tag:spearpointpub.com,2005:/blogs/mizeta-s-blog?p=7Mizeta's Blog2024-03-08T19:46:52-07:00spearpointpub.comfalsetag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73642122024-03-08T19:46:52-07:002024-03-08T19:46:53-07:00Lovers quarrel - By Mizeta Moon<p>The night I killed her we were parked by a rippling pond, drinking wine from paper cups and celebrating our one year anniversary. When we first got together everyone thought we were too different to be a good couple but we’d proved them wrong until then. She was the favorite child in her family and I was the black sheep of mine but there’s an old saying about opposites attracting. I suppose that’s true with magnets, so it must apply to human relations. Anyway, I’d bought her a Chia Pet bust of that famous painter guy and a box of assorted chocolates, and she gave me a gift pack of shower gels and a bottle of cheap perfume. We both pretended to be excited while secretly wishing for something romantic like tickets to an Engelbert Humperdink concert.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I remember the radio being on and crickets chirping. I remember counting stars through the windshield while the moon slid below the horizon. I remember how warm the blood felt on my hands, but I don’t remember what we argued about. From what they tell me, I had a psychotic episode, blacked out, and stabbed her repeatedly with the corkscrew. They say I’ll never get out of here but they don’t realize how devious I am and that I have a plan. When I escape, I’ll go back to that pond and try to remember exactly what we argued about. It must have been something big to cause me to go ballistic. Sure, I’d tortured the neighbor’s cat when I was young and burned ants with a magnifying glass but I was sure I’d grown out of that type of behavior. Well, except for throwing a perfectly good dog onto a freight train headed to who knows where. I always hoped it would get adopted by whoever found it, so that surely counted as good karma.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Other than wanting to wander down memory lane there’s no real reason to escape. I don’t have to work. I get fed anyway and the doctors give me drugs to keep me happy. The grounds are nice when they let me go outside and I’ve made friends. I just wish they weren’t so catatonic and prone to drool. Game night is fun. We get to play bean bag toss as long as no one lobs them at the staff. We used to play checkers until Mattie swallowed six of the red ones and choked to death. Watching her flop around on the floor like a fish was fun but now everything has to be bigger than your mouth.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I told my therapist that I might remember what set me off if he bought me a bottle of wine and played some Engelbert, but he said that alcohol wouldn’t go well with my pills. I think he said that cause he’s secretly in love with me and wants to keep me around. I told him that girls my age should be able to drink if they want to but evidently there’s rules. My parents are coming for their annual visit tomorrow so the nurse curled my hair for me and laid out my green dress and sandals for the occasion. It’ll be a nice change from slippers and inmate sweats. One of the coolest thing about them coming is the goodie bag they bring. I used to share the chocolate and the chips but now I eat them all myself because a year is a long time between treats. The only regret I have about that night is not buying a bottle with a screw cap. If I had, my girlfriend and I might be married by now. They say hindsight is twenty, twenty, but you can’t change the past no matter how hard you try. <o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73642112024-03-08T19:43:52-07:002024-03-08T19:43:52-07:00Oldies - By Mizeta Moon<p><span><strong>The road ahead, the road behind<o:p></o:p></strong></span></p><p>The road ahead is a mystery,<o:p></o:p></p><p>The road behind, a memory.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The road ahead is often gray,<o:p></o:p></p><p>While behind the sky is blue,<o:p></o:p></p><p>But just to keep the balance<o:p></o:p></p><p>The opposite is also true.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Ahead is beautiful, the rear majestic,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Turn around and see from where you came,<o:p></o:p></p><p>You’ll forever want to go back again.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Ahead brimming with unfulfilled promise,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Behind lie footsteps in mud and sand.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Ahead tomorrow, behind yesterday,<o:p></o:p></p><p>What difference left or right?<o:p></o:p></p><p>Over, around, under, through, backward, forward,<o:p></o:p></p><p>It’ll always be you living in the now.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Going nowhere, somewhere, that’s where you are,<o:p></o:p></p><p>As you wander, mountains sit and watch you seek.<o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span><strong>Speak to me<o:p></o:p></strong></span></p><p>River, sweet river life,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Flow by and through me today.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Spin me songs of time and travelers,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Crossing your waves and windswept ripples.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Carry tree news to my ears awaiting,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Messages from inner earth through roots and veins.<o:p></o:p></p><p>River, sweet river life,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Flow over and around me with love.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Rocks, I am touching your essence,<o:p></o:p></p><p>I swim in your breast like a fish, oh river.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I sit in sand wiggling my toes,<o:p></o:p></p><p>On banks where egrets play.<o:p></o:p></p><p>While glittering, soft, downy grasses,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Reflect sunlight from that wondrous orb,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Casting rainbows from a cascading waterfall.<o:p></o:p></p><p>River, sweet river<span> </span>life,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Deliver me from toil and trouble,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Into soft cool breezes of thy oasis.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73642072024-03-08T19:36:17-07:002024-03-08T19:36:17-07:00Exploring - By Mizeta Moon<p>Relocating to Oregon was a big deal to her because she’d longed to escape the desolation of west Texas for years, but until recently that dream had been out of reach. One day a recruiter for a big firm in Portland contacted her and asked if she would be willing to relocate for a lucrative position. Needless to say, she jumped at the chance. Packing a U-Haul and leaving the scrub and sand of the desert southwest behind, she became increasingly excited as she steadily climbed into the forested lushness of the Pacific Northwest. The gleaming towers of downtown Portland were a stark contrast to the stucco and adobe she’d grown up with. As she moved into her office in the Portlandia building she couldn’t stop looking out the window at the magnificent view. What a difference, she thought. She knew right then that there was no going back. Ever!! This was paradise on earth.<o:p></o:p></p><p>When she was young, the neighborhood kids would amuse themselves by taking BB guns to a dry creek bed behind her house and hunting lizards. As a teenager she tried rodeo riding but found she was too prissy to wear boots covered with dirt and dung. Her first job was selling sombreros, maracas, and other tourist items at a kiosk in a mall. Faced with a mundane existence in a Cowtown she enrolled in community college and earned a degree in marketing. Within a few years she’d finished a master’s in business administration course and was working for the biggest retailer in the area. This led to a chance encounter with a Portlander who was in town to visit a dying relative, and ultimately her office with a view of the Willamette river and Mt. Hood.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Every weekend she would choose a different location to explore. Quaint fishing villages on the coast. Farming communities amidst green fields and rolling hills. Wine tastings at vineyards offering excellent beverages and food pairings. Something she was currently looking forward to was a dinner cruise on the Spirit of Portland and then several days later she’d be taking a paddle wheeler ride up the Columbia river. The only thing missing in her life was companionship. She didn’t need to be in love. She just wanted someone to talk to and share the experiences. Online dating was a bust because people lied and made themselves out to be what they felt you were looking for. She’d been asked out by several guys at work but knew that workplace romances could be disastrous so she declined. The breakthrough came one Friday evening when she was playing slots at Ilani Casino. The woman next to her was winning big and buying drinks for everyone near her.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Her name was Lindsay, and when they started talking there was an immediate rapport that led to them having dinner after cashing out, then moving to the bar while waiting for a table at Michael Jordan’s Steakhouse. Serendipitously, Lindsay worked three floors below her in the Portlandia building and lived in an apartment complex two blocks away from her. The more they talked the more they discovered mutual interests and the next few months became a whirlwind of adventure. Visiting Seattle and the Space Needle. Taking a ferry ride around Puget Sound. Skiing at Mt. Bachelor after shopping in Bend. She was happy to have finally found a friend that she could trust and believe in.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Unfortunately, in the corporate world the sands are constantly shifting. Lindsay’s company decided to relocate to Atlanta and she would be moving with them. She couldn’t help crying when they shared their last bottle of wine at the City Grill since being that far away would lead to a constantly increasing gap in communication. Losing a lover can be devastating but losing a friend can be even more so. Laughter and pleasant company can be harder to replace than romance. Hopefully, someone else would come along to share her free time with. Until then, there were still roads and corners to explore in a state that never ceased to amaze. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73642062024-03-08T19:35:45-07:002024-03-08T19:35:45-07:00Public Service - By Mizeta Moon<p>When she was still on the force, stakeouts involved stale coffee, donuts, and 7/11 burritos, but the results of her pre-retirement physical changed her lifestyle for good. The doctor was worried that her heart couldn’t survive the constant overload of cholesterol, caffeine, sodium, and sugar, exacerbated by job stress. These days, her surveillance meals included gluten free strawberry scones, Tibetan herbal tea, and superfood salad with fat free dressing. She’d lost weight and ran at least a mile every day along with regular trips to the gym. She needed to be sharp now that she was waging a private war against the dregs of society.<o:p></o:p></p><p>As a cop she’d watched the broken justice system spit unpunished and unreformed criminals back onto the streets to continue preying on hard working citizens. There were times when she arrested the same person three times in a year only to see them on the sidewalk two days later. At the time, all she could do was follow orders and do her job. Now, even though she could go to prison for it, she was doing her best to eliminate the most corrosive elements from the equation. Junkies, thieves, and low-level dealers got left for the cops to deal with. Her targets were sex traffickers, serial rapists, high-volume opiate dealers, etc. Those whose disregard for human life made them unrepentant in their wanton destruction of social dignity. She didn’t consider herself a moralist, simply a pest control agent protecting children and innocents. Though it was like fighting the tide with a teaspoon, she was determined to do something rather than helplessly watch the chaos escalate.<o:p></o:p></p><p>This night, she was parked across the street from a motel where kidnapped teenaged girls were being forced to service local businessmen in order to satisfy their induced addictions to heroin and other drugs. Her targets were a man known as Oracle and his girlfriend/recruiter Big Bev. Big Bev would lure them to parties and Oracle would take care of the rest. Grieving parents could cry for help all they wanted but few returned home. Even when freed, many of them were so far gone that they went back to the life voluntarily. Her informant, who worked at a strip club had called earlier and said that Oracle and Big Bev were planning to meet the head of a biker gang at the motel that evening and sell him a dozen girls for use at their club house. Taking the biker out at the same time would be a bonus.<o:p></o:p></p><p>She watched quietly as the targets arrived, shook hands after surveying the area for possible threats, then went to a room on the motel’s lower tier. According to her informant they always ordered Chinese food to be delivered while negotiating deals. Tucking her pistol into her belt, she slid out of her Jeep, then crept into the shadows of an overhang to await the delivery driver. When they arrived, she made her presence known before they could exit the car. Tapping on the window, she held out two one hundred dollar bills and took possession of the bag. She knew every move from that point on had to be perfect or she’d be the one to die.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Big Bev’s eyes registered surprise as the first silenced round pierced her heart when she opened the door. Oracle and the biker were in the process of snorting lines at the coffee table and were slow to react since no one had ever dared to brace them on their home turf. Stepping over Bev’s body, she shot the biker first since Oracle never carried. She thought about extending and relishing the moment as his hate-filled eyes glared at her but realized delayed gratification would prevent accidental intervention. She did, however, empty the clip into him. Each squeeze of the trigger became payback for hundreds of tortured women. After retrieving her brass and scooping up the bag of cash that might have become<span> </span>misdirected evidence, she pulled the door closed behind her, then calmly walked to her Jeep. What she didn’t need for gas and ammo she’d mail to women’s shelters anonymously. Hopefully, the Chinese food would be tasty. Killing maggots made her hungry. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73642052024-03-08T19:34:48-07:002024-03-08T19:34:48-07:00Winner? - By Mizeta Moon<p>The price of fame turned out to be total loss of privacy. It wasn’t like he sought fame through being talented, smart, or connected–it came through a stroke of luck. Or maybe it wasn’t luck if one looked at it a different way. He’d stopped at a convenience store to buy a burrito and bought a Power Ball ticket on a whim. He didn’t usually gamble but thought two bucks to win over a billion was worth a shot. When they announced the winning numbers, he nearly had a heart attack. Having the only winning ticket meant that he was suddenly a very rich man. Unfortunately, what seemed like a blessing became a burden and a curse. He lived in a state where winners had their photo published in the paper so suddenly everyone knew his name and where he lived.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Bad feelings between him, his family, and friends developed when he didn’t pass out large sums of cash or invest in their schemes. He wasn’t miserly. He was willing to share. He just didn’t give people as much as they asked for. At restaurants and bars he was expected to pick up the tab for people who ordered top shelf instead of their usual fare. His mailbox was flooded with requests to help thousands of sick or dying children and abandoned animals. It seemed there was a huge pocket of need he was expected to fill or be deemed an ogre. It didn’t matter that he’d been poor his entire life with no one helping him survive. He felt like he was riding a carousel in a nightmare theme park where he was doomed to endless circles.<o:p></o:p></p><p>He was so used to a minimal lifestyle that he wasn’t capable of becoming extravagant and living large. When he moved out of his apartment it was to a small cabin in the woods instead of a beachfront condo on a tropical island. Instead of a Maserati he bought an antique Power Wagon that could handle back roads with ease. He did buy a new TV, and upgraded his devices so he could stay abreast of the outside world while slipping into the shadows for protection from predators. When he did go into town he wore a ball cap, sunglasses, and a hoodie. Even then, people he’d known for years managed to recognize him and stuck their hands out. He was becoming a hated man due to the jealousy and envy of others instead of his actions and attitude.<o:p></o:p></p><p>He'd never been popular with women but it wasn’t long before his email was flooded with offers of sex and marriage so he had to cancel his account. He had no idea how the address became public knowledge. The day came that he realized there might be no respite unless he sold everything and moved out of the country or gave away his fortune and went back to his previous way of life. That felt like losing and seemed unfair. It wasn’t his fault that others weren’t as fortunate.<o:p></o:p></p><p>So, he decided to put a few million in trusts for various charities, then applied for a name change and a passport. When those came through, he transferred the bulk of his fortune to a Swiss bank and invested the rest in CDs that would mature over time. The few people he cared about received a check in the mail before he booked passage to London. From there he planned to travel to places where no one would have the slightest idea who he was. He loved to hike and ride trains so he could become just another tourist exploring out of the way places and sampling local cuisine. Hopefully, he would meet a woman with similar inclinations along the way. If they fell for him, it would be based on genuine feelings instead of a desire for financial gain. Meanwhile, adventure was in the offing and he was ready for anonymity. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73417992024-01-28T10:19:17-07:002024-01-28T10:19:17-07:00Late night brain farts - By Mizeta Moon<p>We march into eternity, constantly wondering who we are and why we’re here. For some, it’s love, others hate. Some money and the quest for more. Others find solace in tasting every moment while understanding they live in a tempest. Yin and yang are a conundrum. Light and dark, up, and down, an eternal dance. Reason and lack of it constantly staring each other in the face. It’s a roiling sea of peril and only by being vigilant and wise can we flourish and reach our potential.<o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p>Even if everyone stood in a line holding hands, we couldn’t stop the tide from flowing or the wind from blowing. As we aspire to change the world, we can’t escape the realignments of nature. Build we may, build we must, but in the end, we are overrun by rust, corrosion, erosion, and the sheer passage of time.<o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73417982024-01-28T10:18:40-07:002024-01-28T10:18:40-07:00Breaking point - By Mizeta Moon<p>The day of the school carnival was far from Henrietta’s finest. Her alarm didn’t work properly, her toast burnt, the kids were whiny and out of control, and on a day that she was running late the car wouldn’t start. While they waited for a taxi to take them to Winnetonka Elementary she discovered a run in her last decent pair of pantyhose, then her oldest daughter told her that she was going to run away from home if Henrietta didn’t buy her the latest iPhone. Fat chance of that on a teacher’s salary. Her own phone was years out of date and a fourth grader didn’t need to have a fifteen hundred dollar toy that she’d probably lose on the playground.<o:p></o:p></p><p>When they finally got to school and her kids were in their classrooms, she was chastised by the principal for keeping the ones she was paid to instruct waiting. She apologized profusely but secretly wanted to strangle him for being a pompous ass without sympathy for her misfortunes. When things finally settled down, she was able to focus on preparations for the carnival.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Besides stringing bunting and holiday lights in the gymnasium during nap time, one of her jobs was to set up a table and a goldfish bowl to hold raffle tickets. The attendees could win a big screen TV that had been donated by a local appliance store. Henrietta wished it weren’t against the rules for employees to participate in the drawing as her TV had wavy lines running through it and she could really use an upgrade. Finished with that chore, she sat at her desk wishing she had a bottle of vodka in the drawer and a one-way ticket to somewhere warm and sunny. While her ex took the kids for Christmas break, she could run naked on a sandy beach and make mad passionate love to a stranger.