Andrew does not trust me he has me tied to a post (it’s an outdoor bar). It was then that it happened. One of the girls, whose name was Suzanne, the prettiest girl in the bar that night, felt sorry for me and unclasped the leash. Well partners, I took off like a bat outta hell, but I didn’t go far. I just wanted to teach Andrew a lesson.

I ran around to the back of the bar and hid under a small tool shed, and there I stayed. I watched that fool Andrew walk around for hours calling my name. He passed within feet of me about a hundred times. And the best part was when it started to rain. I was high and dry and ‘ol Andrew was soaked to the skin. After about four hours, I felt sorry for the guy, and seeing as how it had stopped raining, I let my presence be known by one single bark.

To cut the story short, I miscalculated. I thought if I made him look for me and then showed up on my own, he would forego the damn leash. But it didn’t work out that way. Now I find myself tied up 24/7, unless I’m taking Andrew for a walk.

So, in conclusion to quote another great writer, Robert Burns, “The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, often go astray.”

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