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Instead, she struggled through the rest of the day and was relieved when the carnival started, signaling the possibility of some fun. She and the kids shared ice cream and funnel cakes, then popped balloons with darts and played pin the tail on the donkey. A smile crept onto her face for a moment but quickly disappeared when the principal cornered her by the coat check and fondled her butt, saying he could make things easier for her in return for special favors. After that, she hardly remembered what happened and why she spent the night in jail.<o:p></o:p></p><p>They believed it when she told the cops she didn’t mean to flip out. It was just that she’d had enough and if she’d actually pummeled the principal with a Barbie doll that she yanked from a toddler’s hand she’d have to take their word for it. Evidently, her mother had to come for the kids and were taken away crying when she got arrested. Now her ex would have a valid argument for full-time custody. Waking up in a cell was embarrassing but she wasn’t sorry that the principal would get fried by the media for misconduct. After all, everyone has their breaking point and she’d obviously reached hers. When she was released and told that no charges were being filed, she was relieved but riding the bus home wearing rumpled clothes and tattered nylons added insult to injury.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Her traitorous car sat uncaring in the driveway as she unlocked the door and let herself in. What did it care that she’d face a disciplinary review and might lose her job? At least it was quiet in the house. The smell of burnt toast lingered but was easily ignored as she ran a hot bath, stripped, and slid in, holding the bottle of vodka she grabbed on her way through the kitchen. Drowning her sorrows wouldn’t change the fact that the kids would be home the next day and the alarm clock was still broken, but for the moment she could pretend she was watching the sunset on a tropical island. She still wished she’d won that big screen TV. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73215162023-12-19T14:45:03-07:002023-12-19T14:45:03-07:00Rescue or punishment? - By Mizeta Moon<p>It had been a horrible trip so far. Multiple breakdowns caused a huge financial drain as well as frazzling my nerves. Every time I left a garage thinking I was going to be okay, it turned out to be wishful thinking. Within a few miles something else would go wrong, leaving me stranded again. This time I could see a motel sign about half a mile away, so at least I wouldn’t have to sleep in my car while waiting for a tow truck. When I’d called AAA, they informed me it would be the next morning before anyone would be available. Tired and disappointed, I grabbed my overnight bag, locked the car, and started walking.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The motel was called Lulu’s Oasis but it looked like a slumlord’s dream castle. Three palm trees lined a cracked, pothole riddled driveway ending at the entrance of a building badly in need of rehab or demolition. Lulu turned out to be about eighty, with a heavily wrinkled face and a head of white hair wrapped in pink plastic rollers. Her bathrobe looked like she never washed it. As I filled out a coffee stained registration form, she told me I could have her best room. Two beds, a mini-fridge, and over the air TV (which turned out to be an old black and white from the fifties) and a shower instead of a tub. I would have gone elsewhere but the nearest town was five miles away, and like I said, I was tired and cranky and had to meet the tow driver in the morning. I asked if there were others staying there but she told me it was the off season. Fancy that. The only travelers frequenting her establishment had to be in dire straits, like me.<o:p></o:p></p><p>When Lulu handed me my key, she caressed the back of my hand and stated that I might be more comfortable in her bed but that totally creeped me out. Later, I realized she was right about the comfort level since the beds were lumpy and smelled like pee in my ‘deluxe’ room. The shower spewed lukewarm rusty water that left me feeling less clean than when I stepped in. All in all, I was badly in need of the bottle of tequila I always keep in my overnight bag in case of emergency. I had to drink straight from the bottle as the only glass in the room was nearly opaque from mineral crusting and had a dead fly in the bottom. Needless to say, I drank too much tequila trying to blot out the nightmare situation my disaster prone vehicle subjected me to. I got so drunk that reruns of the Jack Benny show made me laugh out loud.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I finally passed out on the floor. That little bit of sleep was a welcome respite but I woke up with a splitting headache and my whole body ached. I pulled on a fresh pair of panties and got dressed, wishing I could go to Denny’s and get breakfast instead of munching a battered NUTRIGRAIN bar lurking at the bottom of my bag. Fortunately, Lulu wasn’t in the office when I dropped off the key and started walking back to my ride. I didn’t want to admit that I probably would have been more comfortable if I’d taken her offer of a cuddle. The tow truck driver turned out to be a redneck yahoo that offered me a free tow if I would have sex with him, but I would have pushed the car to the garage instead of surrendering to his sleazy caresses. As it was, I had to pay him an exorbitant fee for what was supposed to be a free tow or he would leave me stranded. Threatening to complain to AAA made him laugh since he was the only tow driver for nearly a hundred miles.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I finally got home but the trip wasn’t without further incident. Another breakdown. A friendlier tow. But still, more exasperation. Instead of selling my car to a junk dealer, I beat the hell out of it with a sledgehammer, then set it on fire. Yesterday I bought a new car, and hopefully it will perform well, but nothing can erase the memory of Lulu inviting me to discover what was under her robe. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73215152023-12-19T14:44:43-07:002023-12-19T14:44:43-07:00Shopping - By Mizeta Moon<p>My car died while I was out shopping for fairy dust. Fortunately, I was only a block away from BradCo, so it wasn’t overly tiring to walk there in my sequined high heels. If it had been raining, I’d really be screwed since those shoes can’t handle being dipped in an icy puddle. Anyway, just before I got to BradCo a man in a long black coat peeled his back off a wall and started moving in my direction. The stranger looked dangerous so I clutched my purse tightly, hoping that wasn’t what he was after, since he was obviously aiming for me. Situations like that were why I was shopping for a new supply of fairy dust. With a healthy sprinkle of that magical stuff all trouble disappears and the world is a smiley place. Since I was out, this stranger could darken my day.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The man stopped in front of me and made it impossible to reach the door of the store, so I clicked to a halt and prepared for the worst. When his hand came out of his pocket, I expected to see a big gun or knife but that wasn’t the case. He was holding a business card and a coupon of some sort. Though relieved, I was still wary. What did he want?<o:p></o:p></p><p>“Allow me to introduce myself.” He said with a disarming smile. “I represent Passions Unlimited. We sell exotic lingerie to BradCo and other outlets but we also have a pop up event going on at the moment that you might enjoy. I couldn’t help but notice your beautiful legs and thought you would be a great model for our Super Sparkle fishnet stockings.” He waved the card and coupon, expecting me to reach for them but I wasn’t buying in that easily. When I tried to step past him, he moved to block me again. Now I was getting angry instead of being worried.<o:p></o:p></p><p>“Please move,” I said peevishly. “I need to do my shopping then get back to work. Thank you for the compliment but I already have a great supply of stockings and some other naughty things I’ve purchased from BradCo. Now that I think about it, the label did say Passions Unlimited, but why are you soliciting on the street instead of inside the store?”<o:p></o:p></p><p>The stranger shrugged his shoulders and smiled sheepishly. “My ex wife is the store manager and won’t let me in. Every customer I can steal helps my sales and cuts into hers. Two weeks ago she stopped ordering from us and my boss says that I’m going to be fired if I don’t bring in ten new customers a day.” The agony on his face softened my resolve but I still needed fairy dust. Suddenly, I had a brain flash.<o:p></o:p></p><p>“I think I can help you if you’ll let me pass,” I said. “Wait five minutes, then follow me in,” He moved, and I stepped into the biggest purveyor of oddities in the universe. Flying carpets, talking dogs, invisible clothing, you name it, BradCo has it. So, I grabbed a ten pound box of Super Charmed fairy dust, then asked the clerk if I could speak to the manager. When she came, I opened the box and sprinkled a handful of dust on her. As you know, the hypnotic effect is immediate and makes one susceptible to suggestion. What I whispered in her ear led to a romantic reunion a few minutes later. Even though I didn’t really need them, I bought two pairs of fishnets, then added a bag of Macic Car Cure before heading back to my crippled ride and dosing it liberally. The rest of the day went well due to my sprinkling pinches of dust on anyone who looked grumpy at work. I thought about sprinkling some on the boss and asking for a raise but remembered he always wore HypnoGard clothing so it would be pointless. I even got home just before it rained so my shoes stayed beautiful and dry. Sometimes, things work out well and we are rescued from the brink of disaster. Next time I go to BradCo I’m going to buy the fifty pound bag of dust since tragedy and heartbreak constantly lurk around the corner and I want to be prepared for any and everything. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73215142023-12-19T14:44:20-07:002023-12-19T14:44:21-07:00The stoker - By Mizeta Moon<p>A belching smokestack filling the sky with coal smoke was the center of his world for years as he stoked roaring furnaces smelting ore into steel. His back was strong, and his arms bulged with muscles capable of scooping shovelfuls for hours without tiring. Sweat dripping from his brow as he fed the inferno was a symbol of the pride he took in his work. Lately however, what started as a sudden urge had become an increasing desire for change. Consequently, one payday morning he told the bossman he wouldn’t return as he’d made up his mind the night before that it was time to move on. Midday found him bidding adieu to his landlady and packing his few belongings into a sturdy valise and a canvas duffel. Evening came while he stood on a wooden platform waiting for a train. As the wheels clattered through the night, he slumbered on a bench in the third class car.<o:p></o:p></p><p>When he reached St. Louis, he treated himself to a hearty meal and a pint of whiskey before going round to the hiring hall. Aimless drifting would deplete his resources so working his way along his new path was mandatory. There was ample work for a physically strong man such as he. Barge loader, deckhand, warehouseman, or stoker on a paddle wheeler plying the Mississippi. There was also an opening as a fireman on the railroad if he wanted to go west. Life going up and down the river seemed to be yet another routine existence so he applied at the switching yards and was hired immediately.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The world became fascinating as he stoked the fires of a huffing beast surging through pristine grasslands, stately forests, and seemingly endless plains. The rhythm of his shovel merged with the hisses, roars, and steel on steel screeches into a symphony that filled his soul with joy. Idle moments found him clinging to the guard rail, watching their ascent over rolling hills, or crossing rivers on trestles built by similar men, toiling to build a nation. Omaha Nebraska was the hub for trains turning south into desert lands or continuing west into the mountains. He had a week to decide during a layover that found him resting rather than cavorting with gamblers and whores who were ubiquitous at every stop along the way. Saving money would afford him a better life wherever he ultimately landed.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The siren song of the west kept calling. Answering its enticement led to him experiencing the splendor of Oregon’s high desert before steaming into the absolute majesty of the Cascades and the Columbia Gorge. Snowcapped peaks rising into cerulean skies. Evergreens waving in the wind. Herds of elk observing their passing with little concern. Indians using fishing wheels to harvest glistening salmon from the broad shouldered river. His excitement rose as he began to realize this land could become his home. Rock climbing could be fun. Boating on silvery lakes. Hiking trails on misty mornings where moss and ferns created a special magic. The smell of wet bark, leaves, and flowers blending into a perfume to stimulate the senses.<o:p></o:p></p><p>For the next few years he was stationed in Portland. Traveling to the spectacular coast and the boundless beauty of the ocean, hauling lumber through the lush Willamette valley, and occasionally going long haul back to Omaha. Though the work was hard he relished every moment as something wonderful lay around every bend. His free time was spent exploring any twisting lane or footpath that beckoned or drinking beer with fellow pioneers. When it came time to retire, he was financially comfortable so he bought a small house in Hood River next to the tracks with a view of the river. There, he could sit on his porch, listening to the transition from steam to electric and diesel locomotives while hawks and eagles soared and the unceasing Columbia carved its path to the sea. When he died, the townsfolk buried him on a hill overlooking the town to give him an eternal view of the beauty he cherished. It was just reward for his labor. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73092872023-11-25T12:06:51-07:002023-11-25T12:06:51-07:00Trash town - by Mizeta Moon<p>Ominous clouds on the horizon made me want to find shelter. The radio said there was a high possibility of a tornado and I had no desire to be swept away by one. My gas gauge was near the bottom and the spare can in the trunk was only half-full, so when I saw lights about a mile ahead, that seemed to be the best option for refuge. The lights turned out to be coming from a bunch of ramshackle buildings that had probably been built by a company for its workers as they were nearly identical. Some in better shape than others, but all tawdry and worn. It was hard to believe anyone could live in such squalid conditions, but hopefully, someone did and would let me in to weather the storm.<o:p></o:p></p><p>There was no response at the first three doors I knocked on. I thought about just letting myself in but if someone came home and found me in their abode there could be a violent confrontation so I kept moving. At the fourth shack the door creaked open and I found myself facing a slattern woman in a moth-eaten robe. Her cheeks were heavily rouged and a half-burnt cigarette dangled from carmine lips. When she pushed back her tousled grey hair, I noted that her fingernails were caked with dirt. The odor of burnt coffee radiated from inside as she pushed the door open wider. When she smiled, it revealed a yellowed row of crooked teeth.<o:p></o:p></p><p>“What can I do for you stranger? Looking for company?” I cringed at the thought.<o:p></o:p></p><p>“Storm coming. Need a dry place till it passes. Any of these places unoccupied?”<o:p></o:p></p><p>She tugged at the bodice of her robe, then pointed to the hut next door. “Nobody living there. Course, you could sit with me a while. I don’t bite.”<o:p></o:p></p><p>I thought about declining but found myself increasingly curious about this place and its inhabitants. She stood aside as I nodded and stepped forward, looking over my shoulder at the gathering momentum of the storm. The place was cleaner than I expected, furnished with an eclectic mix of furniture and a jumble of knick-knacks and hotel lobby art. She offered me coffee as I settled on a club chair, but I said no, expecting it to taste worse than it smelled. <o:p></o:p></p><p><span> </span>While the storm battered the surprisingly resilient shack, she told me her story. Evidently, the county landfill was about a half-mile down the road. People that she called tumbleweeds drifted in and out, gleaning a meager living from the dump. Bits of food, clothing, trinkets, and treasures were rescued and reused. She’d lived there when it was a thriving company town whose employees ran a gravel quarry until the owner died and his heirs lost interest and closed it. Over the years she’d seen a lot of change. Drug dealers cooking and selling. Road tramps taking a break before moving on. Hookers setting up shop until the sheriff shut them down. The town’s greatest asset was a deep well providing a year-round supply of cool clean water to anyone willing to pump. The lights I’d seen in the twilight came from candles and lanterns as there was no power available. She created beautiful candles from scraps and made cigarette money by selling them in the town five miles away. Hearing there was a town was a relief as I could get fuel in the morning if the storm didn’t wreak havoc on it.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I didn’t sleep a lot but passed the night in comfort. In the morning, I was grateful for her hospitality and offered to take her into town and buy her some groceries. She declined, so I bought a few candles, which allowed her to maintain her dignity by not accepting charity. However, I did stop at the store after filling my tank. I knew I would never pass that way again so I drove back to Trash Town and left two cartons of smokes by her door along with a good bottle of wine. As we navigate life’s twists and turns, we never know who might be willing to provide shelter from the storms. <o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73092862023-11-25T12:06:15-07:002023-11-25T12:06:16-07:00Buried treasure. - By Mizeta Moon<p>Daybreak revealed the outline of a sturdy sailing ship surrounded by swirling wisps of fog as it bobbed on surging waters of a large bay. The steady sound of creaking oars broke the stillness as four steely-armed men urged a longboat towards a stretch of sand nearly hidden by dark craggy rocks. In the prow stood a woman whose black ringlets were wrapped with a bright red scarf providing sharp contrast to her emerald eyes. People called her Lady Mercy because she seldom murdered to provide for her crew when they raided small villages along the coast. She was a legend who’d yet to feel the lash of punishment on her back due to being wily as well as courageous. People often bragged about being pillaged by her as if it was a blessing. This morning, the oarsmen were wondering why they were straining to reach shore when there was no village in sight but her smile said she had knowledge she’d yet to reveal, so they toiled without questioning aloud.<o:p></o:p></p><p>When the boat was secure beyond reach of incoming waves, she directed them to arm themselves with shovels and burlap bags while she unrolled a sheet of parchment that appeared to be a map. Nodding her head as if satisfied with what she saw, she tucked the document into the waistband of her britches, then bade them to gather round. “I know you would prefer to seek gold and jewels,” she said, “but today’s outgoing tide will provide us with treasure of a different sort. We’ll be muddy and tired by evening but tonight your tongues will relish providance beyond previous experience.” Pointing to a rock formation, she continued. “As the tide recedes, we’ll gather some of he finest mussels in the world from those boulders, then dig in the mud for a wealth of cockles, and several varieties of clams we’ll add to the crab your mates are trapping in our absence. We’ve looted and faced peril for some time and I feel we could use a banquet and a rest, so I procured this map from a squaw who knows this area well. The x marks the clam beds instead of where booty might be buried.”<o:p></o:p></p><p>At first, the men’s disappointment showed on their faces, and they grumbled, but as the mud flats came into view, they followed her lead and soon found themselves laughing as they splashed and romped, competing to see who might discover the greatest trove. Late afternoon found them resting on the beach, bags full, awaiting the incoming tide and their return to the ship. Clouds danced in a sunny sky while gulls screeched and soared above. Their arms were tired as they pulled mightily on the short journey back, but their hearts were gay and their minds untroubled. Lady Mercy stood in the prow, looking back at the wilderness they’d barely breached, wondering what lay beyond the green forested hills, knowing she’d never venture there, as the sea was her calling.<o:p></o:p></p><p>That night, stars blazed on a velvet background as the cookpot bubbled–filled with salmon, rockfish, and bass, along with shrimp and crab the crew reaped in their absence, to which they’d added their gleanings. Tots of rum burned their way to bellies soon filled with the bounty of the sea. A juice harp provided the tempo and their songs carried on a gentle breeze carrying scents of evergreen. Such magical moments were rare in a life spent navigating turgid waters and battling stormy weather, so their pleasure ran deep and filled their souls with contentment. Later, sleep brought dreams of new adventures that would further the legend of Lady Mercy and her stalwart crew. Come morning, there’d be sails to unfurl and an anchor to hoist, but for the moment, all was right with the world. <o:p></o:p></p><p><span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72835372023-10-05T18:10:17-07:002023-10-16T07:54:33-07:00Urban Tragedy - By Mizeta Moon<p>Kids from broken homes<o:p></o:p></p><p>Wander city streets<o:p></o:p></p><p>Alone and cold, but hardened,<o:p></o:p></p><p>To the turmoil of the world.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Babies having babies,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Doing downers, taking speed.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Mommy doesn’t want them,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Daddy’s never home,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Now there’s nothing left,<o:p></o:p></p><p>But hit the streets to roam.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Lost souls in the night,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Little kids from broken homes.<o:p></o:p></p><p>No tears to cry, just want to die,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Love is something in a book,<o:p></o:p></p><p>They never learned to read.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Just turn and walk away,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Don’t take a second look.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Kids from broken homes,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Little hobos in the park,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Drinking beer and puking,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Beatings in the dark,<o:p></o:p></p><p>No one left to heal them,<o:p></o:p></p><p>And their broken souls.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Wasted little strangers,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Grandma used to know.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Dirty little mobsters,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Someone had to go.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Now the streets are full of,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Kids from broken homes.<o:p></o:p></p><p><span>Time<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>It’s all a race against time.<o:p></o:p></p><p>How long will my heart beat?<o:p></o:p></p><p>Lungs work?<o:p></o:p></p><p>Legs still move?<o:p></o:p></p><p>How long till my eyes no longer see,<o:p></o:p></p><p>And what is me,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Is but a fading memory?<o:p></o:p></p><p>We wither and pale,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Beneath the ravages of time,<o:p></o:p></p><p>And our own self abuse.<o:p></o:p></p><p>A constant inexorable treadmill,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Leading to the grave.<o:p></o:p></p><p>From whence we came,<o:p></o:p></p><p>To where we go,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Who knows the answer?<o:p></o:p></p><p>Only that it is so.<o:p></o:p></p><p>We live, and in so doing,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Are dying every moment. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72835362023-10-05T18:09:40-07:002023-10-05T18:09:40-07:00The New Girl - By Mizeta Moon<p>The elevator stopped at the 97<sup>th</sup> floor and she got off. An arrow on the wall pointed the way to the regional office of the Undertakers Union so she strode towards it, stiletto heels clicking loudly on faux marble tiles. She hesitated a few seconds before turning the brass handle on the door, brushed imagined wrinkles from her dress, and smoothed her hair. When she entered, she was met by a stern-faced woman who radiated an aura of unchallengeable authority. The fact that she was ten minutes late for the interview was frostily noted. After apologizing, she took a seat by the woman’s desk and handed over her resume, nervousness increasing exponentially as the woman studied it intently. It seemed like an eternity before the woman cleared her throat and asked her why she wanted to be a mortician.<o:p></o:p></p><p>She explained that her friend Stephanie was always posting blurbs online about how fulfilling working with the survivors could be and her background in trauma therapy would come in handy in such situations. Yes, she understood that working with dead bodies could be disconcerting and wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but she wanted a career change that promised longevity since people died every day. The woman’s face showed that she had doubts but agreed to introduce her to the boss. They rose, then walked to a mahogany door that had Hiram J. Deepdigger–– Regional Director engraved on a gold metal placard. Just before knocking, the stern-faced woman looked her directly in the eye. “Are you sure you want this?” she whispered softly. “He hates having his time wasted.” Her nod of assent noted, they entered after a quiet rap on the door.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The office wasn’t what she expected, nor was the man. She expected someone in a severe suit with a somber disposition but Hiram, “call me Hiram” looked more like an old cowpoke in jeans and boots with a pink bandana around his neck. His office was littered with plastic coffins, rubber spiders, and a plethora of things suitable for a Halloween party. Hiram gave her a moment to take it all in before dismissing Ms. Dagger, then bidding her to take a seat after he removed a skeleton from it. They conversed about the job, its pitfalls, and rewards as he casually scanned her resume. He seemed more interested in her as a person than education and job experience, making it easy for her to laugh when he cracked wise about the patrons. When he agreed to her becoming an apprentice she was elated and promised to meet him at Wandering Hills Mortuary the next morning.<o:p></o:p></p><p>She arrived at the appointed time. Hiram met her at the door, wearing a black Stetson and a fancy western shirt with rhinestones on the lapels. “Come in. Come in.” He said as he pushed the door open. He gave her a tour of the chapel, waiting areas, and offices before offering to show her the working part of the facility. He watched her facial expressions as they neared a body lying in a casket that was to be buried later that day. She was nervous but determined to excel at her new job, so she looked at the person like one would any inanimate object. Embalming and prepping was something she’d have to learn to be certified but her position as bereavement councilor would only require “hands on” infrequently. When they went to the prep area, the floor was littered with food wrappers, paper cups and signs of a party. “Who made this mess?” Hiram asked himself. “Sorry boss” a voice said from under a sheet draped over what she’d thought was a body. When the person sat up, she nearly peed her pants. The woman who emerged was introduced as the head embalmer. She explained to Hiram that she’d worked late, ordered food, and invited her husband to stop by for dinner. After he left, she was too tired to drive home and sacked out on the table. The thought crossed her mind that this was a staged event to test her but neither face looked culpable so she said nothing. On her way home she stopped at Dollar Tree to buy some décor for her new office. Good thing Halloween was just two weeks away. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72596032023-08-19T08:59:49-07:002023-08-19T08:59:49-07:00shattered - By Mizeta Moon<p>The pond was nearly dry but the creatures living close by could still get a cool drink on a sweltering day. Shade from the trees was a comfort in such heat and a playful breeze was a welcome companion as he sat contemplating how to avoid disaster. He was tired from being at the all night protest that was to no avail, and now contractors would be rolling in and destroying this serene little corner of the world within hours. He was hoarse from chanting and his eyes still stung from teargas but he had to sit there one last time and commit its beauty to memory. This property had once belonged to his grandfather and both he and his father had occupied the small house there over the years before it burned down and they decided not to rebuild on the site. By then, grandad was gone, and his father was in hospice, so it seemed pointless to fight the county for a permit, knowing they were going to exercise imminent domain if he wouldn’t accept their offer to buy it. He refused to sell, so they stole the land from him.<o:p></o:p></p><p>So many people were migrating to the Northwest that roads and shopping centers were eating up land to provide for a burgeoning population. With the continued escalation of insufferable heat, tornados, and flooding in the East and Midwest, people were leaving those areas and starting over without considering the impact so much new construction would have on the environment. Everywhere he went, apartments were popping up like weeds. What the county had planned for his acreage was a hotel complex with a waterpark and shopping mall due its proximity to the freeway. He told the commissioners that he would give them the land if they’d leave it wild and designate it a park but that didn’t fly because one of them owned a big construction firm that would benefit from the huge contracts.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Tiredness made his eyes droop after a while, so he stretched out for a short nap while birds twittered in the trees and dragonflies flitted across the pond’s surface. Clouds scooted across the sky as his quiet breathing fell into sync with the life rhythm around him. He might have lain there for hours and woken refreshed but that was not to be. It was a distant droning at first, that soon became a roar as a diesel engine shattered the serenity. He could hear the shrieks of birds as trees fell and their homes were destroyed. Smashing, crashing, the machine approached without mercy. The caterpillar was huge and was packing a giant blade when it broke into the clearing and shoved a huge pile of dirt and debris into the pond. The driver wore goggles and gloves as dust swirled and black smoke poured from its exhaust.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Every manner of creatures ran frightened in all directions as the monster spread mayhem in its path. When the driver saw him sitting calmly under a tree that he planned to destroy, he waved at him to move but he shook his head in refusal. The driver scowled as he put the caterpillar in neutral, then climbed down from the cab and stomped toward him. They argued for a few moments but when he sat resolute the driver said “okay, buddy. You want to become part of the landscape, so be it.” When he climbed back aboard and reengaged the gears, the monster plowed its way forward. It was a very close call when he waited till the last second to roll out of its path and jump to his feet.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Later that evening, while he and his buddies were commiserating at the bar, a lifted pickup with giant tires flying a confederate flag skidded into the parking lot and disgorged four ‘good old boys’ who sauntered in like they owned the place. The sign on their truck said Swamp Water Construction. so this had to be the first crew to arrive. There was nothing to be gained by starting a fight but being polite to invaders wasn’t required. Everyone stood and filed out as the bartender shut everything down and told the men he was just closing. The only thing the locals could do from then on was refuse to intermingle or cooperate and slow everything down, thus making costs soar. Spoiling paradise wasn’t going to come cheap.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72596022023-08-19T08:59:18-07:002023-08-19T08:59:18-07:00At the Memorial - By Mizeta Moon<p>As kids, they swapped lies, shared dreams, fought over girls, worked on cars, all the stuff young men do. Over time, they traveled different paths but kept in touch. His personal achievements led to a degree of fame and wealth but that wasn’t the fate of the other two. Tom Gallagher became a preacher raising five kids in an impoverished rural area constantly besieged by natural disasters and awash with illiteracy. Though uninterested in religion himself, he admired Tom’s devotion to establishing food banks, learning centers, and providing care during times of great need. He looked forward to seeing his childhood friend at the celebration of life for the one who never managed to figure it out and get his life on track.<o:p></o:p></p><p>After high school Adam Fitzgerald worked in fast food joints, stocked groceries, and did a plethora of odd jobs without real interest or achievement in any endeavor. He would hear from Adam when he needed a loan or a place to crash but as time moved on those moments faded as he eventually started saying no. It wasn’t that he was cold-hearted or unconcerned with his friend’s welfare. It was simply that he saw the escalation of a parasitic lifestyle and didn’t want to participate. Too many of the locals became involved with drugs and he’d watched enough of them devolve and realized Adam was more willing to party than work.<o:p></o:p></p><p>His career took him to New York and the fast pace of big business. He wound up with a corner office with a magnificent view of the city and a hideously expensive apartment overlooking the river. He never married but enjoyed the company of beautiful women who had their own goals to pursue instead of a life-long mate. His company provided great benefits, plenty of vacation time, and yearly bonuses that swelled his savings. He became an epicure who enjoyed dining in the vast array of restaurants and seldom ate at the same place twice. He often visited galleries and acquired a collection of art that dazzled visitors to his home. Life was good.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Meanwhile, Fentanyl invaded America and people started dropping like flies. Every emergency service in every town became overwhelmed by the epidemic, and relatives grieved at the continued loss of loved ones. Though he occasionally smoked a little weed he’d always avoided chemical drugs and when it came to Fentanyl, he was happy to have never tried that. Dying for temporary pleasure seemed like a lousy tradeoff. Now, he was flying home to bury someone he’d loved like a brother in the early years.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The flight was bumpy. Air turbulence was so severe that the pilot considered turning back but they eventually cleared the weather front and touched down without incident. As he reclaimed his luggage, then ambled through the terminal he dreaded looking into the surely pain-filled eyes of Adam’s family. He wasn’t sure how to deal with that since they’d always been in denial and hadn’t tried very hard to help him find a better path. He didn’t blame them for Adam’s choices as each person is responsible for their own welfare but still felt that with more effort things could have turned out better.<o:p></o:p></p><p>After greetings, hugs, and condolences, he walked down the aisle of the funeral home to view the body before taking a seat. He was shocked at his friend’s appearance. The cosmetician couldn’t disguise the ravages of life-long drug abuse and had he passed him on the street he wouldn’t have recognized his childhood pal. He sat quietly in the back during the service and subsequent funeral. The best part of the day was reconnecting with Tom Gallagher and giving him a check for his food bank, then sitting down with the local social services director and pledging to develop a trust fund to support a crisis intervention/drug rehab center. Hopefully, a few lives could be salvaged from ruination. All they could do was try but he understood that people can’t be saved from themselves. The flight home was both a relief and a time for quiet reflection. He knew that he would never go home again as life always has more to offer to those willing to participate.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72595992023-08-19T08:56:31-07:002023-08-19T08:56:32-07:00Timing - By Mizeta Moon<p>Ollie Olavson’s wife Greta wouldn’t let him chew tobacco in the house because she hated the smell. Wouldn’t kiss him for three days afterward, and only after thorough mouth cleansing could he sneak in a smooch. Consequently, he’d taken to walking the back road around Lake Getagrip while indulging. This day, he was standing on the shore watching a gaggle of geese argue with an asylum of loons about whose turf that side of the lake was. The noise was nearly deafening but didn’t drown out the loud crunch he heard as an accident occurred on the road at his back. Hoping no one was injured, he climbed the small berm by the road and rushed to render aid. Being a retired firefighter, he was trained to handle most emergencies and was well-versed in first aid. What he saw when he arrived was more amusing than distressing.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Sven Swendegard had been driving a truckload of apples to the cider press in Goblinville when he had a head-on collision with Rolf Ruthenberger, who was transporting a load of suckling pigs to the slaughterhouse in Scratchbottom Flats. The result was apples all over the road and squealing pigs darting in all directions, although many of the piglets used the opportunity to greedily gobble Sven’s notoriously delicious apples. Oh Golly! He thought as he approached the scene of the crash. By then, instead of chasing pigs and apples, the two farmers were squared off in the middle of the road, yelling and threatening to come to blows. Relieved that neither man was injured by the collision, he scurried in their direction to intervene before violence ensued. He did, however, swoop up a few apples and shoved them in his overcoat pocket for later consumption. Maybe Greta could be sweet talked into a cuddle by bringing treats, or at least, bake a pie.<o:p></o:p></p><p>It took some doing, but eventually he defused the situation by advising Rolf that unless they got busy, all the piglets would run off. His truck wasn’t badly damaged and he wouldn’t lose too much money if they corralled the critters. Meanwhile, Sven was gathering the undamaged apples and putting them back in their crates. Even marred, they could be turned into cider, so his losses would be minimal. As they were wrapping things up, the sheriff came along and assessed the situation. He was reluctant to assign blame as both men were poker buddies, so he took a few pictures and wrote a no-fault report for any future court proceedings to show that he was on the job and showing due diligence. The road was narrow and there were accidents from time to time.<o:p></o:p></p><p>After the two men drove away, Ollie resumed his walk. The geese and the loons were still yelling at each other but had formed flotillas well apart. Evidently, no feathers were going to fly. As he rounded a curve that caused the road to move away from the lake, he heard a plaintive wail coming from a stand of shrubbery on the opposite side of the road. Crossing over, and parting the branches, he discovered a plump little piglet whose leg was broken struggling to free itself from entanglement. At that point he was faced with a moral dilemma. Nurse it back to health after freeing it? Call Rolf and offer to buy it for a sumptuous dinner? Its leg was so badly mangled that odds were it would be crippled for life. As he pondered the situation, he suddenly remembered the apples in his pocket. Unfortunately for the pig, that sealed the deal. Greta was going to be very receptive when presented with such serendipitous abundance.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72424102023-07-15T08:20:30-07:002023-07-15T08:20:30-07:00Four footed football - By Mizeta Moon<p>The annual soccer match between the Elephants and the Rhinos was always a hotly contested event that drew creatures from the plains and the jungle. Birds jostled for prime limbs to watch from and all the predators took the day off so everyone could have fun. The previous year one of the lions got too excited and bit an antelope, so this year they were relegated to a rocky slope well away from the playing field. Their roaring complaints about such punishment fell on deaf ears. Because of his stripes, the head zebra was the umpire (a misnomer–should have been referee but by now it was a tradition to call them the umpire) and because he’d been raised by humans he could enunciate better when it was time to call a foul.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The ball was what humans used to call a medicine ball, (one of the elephants stole it while escaping a circus) covered with heavy duty leather and tough enough for big feet to kick without bursting. As the teams did their warm-up drills it rested at midfield awaiting the pummeling to come. When the sun reached the agreed on point in the sky, the teams took the field as the crowd went wild and yelled encouragement to the team they preferred. The reptiles felt the ump was biased because he’d been stepped on by a rhino as a foal but the monkeys screeched so loud their hisses were muffled and ignored. Besides, the elephants usually won because they were nimbler, but the rhinos put up such a good fight every year the tussle was well worth watching. The rules were simple. No goalie, just kick the ball over a vine laid on the ground at each end of the field. No use of trunks and no goring. Bumping and bullying were totally acceptable.<o:p></o:p></p><p>When play commenced, it felt like an earthquake as the massive tonnage lumbered across the field each time the ball was booted. The birds chirped loudly when the rhinos scored first due to a back leg kick that scooted between the head elephant’s massive feet and rolled over the vine. Trumpeting and snorting, the elephants went all out to even the score and formed a box with their bodies to keep the rhinos at bay. Things got worse for them though when the smallest rhino shoved his way through and stole the ball, then scored with a kick that traveled the length of the field. The baboons got a big hoot out of that maneuver and clapped their hands with approval. This caused the elephants to call time out so they could palaver. While they huddled, the rhinos complained to the ump that time shouldn’t have been granted as it took away their momentum. The ump felt it was insulting for them to question his authority so he gave the elephants a free kick when play recommenced.<o:p></o:p></p><p>As the sun inched its way toward the horizon, the elephants were worried that they might lose when sunset came and ended the game, so they decided to cheat by “accidentally” trunking the ball when any opportunity arose. Unfortunately, though their eyesight was notoriously bad, the rhinos caught on to that ploy and decided there was only one way to maintain their lead. The next time that the ball was launched into the air, the small rhino that scored the first goal stuck his horn straight up and “accidently” gored the ball, which ended the game. The controversy that ensued went on until well after sundown but in the end the ump had the final say. “No ball, no game. No rematch. Rhinos win.” As everyone went back to business as usual on the plains and in the jungle, there was a lot of tittering about the elephants finally losing when their cheating led to a deflating reprisal. The biggest topic of conversation around the waterhole the next day was “where do we get another ball for next year’s match?” Breaking into the circus to steal one became the mission of a young gorilla named Gonzo, but how that went is another story. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72424092023-07-15T08:20:06-07:002023-07-15T08:20:06-07:00More ‘70s babbling. - By Mizeta Moon<p><span><u>Storm coast</u></span><o:p></o:p></p><p>The fury of the storm I see while looking out my window,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Is mostly screaming, howling winds,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Heard over the clock ticking on the mantle.<o:p></o:p></p><p>As the fire crackles and sputters, we chat in fading light,<o:p></o:p></p><p>But I feel the need for a change of pace, <o:p></o:p></p><p>From the view of a water-soaked, mud-splattered highway.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I wander toward the ocean, dear mother of raging maelstroms,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Attacking the land with laughing, snarling jabs,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Searing the marrow of gaunt, bending trees.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Jack Pines and trailing vines merge with sandy dunes,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Facing cascades of waves, incredibly furious,<o:p></o:p></p><p>But yet, poetically moving and fluid.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Turning to hissing, crackling whiteness,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Exploding in a foamy line across a beach,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Littered with earthly treasure.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The tremendous surge tossing driftwood about,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Twenty foot logs as if they were toothpicks.<o:p></o:p></p><p>So small one human against this,<o:p></o:p></p><p>An inferno of elements so biologically rational.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Pourings of regenerative life essences,<o:p></o:p></p><p>For souls and spirits on every level of life.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Leading to rebirth when the sun comes to dry tears away,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Reabsorbing excesses upon every surface.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Apollo’s chariot with its shiny disc wheel,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Treads the sky with horses in rein.<o:p></o:p></p><p>I see the spark of him for just a moment,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Before Poseidon unleashes another battery of rain and mist.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Battering, lashing against windowpanes,<o:p></o:p></p><p>As I return to my fireplace and your side again,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Finally whispering so long for now.<o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><u>First touching</u><o:p></o:p></p><p>Your perfume clung to me all the way home.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Every place that you kissed, still tingling.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Some hot, others cool, an unfamiliar warmth,<o:p></o:p></p><p>The electricity of your hair, a tactile memory to be cherished forever.<o:p></o:p></p><p>To make contact. To go from fantasy to fact.<o:p></o:p></p><p>All in a heartbeat, but what a pulse quickener.<o:p></o:p></p><p>That breathtaking moment when,<o:p></o:p></p><p>What’s been in our eyes transfers to the senses.<o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><u>Now</u><o:p></o:p></p><p>Tomorrow will be too late,<o:p></o:p></p><p>To touch your lips with love.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Today the nectar is sweet,<o:p></o:p></p><p>And I am here to taste,<o:p></o:p></p><p>What may never bloom the same again.<o:p></o:p></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72308662023-06-22T16:01:27-07:002023-06-22T16:01:27-07:00Sharing and caring - By Mizeta Moon<p>So, maybe you can’t buy her diamonds and furs,<o:p></o:p></p><p>But you can give of the heart from the heart.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Maybe you can’t afford gold or a new car,<o:p></o:p></p><p>But you can afford to be kind and gentle.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Sharing and caring maintains a good love.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Stop at the store and buy her favorite ice cream.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Slip a note in her pocket, telling her you love her.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Take the extra step to let her know you care.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Being poor isn’t a crime but being lazy is.<o:p></o:p></p><p>It’s easy to become complacent and take love for granted.<o:p></o:p></p><p>It’s also easy to care and share.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Have a few less beers and cigarettes.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Save the money to buy her perfume or go to a movie,<o:p></o:p></p><p>And you’ll be rewarded with her beautiful smile.<o:p></o:p></p><p>She’s the woman you say you love,<o:p></o:p></p><p>But saying is easy, showing is the test.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Let her know how special she is to you,<o:p></o:p></p><p>And that you value her above anything else in the world.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Happiness will fill your heart,<o:p></o:p></p><p>As love streams from her eyes into your soul.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Sharing and caring–Caring and sharing.<o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72308652023-06-22T16:01:03-07:002023-06-22T16:01:03-07:00In the backyard - By Mizeta Moon<p>Thirty people signed up for the annual garden walk where the neighborhood showed off their plants and overall design. No prizes were available but each person on the walk had a scorecard. When the votes were tallied at the end there was a year’s worth of bragging rights to be had. Albertina Bigbottom usually won but this year there were several serious contenders and knocking off Albertina would bring smiles to a lot of faces.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Betsy Bludin was the organizer and tour leader, so she got up early, put on her sturdy walking shoes and overalls, grabbed her sun hat, finished her coffee, then stepped into a beautiful morning. Meanwhile, her husband, Martin, who wasn’t awake when she left, got up, ate a leisurely breakfast, then grabbed his towel and ambled to the hot tub in the backyard. He’d completely forgotten what day it was, and that their house would be the last stop on the tour.<o:p></o:p></p><p>As he took the cover off the tub, he noticed that the latch was rusty and made a mental note to replace it. He’d just slipped into the soothing warmth when their side gate opened and their next door neighbor came through, wearing the skimpiest bikini he’d ever seen. “Mind if I join you?” she asked coyly. “I saw Betsy leave earlier and the way she was dressed made me think she was out for a long walk.”<o:p></o:p></p><p>She was so gorgeous he’d spied on her through the fence several times and even saw her sunbathing naked on a chaise lounge once. “I’m naked,” he replied. “I doubt Betsy would approve.”<o:p></o:p></p><p>She giggled and hopped in. “I’m only staying for a few minutes.” Peering beneath the water surface, she added “I can tell you want me to.” So while Betsy and crew were observing and judging landscapes, her skin kept bumping into his as the bubbles caressed them and things escalated. The few minutes turned into a couple hours that he’d fantasized about but never thought would happen. Betsy flat out refused to have sex in the hot tub, no matter how often or sincerely he begged.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The trysters were tired after their fierce lovemaking, so they spread towels on the deck, cuddled into each other, and promptly fell asleep, unmindful that the clock was ticking. The tour arrived at Betsy’s house fifteen minutes later. Betsy told them to let themselves through the gate and excused herself for a trip to the bathroom. Within a minute, she heard giggles and snickering sounds coming through the open window and hurriedly finished her business in order to investigate. Her face turned red with embarrassment and rage when she stepped out the back door and saw the garden tour group gawking at Martin and the sleeping beauty instead of admiring her lovely garden. Her bellowing MARTIN!! Caused a flurry of activity and gave the tour a legendary ending. The neighbor grabbed her bikini and skedaddled. Martin draped a towel in front of himself and sidled past a sobbing wife, trembling with fury. Pens marked scorecards that were handed to Betsy as the laughing bunch filed out.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The neighborhood newsletter came out the next week. Bold headlines revealed the fact that Betsy Bludin was the unanimous winner of the garden walk due to having the most spectacular sights of that year’s tour. Although slightly mollified by winning, Betsy arranged to have the hot tub dismantled and removed, then told Martin she was filing for divorce. For Martin, the incident led to an unexpected happy ending when the neighbor invited him to move in with her. Rumor has it that they plan to make their backyard part of the next tour. OH! BTW. Albertina Bigbottom has challenged the result but it’s doubtful she’ll get a good result since pretty much everyone wanted her to lose. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72308642023-06-22T16:00:25-07:002023-06-22T16:00:25-07:00Contestant #2 - By Mizeta Moon<p>It was symbolic instead of financially rewarding. A small trophy to set on a shelf as a reminder of earlier days, with a sash and tiara for the photo shoot. The photo shoot was with a well-known photographer and would have cost a fortune, so in a way it was a monetary gain. UGLIEST IN THE WORLD was broken down into several categories, including body parts, overall features, personality, and oratory, to name a few. The stage was filled with contestants on a dreary, uncomfortable day to provide ambiance for an event featuring ugliness. The sky was dark. The stench from a nearby sewage treatment was nauseating. Hovering seagulls pooped on cars in the pothole filled parking lot.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The judges were the opposite of the contestants. Beautiful, spoiled, and wealthy, they sacrificed their senses for one day a year as a way of fulfilling their community service requirement meted out by the court for minor offenses. The more they were repugned by whatever and whomever they were assessing, the better the chances of winning were. Knowing they were mostly opera buffs, the promoters understood that the loud polka music was annoying to most and alternated that with screamo punk.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Contestant #2 was frustrated by the way things were going at the halfway point. She’d entered ten categories and had nothing to show for it. Ugly nose, ugly toes, ugly butt, nope, nope, and nope. She even tried cussing out the judges for the oratory category but a Trump imitator stole the show there. After that, she felt ugliest personality would probably go to the same person. As the day imploded into greater darkness and threatened rain, she became desperate to win a tiara.<o:p></o:p></p><p>She hadn’t seen a dentist in years but her teeth weren’t ugly enough to win. Ugly ears went to a retired boxer instead of the jug-eared country boy. Instead of a sash and tiara, male winners got a plastic top hat and cane. She liked it better when women didn’t compete against men but these days many contestants were transgender so the lines were blurred, thus the open enrollment.<o:p></o:p></p><p>She sang the worst country song she’d ever heard and was even off key like many karaoke participants but that only got her second place. She drew the line at baring her private parts so she hadn’t entered that category but felt she might have stood a chance after viewing the winner’s. Hair? Nope. She vowed not to wash it for a year. As winners were announced in the remaining categories her hopes sank to an all-time low. After being laughed at for her appearance for years it was disappointing not to be rewarded for her suffering. After failing in the last category she sat down to cry just as it started to rain. But it turned out she’d been so focused<span> </span>on the categories she’d forgotten that all entrants were eligible to be the overall ugliest winner. She was stunned to hear the emcee announce that she was the winner. Her tears of sadness turned to tears of joy as the previous year’s winner draped the sash over her trembling shoulders, then placed the tiara in her ratty hair. She won! She was officially the ugliest girl in the world. After bowing to the crowd, she faced her fellow contestants, raised a fist, and smiled. There was nothing in the world like being the best at something.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72122532023-05-19T14:10:47-07:002023-05-19T14:10:48-07:00Duality - Mizeta Moon<p>By night we build dream castles.<o:p></o:p></p><p>By day we tear them down.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Slip from fire to ice,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Stand up to tumble down.<o:p></o:p></p><p>We go from light to dark,<o:p></o:p></p><p>First left, then right.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Up a while, then down again,<o:p></o:p></p><p>In for a time, then out.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Yin and yang,<o:p></o:p></p><p>Pain to pleasure,<o:p></o:p></p><p>A plummeting ride to safe harbor.<o:p></o:p></p><p>The more we learn the less we know.<o:p></o:p></p><p>To become whole we come unglued.<o:p></o:p></p><p>To one we’re nice, the next gets rude.<o:p></o:p></p><p>A world of duality is the sole reality,<o:p></o:p></p><p>The rest is what we think it is,<o:p></o:p></p><p>And that’s usually absurd.<o:p></o:p></p><p>There is no one without the other,<o:p></o:p></p><p>No truth without a lie.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Separate the something and nothing would remain.<o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72122522023-05-19T14:07:27-07:002023-05-19T14:07:28-07:00Museum Visit - By Mizeta Moon<p>Security was strict due to the value of the exhibit. Bernina Lockhart resented standing in line for an hour, then being searched before gaining entrance to the huge gallery, but finally stood in front of the most beautiful thing she’d seen in all of her years–the last carton of eggs on earth. Their shells glowed as they basked in a cascade of multi-colored light that gave them a jewel-like appearance, and the cardboard container had a raised logo stating that it was made by Bradco for the special occasion. There was a portrait of the proud producer next to the eggs and her portrait was beautiful. Not a photo mind you, but a true masterpiece done by a famous painter from Europe. All of her feathers looked like they would ruffle in the slightest breeze.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Bernina had never eaten an egg because the radiation that caused all breeds of fowl to stop laying leaked from Hanford and spread around the planet before she was born. As existing stocks were consumed without replacements being available, eggs became more valuable than diamonds and gold. The lack of eggs caused the restaurant industry to restructure their menus–eliminating bacon and eggs, hotcakes, omelets etc. Until then no one truly realized how endemic they were to the human diet. Vegans didn’t mind but the average person didn’t want to go without eggnog for Christmas.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Bernina almost got to eat an egg once. A woman who wrapped her chicken coop with lead shielding had been auctioning off everything her hens could produce for enormous profits. The woman accidently left her back door open one afternoon and Bernina snuck into her kitchen and cracked open the fridge. But before she could run away with one of those chicken nuggets, two people came from the other room and caught her red-handed. They called the cops and wanted her arrested because she was perpetrating such a horrible crime but the cops understood her desperation and said yes, she should be punished, but they forgave her anyway and sent her home. The significance of her attempted larceny came to light a week later when the news announced that all the woman’s hens died despite her precautions. Over time, all fowl expired by attrition or were eaten until no clucks remained, and no roosters crowed to greet the dawn.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Being very enterprising, Bradco developed egg substitutes that saved the baking industry, but everyone agreed that nothing tasted as yummy as a real batter made with real, heavy-yoked, fresh cracked eggs. The carton that Bernina was admiring at the museum had been stored deep underground in a heavily guarded vault until the viewing structure was ready to display it. Their fragile nature meant that specially trained handlers with extraordinary balance were the only people allowed to touch them. Even the carton that Bradco designed for the eggs was soft and cuddly inside so they wouldn’t chafe, rub, or crack accidentally.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Suddenly, an alarm sounded and armed guards flooded into the gallery. The crowd was confused, thinking there might be a fire, but when the guards formed a line in front of the display with pistols drawn, they realized something was terribly wrong. As they were ushered out of the emergency exit, they saw the source of the panic. A huge helicopter bearing an IHOP logo sat in the parking lot with rotors turning. A group of commandos were using a battering ram to attack the front door–obviously trying to abscond with the eggs. Bernina was disappointed by having to leave but was thankful to escape the attempted heist unscathed. Later that night she watched the news and was informed that the marauders had been repelled and were identified as mercenaries hired by dictator Frump who demanded there be Eggs Benedict served for breakfast on his hundredth birthday. She was pleased by his being thwarted for a change and fell asleep wondering what egg custard would taste like.<o:p></o:p></p><p><span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72122512023-05-19T14:06:51-07:002023-05-19T14:06:52-07:00Springtime frolic - By Mizeta Moon<p>She had no luck at the casino but her room was nice and the sounds of waves crashing on the shore led to a good sleep. As she checked out in the morning, she decided to change her original plan to tour the southern coast and go east instead. She dropped down to Newport for a quick breakfast, noting that the harbor was wide and filled with colorful fishing boats gently bobbing, then filled the tank, bought some snacks for the road, and turned onto Highway 20 where in intersects US 101. Trees were blooming as she wound her way through the mountains, and water from melting snow made the creeks and rivers run swollen and fast. Moss hung everywhere and lichen-covered rocks stood quietly in the shadows. She paused in Philomath to shop at the thrift store and bought a great handbag for only five dollars, then rolled into the grassy fields between Corvallis and Albany. The lushness of the Willamette Valley was magnificent as clouds painted multi-colored patterns in the sky,<o:p></o:p></p><p>The fields around Sweet Home were filled with hay bales, cows, and rows of young starts that would be harvested throughout the year. She stopped on the road shoulder to take a picture of a weathered barn where a rusty tractor acted as a roost for a murder of crows, then started climbing into the Cascades. As she neared the crest of the pass leading through the stupendous snow-capped peaks, she marveled at the transition from the sedentary upheaval in the west to remnants of volcanic activity and completely different rocks. By the time she got to Sisters she needed to pee, did so, and almost topped off the tank but decided gas would be cheaper in Bend.<o:p></o:p></p><p>Whenever she was in Bend, she always had a beer at the Deschutes brewery, so lunch seemed in order before striking out for the high desert. As the day progressed, she passed by huge rock formations, piles of hardened lava spewed from the bowels of the earth, waving grasses and brush where quail, grouse, and pheasant roosted. All the while, several different breeds of raptors scoured the sky in search of prey on the ground. She wished she were like them, soaring on warm breezes and viewing miles and miles of sprawling beauty. By the time she reached Ontario, her back was tired but she was still elated by being able to transition through so many different environs in a single day.<o:p></o:p></p><p>She checked into a small motel, ate dinner, then gathered what she would need for a night of star gazing. A warm coat, a blanket, and a thermos of herbal tea. After parking near a small hill, she climbed to the top, spread her blanket, then lie looking at wonders of the universe not visible near bright city lights. She was rewarded by a meteor shower bursting into flames as they passed through the atmosphere after eons of travel through the vacuum of space. Like fireflies, they glowed for a moment, then fell to earth. The moon looked huge and the planets were so present she felt like she could reach up and touch them. Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled and an owl hooted in a gnarled nearby juniper tree. She almost fell asleep due to the peacefulness of the moment but the creeping night chill reminded her that would be foolish. Reluctantly, she rose, walked back to her car, then drove back to the room. As she pulled the covers around her, she thought that maybe a tour through the Columbia River Gorge in the morning would be a great way to end her frolic. Going back to work wouldn’t seem so tedious with memories of nature’s bounty still swimming in her head. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71883632023-04-12T09:36:43-07:002023-04-12T09:36:43-07:00Field Trip - By Mizeta Moon<p>The bus was crowded but she managed to get a window seat. After stowing her cane in the overhead rack, she wrapped her lap blanket around her knees and put her drink in the holder. It had been years since she’d gone to Lincoln City and was looking forward to a day of gambling at Chinook Winds, then seeing a show. When her husband was alive, they regularly drove to different parts of Oregon to enjoy the magnificent scenery. Since his passing she spent most of her time with the quilting group at the retirement home she moved to after selling a home that became unmanageable alone. This excursion was a blessing because she could see how much the area had changed and people watch while she played the slot machines.<p></p></p><p>As the bus rolled through Portland, she was dismayed by all the campers sleeping in the cold but felt no pity for drug addicted vandals defacing buildings and spray painting walls and overpasses. It was a relief to get beyond the urban area and view open fields and stands of evergreens. As they entered the corridor and began to climb she recaptured the awe and wonder that used to fill her in bygone days. The rhythm of the bus tires and the sway as the big machine roared along was hypnotic and almost put her to sleep but she shook it off because this might be the last time she traveled.<p></p></p><p>After stepping down from the bus at the casino, she leaned on her cane for a moment and looked out to sea. The wind was chilly but the view of surging waves and seagulls hovering midflight reminded her of campfires on the beach and days filled with laughter and joy while searching for nature’s treasures. She still had a sand dollar that her husband found at Beverly Beach decades earlier. Thinking of those innocent times could make her cry so she hobbled into the clamor of the brightly lit casino to have fun instead.<p></p></p><p>The trip package included eating at the buffet, so after a few hours of winning and losing in fairly equal measures she asked for help going through the line and carrying her food to a table. A nice young man did so and found her a seat next to two men and a woman about her age who hadn’t been on the bus. As introductions were made she noted that one of the men bore a remarkable resemblance to her dearly departed. During the meal they exchanged frequent glances and she caught herself feeling bashful and awkward about the intensity of those moments. After a bit she quit looking and focused on her plate so her heart could still. As she stood and excused herself when finished eating the man asked if she would like to have a glass of wine in the ocean-view bar. She was ashamed of how readily she said yes but the prospect of spending time with a handsome stranger was tantalizing even if it were brief.<p></p></p><p>Sunset was stunning as cloudbanks became a kaleidoscope of color, shifting from hue to hue as darkness approached and they sipped their third glass of wine. She admonished herself for such indulgence and staying so long but their conversation was so delightful that she didn’t want it to stop. A few minutes after nightfall the tour director began gathering her charges and urging them to make their way to the auditorium for the show. Reluctantly, she complied, but was loath to break away from such a beautiful encounter.<p></p></p><p>The show was boring after such a grand day. The songs were unfamiliar and too modern for her tastes. Halfway through she hobbled out, hoping her new friend was still in the bar. He wasn’t and she was surprised at how bitterly defeated she felt at his absence. Had she fallen in love with a stranger over a glass of wine? The biggest disappoint of all came when she asked the bartender if they knew the man and if he was staying at the hotel. The bartender informed her that she’d sat drinking wine alone for hours while seemingly talking to herself. Thinking she was crazy, they’d left her alone while she chatted and smiled. Now she realized why the man seemed so familiar. She’d been wandering the corridors of memory like a lonely old fool. <p></p></p><p><span> </span><p></p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71883622023-04-12T09:33:19-07:002023-04-12T09:33:19-07:00Eruption - By Mizeta Moon<p>The scientists didn’t believe that she was clairvoyant and could predict a volcanic eruption to the day, hour, and exact second. They knew there’d been activity on their monitors but felt they were within normal parameters and posed no threat. To them it was another nutcase predicting the end of the world. But tabloids had blared her warning across banner headlines which created unease in the area. Cruise lines temporarily rerouted just in case and local hotels staged evacuation drills to assure tourists that their safety was important. Meanwhile, the bands played on and the lavish festivities continued. Hunkering down wasn’t much fun while on vacation.<p></p></p><p>Justine and Geraldine were on their annual cruise and were disappointed that Fiji had been cancelled due to the warning. Fiji was fun and they’d looked forward to cocktails on the beach under a tropical moon. Now they were stuck on the ship until they reached New Zealand. They’d been to New Zealand several times and always enjoyed it but there was that time when they’d been visiting a sheep ranch and the wagon they were riding on tipped over. No one was hurt but Geraldine’s jacket got dirty and they had to sit beside the road for an hour while repairs were made. They knew that travel involved risk and accidents happen so they didn’t try to sue anyone when they got home.<p></p></p><p>When the day of the predicted eruption came there was a magnificent sunrise over a calm sea and the tranquility belied any possibility of disaster. Even so, Justine and Geraldine joined others in the ship’s lounge, sipping mimosas and watching the weather channel on a big screen TV. Talking heads were saying that the volcano in question wasn’t puffing smoke and seemed unlikely to erupt but they still made the watch part of their broadcast. Their drones were in no danger so there was no reason to stop the coverage. The hour came and the ensuing minutes ticked away like snails crossing a sidewalk. The big clock on the wall seemed broken and everyone’s stress levels rose as the second hand appeared unmoving.<p></p></p><p>When the exact second came and passed, people around the world breathed sighs of relief and laughed at their foolish anxiety. But their laughter stopped when a deep rumble came two minutes later and the sky suddenly filled with smoke and ash as lava spewed in all directions. She’d been right but had the time wrong by a very slim margin. Now Madame Zendra would become a legend and never lack clients in the future. Those in the lounge ordered fresh drinks and watched in fascination as the mountain filled the sky with columns of smoke and rivers of magma rushed toward the sea, destroying everything in their paths. When Fiji was swamped by a tsunami, Justine looked at Geraldine as if to say, “I’m glad we weren’t there.” Geraldine raised her glass and said “You know it sister. New Zealand here we come.”<p></p></p><p>What no one expected was that while they watched the continued coverage of the eruption another one occurred. This one was near a small island that only had one inhabitant. When its island became awash and there was nowhere to sit it waded into the roiling waves. If the world thought Godzilla was a badass they hadn’t seen anything yet. Justine and Geraldine were among the few survivors when their ship was hoisted into the air and crushed. The beast never looked back so obviously their life raft wasn’t worth bothering with. Always the girl scout, Geraldine pulled a small flask out of her girdle, took a sip and passed it to Justine. “Wow.” Seemed to be the only comment needed to cover every possible emotion and reaction.<span> </span><p></p></p><p><span> </span><p></p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71883512023-04-12T09:19:26-07:002023-04-12T09:19:26-07:00Through The Worm Hole - By Mizeta Moon<p>“What a day that was,” ZynarQ49 stated, as she sipped Alturian wine from a crystal flute forged on the planet Fenn 13. “Remember how much fun it was to ride horses to the top of the mountain, then ski down?”<p></p></p><p>“Yes, I remember, but things weren’t as they seemed.” Gonar675 replied. “There was a lot going on we weren’t aware of that led to what we’re seeing now.”<p></p></p><p>ZynarQ49 pouted. “You promised we weren’t going to talk politics during this excursion. Besides, we virtually have the planet to ourselves except for the wildlife. The humans caused their own extinction, so going on about it won’t change a thing. Look how beautiful of a day this is,” she said, as she set their cruiser down on a grassy field filled with thousands of flowers.<p></p></p><p>Gonar675 sighed. “You’re right. I’ve been a grumpy Gus lately, but I liked humans. Their quirks were interesting.” Raising his flute for a toast, he clinked her glass, and said. “Let’s open the hatch and grab the portable food dispenser. I’m hungry.”<p></p></p><p>After lunch, they lay in the field feeling the warmth of the sun for a while, then rose to go for the hike they’d planned. A game trail led to a stand of trees whose limbs towered over a stream bordered by moss-covered rocks. They crossed the stream on a fallen log and followed the trail up a gradual slope they hoped would lead to a panoramic view of the lands beyond. ZynarQ49 specialized in selling landscape photos on planets devoid of such natural beauty, and her work provided the credits to enjoy their Traveler lifestyle. Her eye and technique had gained notoriety throughout the galaxy and Gonar675 was happy to play second fiddle without enmity. His skills in programming the food dispenser and maintaining the cruiser made them a great couple.<p></p></p><p>When they reached the top of the slope, there was a great vista indeed, but it was spoiled for ZynarQ49 by a ramshackle log hut with smoke streaming from a battered metal chimney. Signs of human habitation were unexpected. Frowning, she said. “Let’s go back to the cruiser and find a different spot. I wish we’d noticed this before landing.”<p></p></p><p>Gonar675, on the other hand, was excited. Supposedly, all humans perished in the Great Plague that other lifeforms were impervious to. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s check it out. I’m dying to know how someone survived and what they’ve become.”<p></p></p><p>When his companion reluctantly agreed, they worked their way down slope, and approached the hut cautiously. As they got near, they could hear that someone was crying. Gonar675 unsnapped the restraint on his blaster but hoped to not use it as he knocked on the weathered door. When a child of about ten answered with tears rolling down her cheeks, they were surprised.<p></p></p><p>The child cowered at first, obviously expecting a human visitor, but eventually told them her story using the Universal Translator. Evidently, a handful of humans possessed a gene variation that made them immune from the plague. Her family was the only one inhabiting a vast territory where food was readily available but company was wanting. When asked why she was crying, she showed them a children’s book from the past. “My dad left it for me to read while he’s out hunting,” she explained. “Seeing all those children having fun together made me cry–especially when they were with their moms. My dad will be back soon. Want to stay for dinner? We haven’t had company since a bear killed mom.”<p></p></p><p>Concerned that the father could resent their intrusion during his absence and their different appearance, they declined, but were moved by the girl’s impassioned pleas. “Tell you what,” ZynarQ49 said. “As we look for another place to photograph, we’ll see if someone else might be living in the area. If there is someone we’ll fly by and drop a capsule with a map in it for you. Who knows? They might have children for you to play with. How does that sound?”<p></p></p><p>Sniffling, the girl nodded her head. “What if there isn’t anyone?” She asked.<p></p></p><p>“Then we’ll use our replicator to make you some talking dolls,” Gonar675 said. “We’ll beam them down to you, and you’ll have someone to talk to.” They already knew there was no one but it was the least they could do. The walk back to the ship was without conversation but if they could make one little girl happy it would be a successful outing. <p></p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71883502023-04-12T09:18:50-07:002023-04-12T09:18:50-07:00The Last Drag Show - By Mizeta Moon<p>There was a lot of trash in the old warehouse but everyone pitched in, and within hours all of it was disposed of and the stage was built. Rainbow bunting appeared, and tables and chairs soon surrounded a temporary dance floor. A row of blankets strung on an overhead line created a changing room for the performers who would be strutting their stuff for the last time in Knoxville. After shows were outlawed, they’d been forced to hold underground galas but the cops were intensifying their enforcement so they were going to stop due to concerns about police brutality. This show might not have happened if it weren’t for Diva Jane. Originally, the show was scheduled for a vacant theater but the owner reneged after receiving death threats from a church group that heard about it. Diva Jane got busy and used the internet to locate an absentee owner and rent the warehouse. She saved the day and brought smiles to formerly glum faces.<p></p></p><p>Everyone was asked to carpool as much as possible or park a bit away so there wouldn’t be hundreds of cars in the lot. No dressing as a girl until in the building, no makeup ahead of time, no large luggage. Everything would happen behind closed doors. As darkness came, small groups used the secret knock to gain admittance. By then, a buffet meal had been laid out, along with coolers of beer and bottles of wine. People hugged, shook hands, and cried about the end of a harmless pursuit being persecuted by ignorance.<p></p></p><p>With forty performers there was a lot of coordination required to get everyone costumed and made up, but they all worked together and got the show started. The audience settled into their seats, bright lights flared, and the portable karaoke setup played “Staying alive” which was the theme of the party. Soon, it was a spectacular display of lip-syncing, dancing, and general hilarity. The participants were temporarily able to dismiss the hurt and anger of being singled out for unjust punishment. After this night there would be an exodus as those willing to relocate would migrate to friendlier climes. Those who were unable to leave the area would have to hide their sequins and boas until they could visit clubs in other states.<p></p></p><p>One of the performers caused a sensation when she opened a rolling suitcase that elicited<span> </span>chastising remarks when she first arrived, but her rule breaking was understood when her prop emerged. The snake was huge. After slithering up her arm, the snake coiled around her body as she swayed to a jungle beat. Her show was absolutely mesmerizing and her reward was a standing ovation when they left the stage. Though it was a hard act to follow, ensuing performers soared to great heights and everyone agreed that it was the best show ever. No one wanted it to end, but eventually, faces came off, girls turned back to men, and looked around for danger as they stepped into the night. Diva Jane supervised as the furnishings were loaded into a van the rental company supplied. (They believed it was for a birthday bash.) When the warehouse was once again vacant, the only signs of their passing was a dusting of glitter on the floor and the smell of perfume in the air. Diva Jane turned the key in the lock and sighed, wishing people were kinder and<span> </span>didn’t use hatred to constrict the lives of others. She’d undergone sexual reassignment years earlier and could dress as a woman openly and legally but was tired of the mentality in that part of the country. Though it might not last forever, Oregon seemed a safe haven for now, since the Governor was a lesbian and an advocate for equal human rights. To that end she’d bought a small cottage with a view of the beach. Hopefully, this would be her last relocation. <span> </span><p></p></p><p><span>Personal note…</span>I take pride in the fact I live as a woman 24/7/365. No one can make me stop unless they kill me or throw me in jail and I feel no shame as I walk through the world. Those who know me personally know what a girly girl I am and how much fashion, fun, and creativity mean to me. Like we said in the sixties-keep on, keeping on. Never stop expressing your true inner self. My heart goes out to those in peril and I can only hope they find safe purchase.<span> </span><p></p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71581012023-02-21T15:20:03-07:002023-02-22T18:08:26-07:00Nostalgia - By Mizeta Moon<p>She was working on her essay about the days when every payment came by mail when her computer died. A time when the mail carrier was a person you talked to on your porch, and you baked them cookies on special occasions. There was no such thing as electronic wire transfer, hacking, identity theft, or funds being routed improperly. You knew your banker, grocer, the kids’ teacher by name, as well as the neighbors. She was comparing the faceless, fear-ridden society of the electronic age to times when children could walk to the store alone and bikes got left in the yard overnight without fear of theft. Generally speaking, people obeyed traffic laws and the nightly news wasn’t filled with murder, mayhem, and drug busts. Her essay wasn’t a lament about the loss of dignity and respect but an expression of the desire for a continual improvement of the human condition. She wondered if that was possible or if we were so used to greed and insensitivity ruling the world that it was now a permanent condition.</p><p>She thought about breaking out paper and pen or her grannie’s old typewriter but realized that would be a wasted effort since her essay had to be submitted by email. Sighing, she rose from her desk, grabbed her raincoat and purse, then trudged to her electric car after locking the front door and setting the alarms. A trip to Best Buy couldn’t be avoided. These days it was cheaper to buy a new unit rather than have one repaired–if you could even find an honest repair shop where the owner didn’t scan your browser history for information they could sell. Realizing she was<span> </span>putting herself in a bad mood with the direction of her thinking, she sat up straighter and started looking at the scenery.</p><p>It had rained most of the month, but at that moment there was a rainbow peeking out of a multi-hued cloudbank and thousands of geese beat their wings toward whatever destination they sought. Fields were waterlogged and dirt roads showed the passing of farm trucks on muddy tracks. She told Siri to turn on some relaxing light classical music, then nodded with pleasure when the first notes caressed her ears. She was just beginning to enjoy her outing when she rounded a curve and discovered that the road was flooded. It didn’t look very deep but in an electric car one couldn’t risk having components fry and being stranded. She’d have to turn around and go miles out of her way to continue or accept the penalty for late submission. When people went by horseback or mule-driven buggies such obstacles could be surmounted by cutting through the woods or across the fields. Once again, the modern world revealed its weaknesses. She cursed out loud, wishing she’d taken her brother’s advice and bought a big-wheel pickup that could handle any terrain or weather condition. But she loved her car and wouldn’t trade it for the world.</p><p>She decided to go back the few miles to another road that would eventually take her where she wanted to go. Being a quitter wouldn’t help her get her degree and keep her GPA intact, so onward and upward it would be. As she navigated the torturously twisty alternative road, she quit seething and started thinking of herself as a racecar driver, bound for glory after winning the race. She reminded herself that every curve in life’s journey is simply another thing to experience and that it is the journey one should enjoy rather than just the destination. She had her essay filed on a flash drive so there was nothing stopping her from staying in town for a nice dinner then going to a coffee shop with WIFI to finish writing her piece and submit it before the submission deadline. Turning tragedy into ecstasy might be the key to happiness, she thought. If not, learning to cope with adversity might lessen the pain. As she pulled into the parking lot at Best Buy, she congratulated herself for doing exactly that.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71581002023-02-21T15:19:22-07:002023-02-22T18:07:44-07:00Aboard the Cruise Ship - By Mizeta Moon<p>They danced like teenagers the first night of the cruise and got along better than they had in years. He came close to changing his mind about killing her but knew he’d regret it if he let her live. Thirty years with the same nag wore him out and led to murderous scenarios constantly filling his head when she refused to divorce him. He tried to leave several times over the years but she controlled the company and his income so he stayed. Sure, he could split with just the clothes on his back and get a job but even the car he drove belonged to the business. He was stuck like a fly in amber.</p><p>When she insisted that they take a South Pacific cruise, he didn’t object because numerous opportunities could develop that would help his dream of cashing in her life insurance come true. He knew he couldn’t push her overboard since she was short and stout, and the railings were too high. He sharpened his pocket-knife before leaving home in case he got the chance to stab her on one of the stops, then blame it on an attacker. He cut himself while doing it and the cut was painful, but now he knew how easily it would slice her throat. As long as he ditched the knife any blood on him could be explained by his effort to administer aid.</p><p>The third morning, while she was still sleeping. he went to the buffet but nothing looked appetizing so he went back to their cabin thinking he would take a long hot shower, then order a sandwich. When he came out of the shower, he was pleased to see her bed empty. After locking the deadbolt, he made sure his knife was still tucked under his socks. He put it in his pocket, then unlocked the door and ordered his sandwich. They were scheduled for an excursion that afternoon and he wanted to be ready.</p><p>Unfortunately, every stop they made over the next few days didn’t provide an opportunity so he knew he would have to find another way. He sat at the bar for hours, running scene after scene through his feverish brain but all he managed to do was get drunk. There were only three days left when a solution fell in his lap. He heard two crew members talking about a powerful drug that looked and tasted like candy but could easily kill you. Evidently, one of them had a big bag of the pills in their room and was going to try some after their shift. That person gave the other one a small container of the pills before walking away. What happened next put a smile on the would be murderer’s face.</p><p>The crew member opened the container, sniffed it, shook a few pills into their hand, looked them over, then started putting them back. Just then a big wave shook the ship and some of the pills fell to the deck. Rather than be seen on their knees scooping them up, the person pocketed the container and scurried away–probably assuming the wind would blow them away. He pounced on them like a jungle cat on unwary prey. Hopefully, they were as potent as advertised since his wife dipped into any candy dish she encountered.</p><p>After dinner they took a leisurely walk around the deck and exchanged a romantic vibe while watching the moon in a silky black sky. He had a twinge of remorse about the candy and flowers waiting next to her bed but knew such moments never lasted and tensions would return. Sure enough, her pudgy hand swooped into the candy dish the moment they entered the cabin. He acknowledged her gratitude for the flowers, then told her he was going to the bar for a nightcap. As she polished off the deadly concoction and he moved to leave, she said. “Wait a minute. I want to show you the documents you need to sign to become a partner in the business.” Partner!? He panicked at first, knowing the drugs would take effect soon but quickly realized he would be sole owner if they killed her. “How about when I get back?” He replied. “I won’t be long.” She was already nodding off as he closed the door and left. Fortunately for him, the two crew members were found dead by the housekeeping staff as well as her the next morning. He’d feigned being drunk and slept in a deck chair instead of returning to their cabin that night. Accidental overdose was the doctor’s conclusion although no one knew how she acquired the pills. Debarking alone, his step was jaunty as he walked into a very bright future.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><span> </span></p><p> </p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71580992023-02-21T15:18:41-07:002023-02-22T18:08:26-07:00Ambushed - By Mizeta Moon<p>The attack was unexpected. No one could have imagined that a peaceful walk through a pristine forest would turn into a nightmare, but now they were running for their lives. Gerald was bleeding from a head wound caused by bashing into a low-hanging branch and Jane’s shirt was ripped by an encounter with a blackberry patch. His feet were sore from running over boulders near a swollen surging stream. They weren’t survivalists equipped for adversity but college freshmen on a day trip.</p><p>The echo was loud when the first bullet slammed into the tree he was standing next to. If he hadn’t looked down just at that moment the round would have ripped through his skull. As it was, his hair got singed by the bullet’s heat and the smell was strong even though there was a breeze. Jane screamed when the next round of gunfire erupted, and they started running without any sense of direction. All they knew was that someone wished to harm them and sticking around to find out who or why wasn’t a good idea.</p><p>After about a mile they reached a logging road that offered safe footing but would leave them exposed. There hadn’t been a shot for a few minutes, so after a brief confab and sips from their one canteen they decided to risk using the road. Maybe they’d been near someone’s illegal pot farm Gerald stated as they worked their way downhill. Now that they were well away from it they might be safe. Jane disagreed. She was certain someone was still stalking them and would let them dangle for a bit before finishing them off.</p><p>Another few minutes of walking led to an expanse of rolling fields that were cultivated, so he thought civilization might be near. Hopefully, they could pay someone to take them back to the car they’d parked at the trailhead. If not, they could call someone at school to fetch them. When they rounded a bend and discovered a ramshackle wood shack he started to surge forward, but Jane grabbed his arm and held him back. There was a rusty pickup parked in a dirt driveway, but no one seemed to be around. No smoke from the galvanized chimney. No dog on the porch. No sounds. He felt like they’d been transported to the set of a horror movie.</p><p>While they hunkered down behind a bush and quietly debated whether to knock or keep walking, chugging diesel engine sounds came from the direction they had. Seconds later a big John Deere tractor skidded to a stop in front of the shack and a pot-bellied, full-bearded man in overalls climbed down from the driver seat. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow, then ambled in their direction.</p><p>“I know you’re there,” He shouted. “Come on out. I won’t hurt ya.”</p><p>Though reluctant, they stood and stepped into the road, wondering what would happen next. The man stopped about two feet away and gave each of them a piercing look. Nodding his head as if settling an internal conflict, he said “Heard you had a run in with Luke. Been telling him to quit shooting without warning. Had to help him bury a couple of folks last month. Glad you’re okay.”</p><p>His statement struck terror in their hearts. Before they could say anything, he continued. “You folks look like you could use a drink. Come sit on the porch and I’ll fetch a jug of what Luke cooks up where you were. You won’t tell the cops will ya?”</p><p>They cautiously accepted his invitation, still worried about being buried in a lonely grave. Once on the porch with jelly jars in their hands and fire in their guts, they relaxed as the man explained that the people he'd buried tried to steal a batch of liquor from Luke’s still. That incident made Luke trigger-happy and they were lucky that his eyes were getting bad and his aim was off. Gerald offered to pay for a ride but the man said he’d do it for free seeing as they’d suffered. It took a few minutes to crank up the old pickup but soon they were headed back to the trailhead. The old man let Jane sit up front while he and Gerald sat in the bed, bouncing around from every bump in the road. “Don’t come back” were his final words as he gave them a jug for the road. With their desire for communing with nature temporarily derailed, they looked forward to life in the dorm and would gladly heed those words of advice.</p><p> </p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71348142023-01-08T13:48:24-07:002023-01-10T19:04:09-07:00Reflection - By Mizeta Moon<p>The preacher stopped by the quietly bubbling stream to let the horses drink. The wagon seat creaked as he climbed down, then wrapped the reins around the footrest. He pulled a small flask from the pocket of his coat, took a healthy swig, then grimaced as the whiskey burned its way to his belly. The danger was real, that he was on his way to becoming a drunkard as well as a fornicating hypocrite but it didn’t stop him from having another jolt. He was puzzled by his rapid descent into wantonness, as his faith eroded and his dedication to duty disappeared, but had no answers, only questions. Was it meeting a woman willing to cheat on her husband? Lack of coins for the collection plate? Moral weakness? Had he never been a true man of the cloth? Whatever the reason, the face reflected in the water was no longer worthy of chastising sinners for their earthly failings. </p>
<p> The woman whose marriage he defiled had packed a hamper for him before sending him away for good. Reaching for a hunk of bread and some jerky, he chewed slowly as he observed the splendor of the world around him. A stand of magnificent oak trees. Lowing cattle grazing on a grassy ridge. Flowers waving colorful blooms in a gentle breeze. A bevy of quail bobbing and weaving through shrubs. Were these wonders truly created by God? Or were they part of a naturally recurring cycle that required no one’s worship? Once again, he had no answers. For over a thousand years people kept saying the lord would return to gather his flock and cleanse their souls but no one appeared. Was there really a devil who led people astray? Or were humans inherently evil? </p>
<p>When the horses seemed sated and ready to continue, he climbed aboard and pondered the intersection ahead. Which road led to a brighter future? Did danger lie down one, or all? He’d never wavered in his convictions before nor fretted over decisions. Cast adrift by circumstances that he’d created, he was suddenly fearful, where he’d been steadfast. </p>
<p>He chose the trail that led to the open prairie, since he had nothing to feed the horses and the mountains might offer sparse sustenance. With their bellies full of fresh grass they would be more willing to journey outward. The one thing he knew for sure was that when he reached the next town, he wouldn’t introduce himself as a preacher. Swamping stalls or sweeping the saloon floor could refill his flask and belly without exploiting the guilt of the faithful. Such work might help restore his sense of self-worth. If not, he’d be like a tumbleweed blowing in the winds of change. By doing so, he might reach a destination and an endeavor worthy of his attention. </p>
<p>As the wagon bumped its way along, he admired the cloud-filled sky, wondering why birds could fly while man could only walk. He wished he could soar high into the air and see more of the world he was passing through but maybe birds tired of flying or faced dangers he couldn’t comprehend. Deciding he was complicating his journey by trying to figure out something men had been unable to decipher for centuries, he took a small sip from his flask and simply listened to the clopping rhythm of the horses’ hooves. When sunset faded, he saw lights in the distance and realized the opportunity to start anew lay just ahead. Whether he continued to spiral or climb was a fate held in his own hands and heart. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71348132023-01-08T13:47:51-07:002023-01-10T19:03:18-07:00 Bah Humbug! - By Mizeta Moon<p style="text-align: justify;">Being a security guard sucked this time of year. Parking close was nearly impossible and even though she packed a gun, there were people to be afraid of lurking in the lot to pick pockets or break into cars. On her first circuit of the mall she discovered that someone picked the lock of an empty store and was sleeping in a puddle of pee. Great start to a workday that began with an argument with her wife about where to go for Christmas dinner. After rousing the offender and escorting them from the mall, she bought a giant cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll, hoping for a day that didn’t include lost kids, shoplifters, and rowdy mall rats harassing shoppers. </p>
<p>Two bites and a sip in, a skateboarder zoomed by with no pants on. She decided to call the cops rather than chase him down. It was against the rules to skate at the mall, but public nudity was beyond her purview. Anyone flaunting something that small was obviously delusional and potentially dangerous. Sighing, she finished her treat, then boarded the escalator to the second level, only to encounter a red-faced highly-agitated woman waiting at the top. It turned out that the mall Santa was drunk and kept inviting the mothers to sit on his lap instead of the kids. This woman was livid that Santa pinched her butt as she walked by, and wanted him fired immediately. This meant calling the office to notify the manager, then standing by Santa to prevent further mayhem until help arrived. That took nearly a half hour and gained her some dirty looks from rejected kids who wouldn’t get their picture taken unless they waited for a replacement–if one was available. Meanwhile, a woman came out of the underwear store in a hurry. Her purse was stuffed with lacy bras and panties she’d grabbed from a display by the door. Santa had passed out, and the manager was in sight, so she went after the thief. It was times like this she was thankful for her exercise routine and daily run. The woman waddled, she sprinted, then they both ended up on the floor in the ensuing tug of war over lingerie. </p>
<p>The cops came and took the thief away after saying they couldn’t find the skateboarder. When she looked at her watch, she groaned because she still had hours to go and was getting a headache. Peeing, then splashing cold water on her face helped, and the next hour passed without an incident, which brightened her mood until she turned her thoughts to Christmas dinner. She wanted to stay home and watch football in her robe. Her wife wanted to go to Appleby’s, then a movie, then hit a few bars for some Xmas cheer. Way too ambitious! There had to be some middle ground but for the moment she hadn’t a clue what that could be. </p>
<p>Those thoughts were interrupted by screaming coming from the escalator. When she got there, she discovered that a woman had pushed a stroller onto the moving stairs instead of using the elevator, despite warnings not to do so. Now the stroller was wedged sideways with the passenger trapped and howling like a banshee. She punched the emergency stop button, then yanked until the conveyance broke free and the little darling could be extricated. Scolding the mom only led to threats to her job security and the woman pushing away in a huff. When did people stop taking responsibility for their actions? She wondered. Or did they ever? </p>
<p>The rest of her shift went reasonably well but when she clocked out, she discovered a note saying she was being laid off on Christmas eve. Wonderful news when her bank balance was lower than ever. Trudging through the snow led to the discovery that her car had been sideswiped and her front tire was flat. When AAA finally came and fixed the flat, she drove home in a funk. Opening the front door, she was greeted by her wife, who said “My parents have invited us to Christmas dinner, I know you hate my mom’s cooking but it would break their hearts to say no. Please say you’re okay with it.” </p>
<p>“Bah humbug.” She replied, as she walked straight to the liquor cabinet. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71242722022-12-16T19:02:41-07:002023-01-08T13:34:11-07:00Aging Gracefully - By Mizeta Moon<p>An old woman sat on a cement bench, knitting a rainbow colored sweater. Yarn ran from a tattered bag on the grass to her swiftly moving needles. The lily-covered pond she sat near was alive with flashing Koi, surfacing to feast on a swarm of gnats hovering over the otherwise serene water. Puffy clouds romped like lambs across a cerulean sky while the sun shed its life giving rays to every open corner. In the shade of the trees another old woman painted what she saw at a wooden easel. Further on, a weathered man sat on a yoga mat, channeling his chi into the depths of his soul. His serene smile radiated the joy of existence on such a wonder-filled day. Senior Center outings to the park were a panacea for the bumps and bruises of life that when left untreated often fester into loneliness and bitterness. Rowena Rutledge, activities director, had dedicated her golden years to helping others age gracefully and stay engaged until it was their turn to leave. She was good at her job and made many such moments of happiness materialize in lives that could have slowly faded into obscurity. Sadly, her time was nigh and her only regret was that the center didn’t have the funds to hire a replacement. As she placed bag lunches on the park bench, she could only hope that someone would donate enough money to jumpstart the outdoor activities program. </p>
<p>Hours later, as the rickety bus the center used for excursions wound its way down the mountain, she realized this final journey was still filled with things to treasure. Majestic stately trees. Moss covered boulders in rippling streams. Grass waving in the breeze as Oregon exhibited her beauty. Subtle colors blending in a mélange of textures. Mountains reaching high. As they neared the center, her thoughts turned to her grizzled mutt who’d been a faithful companion for years. She’d hoped he'd either pass before her or that some kind soul would provide comfort in his final days. So far, no one had expressed interest and time was running out. She hated the idea of Rex being euthanized. As she stepped off the bus her soul was filled with elation from the outing but saddened by concern for the dog. </p>
<p>Years earlier she’d made all the arrangements for cremation, signed all the necessary documents to donate her meager belongings to charity, and to funnel what little money remained in her bank account to the center. She’d leave owing no one and would carry the dignity of serving humanity well and proudly to her final moment. As she hobbled into the center an obviously excited young woman approached her. She recognized the woman from a community college program that placed volunteers in nursing homes and senior centers while they earned their degrees. </p>
<p>“Rowena, just the person I wanted to see!” The woman exclaimed. “I have great news. That letter you wrote to the newspaper paid off. An anonymous donor is going to fund the outdoor activities program for the next three years. They’re buying us a better bus and there’ll be money to pay drivers without digging into our funds. Isn’t that wonderful?” </p>
<p>Rowena couldn’t hold back tears of joy as her heart filled with gratitude. Her perseverance at planting seeds finally grew into something that would allow others to age gracefully. However, when she opened the door to her tiny studio, she could tell that Rex was struggling to cling to life. No tail wag. No smile. Barely a recognition of her presence. Removing her coat, she sat down beside him and wrapped the coat around them. Reaching the end together was the best possible solution now that her work on earth was done. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71242712022-12-16T19:01:58-07:002023-01-08T13:34:02-07:00Free at Last - By Mizeta Moon<p>The will was contested by several shirt-tail relatives but she prevailed after years of court battles. She understood that estates that large were tempting pies to get a slice of but she was the legitimate heir and was finally free to enjoy and disperse her wealth as she chose. The lawyers extracted a healthy chunk but it was worth it to stop the attacks. Signing the papers to purchase her own private island was the first step in building a new life. She never thought about owning property when she was a clerk at Dollar Tree because such dreams seemed a waste of time, but that was before her father won the Powerball jackpot then died a year later. Her mother died when she was in school, and fortunately for her, no replacement mom came along. So, now she was rich and single, and able to leave the ugliness of America behind. She’d considered a lot of countries to relocate to but in the end they all had their problems. When she learned she could buy an island and make it what she wanted, the problem was solved. </p>
<p>After donating everything she didn’t need, she flew to Manila, stayed a few days, then climbed into a pontoon plane that would fly her to the island. Until she could build a house, she’d be camping so she made sure she had enough supplies on board to last a month or two. The plane stalled twice before the engines finally roared to life and they lifted off after taxiing across a choppy bay. She had a moment of doubt about their safety but the pilot assured her they’d be just fine. As they flew, she relaxed and enjoyed the beauty of the chain of uninhabited islands that hers was a part of. As they circled it before dropping into a beautiful lagoon, she marveled at how fabulous it was to own such a jewel. Seeing it from above allowed her mind to designate what might go where and how best to inhabit the island with minimal impact. Having a satellite phone was going to make hiring crews and having building supplies delivered relatively simple but she had to be sure what she really wanted before doing so. The campout would help by letting her truly feel the island’s soul before permanently changing it. </p>
<p>After the supplies were unloaded and the plane flew away, she stood on the white sand beach listening to waves and the whisper of wind through the trees. There was a calmness to the setting that she wanted to preserve. It was a paradise spoiled only by her footprints. Over the next few days she discovered where the wind was most consistent and would be the ideal spot for a windmill to provide power. From there everything would be a steady progression towards the perfect nest. She considered solar but that involved too much technology and maintenance. Keeping things simple would decrease her reliance on the outside world. The first day of rain answered all questions about drinking water when the small depression she’d noted filled to the brim, then spilled over the rocks around it in a prismatic display of natural splendor. </p>
<p>She realized that such isolation could lead to loneliness but she’d had affairs over the years and never met anyone she wanted to be around all the time. During the building process there would be people coming and going so she wouldn’t truly be alone until everything was in place. By then she’d know if a companion or a pet was part of the equation. For the moment it felt good to be free from the hustle and bustle of city life. No crime, drugs, sirens in the night. Lying on the beach and watching the moon transit a star-filled sky was her treasure and she might never want to share it. Selfish? Perhaps, but she’d funded a foundation that would be helping injured and crippled children around the world before checking out. As long as there was war there’d be plenty in need of aid. Here, there would be peace, and someone to appreciate its value. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71009822022-11-12T10:24:12-07:002023-01-08T13:34:11-07:00In a Pickle - By Mizeta Moon<p>Coffee hit the spot after a long night at the tables. The dealer was crooked but she’d been onto him from the beginning and used her own sleight of hand skills to fleece him instead of losing her bankroll. She knew the pit boss wouldn’t come down on her because they’d have to admit they were cheating and that would bring in the gaming commission. She kept her bets small so that the casino wouldn’t be out much. She didn’t need the money but wanted to play since it was the last night of her vacation and she might not visit the area again. Her job as a magician’s assistant awaited her return to hundreds of birthday parties and she was looking forward to getting back in the groove. </p>
<p>After taking a quick shower and packing her bag, she called the front desk to check out and arrange transportation to the airport. The lobby was quiet as she signed her bill statement, then settled on a bench to wait for her ride. The few tourists that were active that early in the morning looked frazzled from lack of sleep while having too much fun. When a burly man in a checkered suit walked into the foyer and called her name, she raised her hand, grabbed her bag, then followed him to a small SUV idling at the curb. She didn’t like the look of the man but didn’t have time to request a substitute driver. Her flight home would leave in less than an hour and she didn’t want to miss it. </p>
<p>She was so used to the auto-lock feature of modern cars that she didn’t know she was being kidnapped until the driver turned away from the route to the airport. “Hey!” She shouted. “You’re going the wrong way.” </p>
<p>“I know,” the man replied. “The only place you’re flying to is the pearly gates.” </p>
<p>“Who are you?” She asked. Irritation dominant over fear in her voice. “If you work for the casino and want your money back all you had to do was ask. Wasn’t that much anyway. I make more than that in a day.” </p>
<p>“Doesn’t matter. Nobody cheats the boss.” </p>
<p>“Hah! What about him cheating the public instead of running an honest game? Gonna kill everyone who figures it out? Your dealer was so lame a blind man could see through him.” </p>
<p>Instead of answering, the thug reached over the seat and sprayed her with something that knocked her out. When she came to, the man was laboriously dragging her to the middle of a bridge spanning a raging river. Handcuffs chafed her skin and her knees felt bruised. She must have been too big a load to carry. </p>
<p>“What now?” She asked. “Hoping I can’t swim with handcuffs on?” </p>
<p>“Shut up. I need to get this over with. My wife made lasagna tonight and she gets pissed when I’m late.” </p>
<p>“Boo-hoo. Hope she cuts your testicles off.” </p>
<p>That remark made the thug grab her throat and slap her so hard that tears ran down her cheeks and she nearly blacked out again. Vertigo set in as she looked at her precarious perch on the bridge and realized how close she was to plummeting. When he let go and stepped back, she smiled because he made a mistake and gave her the advantage. He probably had no idea that she was a magician’s assistant and had clever fingers. </p>
<p>“What you smiling about?” The thug asked as he pushed her closer to the edge. </p>
<p>“This.” She replied as she flaunted the key she’d plucked from his pocket as he manhandled her. “Now that my hands are free, I can swim to safety if I fall. But! I think it’s you that needs to get wet.” So saying, she spun on her heels and started running. The oaf tried to follow but his lumbering frame wasn’t agile enough to catch her, When he stumbled and fell to his knees, she kicked him in the butt, then watched him tumble to the maelstrom below. </p>
<p>Now that she’d missed her flight it made sense that she use the thug’s car to drive home. She had enough of the casino’s money to pay for gas and food, so all in all, things weren’t that bad. She’d probably be too late for Billy Baker’s birthday party, but she reminded herself that life is what happens when you’ve made other plans.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71009812022-11-12T10:22:42-07:002022-11-12T10:22:43-07:00Bnonanza - By Mizeta Moon<p>Her mother told her no one had seen Mrs. Jenkins down the street for a week and asked her to check on the woman and her dog. She didn’t like Mrs. Jenkins but chose to keep her mom happy instead of listening to endless guilt trips about failing as a daughter. If her mother wasn’t confined to a wheelchair she’d have refused since she didn’t care much for the dog either. </p>
<p>She knocked but there was no answer. She decided to look around back in case the woman was working on her flower beds and hadn’t heard her at the door. She discovered that the back door was ajar, and as she approached it, the stench of rotting flesh assailed her nose. Her first thought was to leave and call the cops but put her handkerchief over her nose and mouth instead and pushed the door open with a trembling hand. Flies were everywhere. Buzzing, swirling, they were like a black cloud over the dead dog lying on the kitchen floor in a puddle of blood. Poor Thimble, she thought. Even though I didn’t like you, I didn’t want you dead. Now she was scared and almost ran but realized Mrs. Jenkins might be injured or dead as well and knew the right thing to do was investigate. </p>
<p>The first floor was a shambles. Drawers stood open with contents spilled, cushions were slashed, and lamps were overturned. No dead woman in sight but she could smell more rotting flesh and heard buzzing in the distance. The stairs creaked as she cautiously tiptoed her way to the second floor landing, clutching the rail so hard her knuckles were white. Her suspicions were confirmed when she entered the woman’s bedroom. Like the downstairs, the room had been ransacked. Jewelry boxes were empty and Mrs. Jenkins lie in a crumpled pile of clothing dumped from drawers and yanked from the closet. Whoever robbed her made sure they found everything of value before leaving her to bleed out. A glance into the bathroom revealed more frenzied pillaging. Realizing she couldn’t help the woman, she turned to leave but something lying in the debris caught her eye. </p>
<p>When she picked it up and examined its contents, she realized that whoever caused this mayhem was a rank amateur. The envelope was stuffed with bearer bonds which are as good as cash anywhere in the world. The thief or thieves must have tossed the envelope into the pile of papers on the floor because they weren’t currency and looked innocuous. However, she recognized their value right away and sat on the edge of the bed to count them after looking around guiltily and affirming she was still alone. She almost fainted when the total came to nearly four million dollars. </p>
<p>She was immediately conflicted. Call the cops and turn over the bonds? Keep them? She knew Mrs. Jenkins was a widow and had no immediate family, so the probability of someone placing a claim on them was remote. Did anyone know she had them in the house? Even if someone did, they could have been taken during the murderous home invasion. She decided that she would call the cops from home and hide the bonds under her bed until the dust settled. </p>
<p>The neighbors were shocked by her discovery and followed the ensuing investigation with keen interest. Three weeks went by and there was no mention of the bonds. No long-lost relative showed up either. The cops were convinced the robbery was committed by an opportunistic stranger who saw that Mrs. Jenkins lived alone and her dog was too small to protect her. After defiling her sanctuary they moved on and would hock the jewels and silverware down the road. As for her, no cloud of suspicion darkened her now sunny horizons. She could finally move out of her mom’s house and travel to far away exotic destinations. That opportunity came a month later when her mother’s request for a full-time caregiver was approved. She did send her mom some cash in the mail, but that was from New York where cashing some of the bonds was no reason to raise an eyebrow. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70831212022-10-17T12:20:18-07:002023-01-10T19:04:09-07:00Granny Gang - By Mizeta Moon<p>The mechanic refused to work on the car when he saw all the bullet holes in the trunk. If I’d hit the accelerator harder, we’d have been out of range quickly but my spike heel stuck in a hole in the carpet and I couldn’t bear down from the resulting tilt. That allowed the guards to hit us with several rounds–one of which clipped the fuel line, causing us to come to a halt across the street from a garage. We thought that was a stroke of luck at first but the suspicion in the wrench monkey’s eyes had me worried that he might call the cops. We decided the best thing to do was skedaddle before he could act so I called Lyft for a ride to our hideout as we call it. It’s actually an old gardening shed behind Winifred’s house where we drink wine from the bottle, play ten thousand, and plan our next heist. Leaving the car behind wasn’t a problem because it’s still registered to a guy three blocks from my house. When he died, we snagged the keys during his estate sale and hid it under a tarp in the woods behind Estelle’s house. So we grabbed the bags of cash, then walked to a bar down the street and told the driver to pick us up there in an hour since we all needed a drink after such a close call. </p>
<p>Hours later there were four stacks of money sitting on the table in the shed and Marlene was finally satisfied. She always thinks we might cheat her so she demands a recount. After we counted it all again and measured the piles, she agreed that we were truly equal partners. Oh! You might be wondering why I would wear high heels on a job and that’s a very good question. Dressing up like church ladies makes us less suspicious. Nobody expects a bunch of grannies to pull pistols from their purses instead of a hanky. Just so you know, we only rob places owned by a certain someone who is known to all as a liar and a crook. Stealing from him allows us to buy food for the poor and support our charities. We keep some for us of course, but at least it gets recirculated on lower levels instead of adding to the wealth of the wealthy. After the last hotel heist, I was able to give ten thousand dollars to the animal shelter. </p>
<p>We were well on our way to a rip-roaring drunk when Winifred suddenly got wide-eyed and looked worried. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Instead of answering right away she reached to her ear and unhooked an earring. Placing it on the table she stated that the mate was missing. She said “I lost it when we jumped in the car. Now I’m concerned that some CSI guy will bag and tag it, then trace my DNA.” </p>
<p>We had a good laugh at that because a diamond earring on the sidewalk would be a prize to one of the homeless who watched us make our getaway. Fat chance that they’d turn it in. Besides, Winifred has never been arrested or had her lineage traced. Even if a cop found it, she could say she lost it when walking to the liquor store. And on top of that, we only dress up to go on a crime spree. The rest of the time we look like a dowdy bunch wearing sensible shoes and comfortable clothes, so she wouldn’t meet any description from witnesses. Without just cause she couldn’t be forced to surrender a sample. </p>
<p>We were just finishing up a game of ten thousand when Winifred’s husband banged on the door and demanded dinner. I’m prone to tell him to F… off but keeping him happy allows us to use the shed without too much guff. I do talk back to him when it comes to politics since he’s a big supporter of the guy we steal from, but we were drunk and tired by then, so we filed out and left. The last thing I heard him say to Winifred was “that damn Velma pisses me off. Every time she comes over, I have to beg for dinner. And besides….”</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70831102022-10-17T12:13:10-07:002023-01-10T19:02:25-07:00Wish We'd Met - By Mizeta Moon<p>She landed on time but there was a long line at the rental car desk threatening to make her late for the celebration of life. She could take a taxi, then arrange for a car to be delivered to her room, but decided to hang tough for a few, and see if things sped up. She’d been to Portland several times and knew how expensive it would be to take a cab to Beaver Creek. Fortunately, her gamble paid off and she was able to drive through the lovely countryside and get to the Grange Hall just in time for the service. </p>
<p>She didn’t know the man but read everything he published. She loved the flow of his words as he described settings, characters, and revealed the plot. If he wrote poetry, it sang. Mysteries were difficult enigmas to solve before the end. His novel was racy but she’d laid in bed, enthralled by steamy interactions of the lovers. She wasn’t invited but figured no one would mind if she said goodbye to her favorite author in person. As she climbed the wooden stairs to the auditorium she was smiled at and handed a pamphlet instead of being turned away. Grateful for that, she took a seat in the back so she could watch everything that occurred. She knew the man was irreligious, so there wouldn’t be a bunch of preaching and praying but a true celebration of his time on the planet. </p>
<p>The service was charming as people spoke enthusiastically about their interactions with him. Their voices expressed admiration and love and regret he would no longer walk among them. As they spoke about him, she remembered something he said when interviewed on Good Morning America. Asked about his anti-war stance he said, “ The greatest hurdle humanity faces is overcoming the desire to kill its own species and blind obedience is required for war to continue. I’ve always questioned authority and wasn’t willing to be a pawn in someone else’s chess match. The blood and the pain are real not moves on a game board.” That was the impetus for her traveling to this ceremony. To pay respect to someone who steadfastly stood by their convictions. </p>
<p>When the recollections were over, a band played some of his favorite songs. She was surprised to learn he preferred modern rock instead of oldies. She supposed that staying on the cutting edge of social evolution was a desirable trait for an author. Soon, it was time for refreshments so she grabbed her cane and hobbled to the buffet table to indulge in the sumptuous offerings. She found she was quite hungry from her journey and loaded a plate unabashedly. She was having trouble holding her plate and leaning on her cane until a man’s hand appeared in her peripheral vision and a warm voice asked if they could help. As she said yes, she looked into a face that almost made her drop her plate. The man looked exactly like the dead writer. As she struggled to find words, the man said, “I can see you didn’t know he had a twin brother. When I saw you enter, I knew we’d never met and concluded you were a fan. Would you like to join our table?” </p>
<p>When her shock receded and she was seated, she asked “are you a writer as well?’ The man, who’d introduced himself as Richard laughed as he replied. “No, he was one of a kind. I paint a little, do some sculpting, but I’ll never make the big leagues. Mostly I take care of the family ranch. We have a few cattle, grow vegetables, that kinda stuff. ” </p>
<p>As they ate and chatted, she found herself extremely attracted to Richard. They were about the same age and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She usually wasn’t impetuous and chastised herself internally for the feelings roiling inside her. She attributed them to her admiration for his brother but noticed his body language was declaring his desire to have her linger. When he asked if she wanted to stay at the ranch instead of driving back to her hotel it was easy to say yes. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70596202022-09-13T14:48:20-07:002022-09-13T14:48:21-07:00Disturbing my peace - By Mizeta Moon<p>After a sleepless fitful night, the fishpond was the balm needed to restore my tranquility. The reds, oranges, and yellows of autumn leaves floated gently to the water’s surface, there to rest until I broke out my net to collect them. The fish rose like behemoths of the deep to capture anything that clung to them on their journey. Ripples from their breaching lapped gently on the moss-covered rocks lining the shore. As the sun broke through the trees, I sipped my coffee and reached for the Oregonian, wondering what mayhem occurred overnight. The news was so bad lately I’d thought about cancelling my subscription but hadn’t because they needed my support in a time where TV or internet news was the main source for most. I still loved my Sunday crosswords and the comics so I let it ride. </p>
<p>Two days earlier, I was shocked to hear that my old friend Glynda died after falling from the trail by Multnomah Falls. I supposed that sadness contributed to my tossing and turning the night before. While reading about her demise I tried to focus on the many sun-filled, laughter-laden frolics we shared over the years. When my eyes welled up with tears, I put the paper down, refilled my cup from the thermos jug, then refocused on the pond. The bright song of a robin perched on an overhanging branch lifted my spirits as I wiped away the tears. The fish moved to their feeding spot and started circling, so I rose and walked to the food container I keep on the porch. Their frantic attack on the handful of pellets I tossed in reminded me that life goes on without interruption due to anyone’s passing. I was feeling much calmer until I heard a loud click and the squeak of my gate opening. I wasn’t expecting anyone, so suspicion replaced tranquility immediately. </p>
<p>I’m not a violent person, but lately I’d been keeping baseball bats scattered around the house just in case. A girl living alone these days was vulnerable to home invasion. When I peeked around the corner, my knees felt weak and fear surged through my body. Two people were sauntering down the pathway like they owned the place. The woman was ragged and dirty, and the man had a gun. They were obviously tweekers and had targeted me as their next source of drug money. I quickly realized that I had the advantage because my car was in the shop and it looked like I wasn’t home. I was between them and the back door so I could take at least one of them out with the bat I was gripping so hard my knuckles were white, as they came around the corner. Did I have the gumption to do it? Inflicting harm went against my nature but becoming a victim wasn’t a desirable outcome. </p>
<p>Fortunately, the man poked the gun around the corner before stepping further into the yard. I gathered my courage and smashed his gun hand with a swing Mickey Mantle would be proud of. He screamed in pain as the gun skittered away. As he recoiled, the woman surged forward, brandishing a kitchen knife. I knew I needed to deal with her quickly before the man could recover and come at me. For the moment, he was on his knees, holding a broken wrist. When she closed in, I used the fat end of the bat to punch her in the gut, then raised it overhead to hit her on the back when she doubled over. I didn’t have to. She vomited, then raised her hand in surrender. Obviously, I packed a pretty mean punch. Meanwhile, the man realized I meant business and would be hard to subdue in his condition. They scrabbled away, but not before threatening a return visit. That thought worried me for a moment but I realized their transitory lifestyle would intervene and they would find easier targets. After filing a report with the cops, I poured myself a bourbon on the rocks, then went back to the fishpond. It wasn’t yet noon but as the saying goes, it had to be five-o-clock somewhere and I’d already had a hell of a day. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70595992022-09-13T14:37:27-07:002022-09-13T14:37:27-07:00Release eligible - By Mizeta Moon<p>It was a dancing elephant that got me in trouble. It was a thing of beauty sitting on the shelf and I wanted it for my grandma. But! I didn’t have a hundred dollars to buy it, so I stole it. I didn’t get very far before a cop car pulled alongside me and turned on the lights. I stood still, even though I wanted to run, knowing I wouldn’t get away. It’d be a minor charge if I cooperated. What I didn’t count on was the judge using my previous record to send me up the river for two years. A string of unpaid parking tickets, drug possession, vandalism, etc. </p>
<p>Prison was easy for me. I’m big, muscular, and know how to fight. I was on the boxing team before I dropped out of school and my reputation preceded me. No one stole my food or smokes or tried to make me their girlfriend. Time was the enemy. I nearly died from boredom since I don’t read, have a hobby, or enjoy watching The Animal Planet on TV which is the only channel we could watch in the dayroom. The days blended into the nights as I plodded through the monotony of prison life. And then there were two more hours until I was going to be free. Provided, of course, that I passed the final interview with the prison’s psychiatrist. I was dreading that because I was a smart ass the last time that I became release eligible, and she tacked six months onto my sentence. Keeping my mouth shut has never been my long suit. </p>
<p>When the guard ushered me into the lobby of the office tower and unlocked my cuffs, my knees started shaking. I ran my hand across my sweaty brow and took a deep breath to steady my nerves. The elevator smelled bad, as if someone had transported a load of rotten cabbage, then tried to mask the odor with Ben Gay. I wanted to throw up but I didn’t want the guard telling people I was a wimp. So, I held my breath while we went three floors up. I was dizzy by the time we stepped into the gleaming linoleum hallway leading to what inmates call “the door of doom” due to how many dreams of freedom die behind it. </p>
<p>After the guard took a seat by the door, I knocked, then entered, hoping I’d never have to do this again. Hopefully, I could answer questions politely and honestly. The psychiatrist, a blocky, dark-haired, stone-faced woman, sat behind her massive desk as usual, but I felt a different vibe this time. She bade me to sit, then ran me through the usual drill. After telling her that I hadn’t had sex with inmates or found Jesus in a Sears Roebuck catalog I felt I was on the brink of success. “If I allow you to leave, would you be willing to do something for me on the outside?” wasn’t part of the usual drill. When I hesitated, she continued. “You see, my husband left me recently and I need a big, strong man to help me out.” Oh no! Did she want me as a lover? The thought of that was so appalling that I almost stood up to run. But I held tight to my seat, thought of the alternative, then nodded my head yes. </p>
<p>I’ve never regretted that decision. Since being freed, I’ve eaten well, earned enough money to buy my grandma a dozen dancing elephants, and a new car. It turned out that Mildred, yes Mildred, had a tract of land in need of clearing. Lots of brush to hack, trees to chop down, boulders to move. Heavy work that has kept my mind out of the gutter and my body in shape. When this job is done, I’m thinking about buying a backhoe and going into the excavation business. While I’ve done all this, Mildred quit the prison, met a woman at a Gay Pride event, and is planning to build a house for them on the property I’m clearing. It’s amazing how things work out when you transcend your former self and embrace the new one. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70378232022-08-14T14:42:41-07:002022-08-14T14:42:41-07:00Girl alone - By Mizeta Moon<p>Wind whipped fiercely around the house as branches creaked and rain pelted the roof. I wasn’t used to being home alone but my dad was in the hospital and my mom had to work to keep us afloat. Before she left, she hugged me and said I was a big girl now and would be okay. “ Just keep the doors locked. There’s cookies in the pantry. Don’t eat too many. Gotta run. The boss doesn’t like it when I’m late.” </p>
<p>For a while I watched TV but got bored and went to read in my room after grabbing some cookies and a glass of milk. I love to read and especially enjoy trips to the library or a bookstore. At the moment I was adventuring with Peter Pan. I got settled in my bed and had pretty much blocked out the howling wind and the slight shudders of the house when the lights went out. Having no idea what to do about it, all I could do was lie there till they came back on or my mom came home. Then things got worse. First there was rumbling, then a huge bolt of lightning hit the big oak tree outside my window. The rain started coming down harder and faster, and looking out my window at the shattered tree, I could see the street was flowing like a river. How often does that happen? I wondered. </p>
<p>During the storm I could read with the flashlight my mom keeps by the front door if I could grope my way through the dark house and bring it back to my room. That turned out to be easier than I thought because of something called ambient light I learned about in science class. I grabbed the flashlight and decided to not turn it on until I got back to my room. If I didn’t waste the batteries I could read for longer. Just as I got resettled, a fire truck came roaring down the street, siren wailing, and tires splashing through the deepening water. I hoped they weren’t coming to our house or my friend Amy’s down the street. I didn’t smell smoke so I told myself not to worry. After reading a few pages I entered the world a good book can create and forgot all about the storm. </p>
<p>I was disappointed when the flashlight died but there was nothing that I could do about it, so I sat looking out the window, hoping the lights would come back on soon. Suddenly, I remembered that my dad had an old Kindle in his desk drawer. If I was really lucky it would still be charged and I could find something to read. It was! I did a little happy dance, and instead of going back to my room I flopped into my dad’s chair, then started scrolling. If I was going to read grown up stuff I should sit in a grown up’s chair. Most of it sounded boring but I eventually settled on an Agatha Christie mystery. My dad always said he liked her stories because she never used bad words and was good at making you try to figure out her clues. Every time I thought I knew who did it something she said caused me to doubt myself. Once again, I forgot about the storm as Miss Marple and I chased the bad guy. I hardly noticed when the sun came up and the storm died down. I was almost finished with the story when I heard the familiar sound of mom’s key in the lock. Even though I was glad she was home I was reluctant to stop reading and interact with her. I put the Kindle away but planned to get back to it as soon as possible. Taking something from dad’s desk without permission was a big no no, but it was an emergency and I could ask him if I could finish the story when we went to visit him. I felt certain he would understand the situation and say yes. </p>
<p>As usual, my mom smelled like the bakery she worked in. After hugging me, she said “I knew you were my brave girl and would be okay. Although, it had to be scary being alone in a dark house during such a terrible storm.” </p>
<p>“I wasn’t scared.” I told her. “I had lots of company. Books are full of interesting people.” </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70378182022-08-14T14:41:50-07:002022-08-14T14:41:51-07:00Mr. Tomato Frog’s vacation - By Mizeta Moon<p>Mr. Tomato Frog had been teaching at Reynolds Middle School for twenty years without taking time off. Every summer he stayed behind and taught while Mrs. Tomato Frog took her tadpoles (as she called their kids) on a cruise to different parts of the world. He didn’t have his wife’s appetite for strange cuisines or adventure, preferring to eat Spaghetti-o’s and watch reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger. This year though, he developed an urge to take the train to Spokane, hang out in a strange bar, and order cocktails he’d never tried. Hopefully, they’d have free peanuts. </p>
<p>There wasn’t a sign of anyone when he stepped off the train in Spokane because Amtrak’s schedule led to arriving at one a.m. He hadn’t booked a room in advance and planned to stay awake till morning, then choose a place to stay. This plan allowed him to roam the quiet streets and experience a strange environment without conversation. Since he spent a lot of time talking at work, it was nice to just listen, look, and smell. This plan was working well until he rounded a corner and discovered a young boy sitting on the curb crying. His first thought was to turn around and not get involved but the teacher in him couldn’t ignore the plight of a child. </p>
<p>As he approached, the boy sniffed, rubbed his eyes, and looked up expectantly. “What’s wrong? And why are you out alone this late at night?” Mr. Tomato Frog asked. </p>
<p>“Wasn’t sleepy, went for a walk and got lost. The boy replied, then continued. “Stepped on a rock and sprained my ankle, now it hurts to stand up. Can you help me?” </p>
<p>“Well, we’ll take a look at that ankle, then see about getting you home. As you can see, I’m on foot and have never been here before so I don’t know where anything is. Most cities don’t like people calling 911 if it isn’t an emergency but they might send someone.” </p>
<p>The ankle didn’t appear broken and calling 911 did the trick. It turned out the boy’s frantic parents had already called the police when they discovered him missing during a midnight bathroom excursion. The police eyed Mr. Tomato Frog suspiciously at first but the boy assured them he was a rescuer, not a kidnapper. It still took a while to explain why he was roaming the streets at night and he was relieved when allowed to go on his way. Dawn found him sitting on a bench in Riverfront Park watching the early light sparkle on the Spokane river. He asked a passing jogger where he could get a good breakfast and they recommended the Satellite Diner. After eating, he checked into a hotel with a view of the river, took a short nap, then went in search of a neighborhood bar. The one in the hotel was pricey, brightly lit, and didn’t have salty snacks. </p>
<p>It took a few tries and some walking, but eventually he wandered into a place called Fat Lulu’s. It was dimly lit, had creaky floorboards, and smelled like stale beer, but the back bar displayed a huge variety of booze bottles. No free peanuts but it was Taco Tuesday and they were a dollar apiece, and chips and salsa were free. As he sat down on a well-worn wooden stool, he was hoping that the skinny bleach-blond bartender was capable of creating miraculous beverages to sample. She was, and by late evening Mr. Tomato Frog was having so much fun he was reluctant to leave but was rip-roaring drunk so he called a cab. As he staggered though the lobby, the night manager asked to see his room key, then clucked with indignation as he oozed into the elevator. He didn’t mind. The next few days were going to be fun since Spokane was brimming with dive bars and his wife wouldn’t be home for a week. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70116952022-07-10T11:06:24-07:002022-07-10T11:06:24-07:00Keeping the promise - By Mizeta Moon<p>Eighty four rings, thirteen bracelets, four necklaces, a gem studded crown, two crucifixes, and dozens of loose jewels gleamed on Madge’s kitchen table. Her head swam as she pondered their possible worth. She decided not to show her treasure to Brenda, feeling it could create a huge rift between them. Instead, she told Brenda that other than some great scenery, the trip was a bust. Brenda got her “I told you so” moment and laughed once again at the idea of aliens using telepathy to guide Madge. Madge let her gloat without retort and within a few days the pressures of daily life overlaid further conversation on the subject. </p>
<p>How to convert some of her treasure to cash was a momentary dilemma until she remembered that her neighbor Jeff was a jeweler who worked from a shop in his garage. Taking them to a pawnshop would realize a small percentage of their worth but with no idea as to what they were and their value she could lose a small fortune. Asking Jeff to appraise them was a logical course of action. But should she do it all at once, or in dribbles and drabs? Her flair for the dramatic led to her starting with the crown and a handful of loose gems. She was nervous and almost peed herself as she waited for Jeff to answer the doorbell. She almost turned to run but the door opened and Jeff invited her in. </p>
<p>Jeff was stunned at first, but soon grew suspicious. After all, Madge worked in a hotel laundry and could scarcely afford decent costume jewelry, let alone a King’s ransom. “Where’d you get this stuff?” He asked with narrowing eyes. </p>
<p>“Dug it out from under a tree in the mountains,” she replied. Deciding honesty was the best policy, she added, “there’s more. Guess I shoulda brought some of the smaller stuff first. Kinda wanted to show off.” </p>
<p>Jeff nodded, still distrustful but overwhelmed by curiosity. As he examined the crown with his loupe, he murmured with approval. Madge was encouraged by his fascination. “It’s really old,” he said. “Solid gold. The gems are cut beautifully and the carat weight is huge. Do you have an idea what it’s worth?” </p>
<p>“No. That’s why I came to you instead of a pawnshop. Can you help me sell it? I could really use the money. Or maybe you could buy it. I know you’ll be fair.” </p>
<p>Jeff grimaced at the idea of a pawnbroker even touching such a fabulous relic. It was museum grade and a part of human history. Possibly worth millions on the open market. “I couldn’t give you one percent of what it’s worth, but I could be your broker to a reputable auction house. That would be the way to go. I understand your need for cash but wish you’d donate it to a museum.” </p>
<p>Madge shook her head violently. “No way! It’s mine now. I went through hell to find it. Like I said, there’s more, and with your guidance we could make some real money.” </p>
<p>Jeff put his hand on his chin while examining the loose stones. “I’d want to see the rest and go online to find any police reports concerning it. If that comes up clean you got a deal. For twenty five percent, of course.” </p>
<p>It seemed high but Madge knew he’d work hard to get the most for her treasure. On her drive home that day she’d asked the alien who could read her mind who the treasure belonged to. Evidently, a thug who broke away from a gang run by a man named Rynax came to the northwest, buried it, then died before retrieving it. That was hundreds of years earlier. She knew there would be no police reports. Brenda would be surprised when she moved to Monte Carlo and never mentioned the thingamajig again. </p>
<p>For more about Rynax and his treasure, read the story Kriga in Mizeta Moon’s new book Stark Raving Mad. Available in the book section of Amazon as a paperback or now in e-book format as well. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70116942022-07-10T11:05:51-07:002022-07-10T11:05:51-07:00Thingamajig - By Mizeta Moon<p>Following the clues they were given led to a long trek over rocky hillsides. They were told the reward could lead to wealth and fame, but so far, their reward was aching muscles and tired feet. Brenda decided she didn’t want to continue and told Madge she’d wait there for her to come back. Madge wanted to find the treasure so she plodded on, cursing her friend under her breath. She didn’t like being alone in the hills, or to leave Brenda vulnerable, but the man who told them about what he left in the cave seemed so sincere that she had to carry on. She could use some wealth and fame in her life. Working in the hotel laundry didn’t offer much upward mobility. </p>
<p>After two more miles she thought about turning back but scrambling over a big pile of rocks led to a discovery. She found the ruins of an old mining camp and the opening of a cave that looked like it had been deserted for years. She gave the buildings a cursory examination but found nothing of value. Anxious to explore the cave but concerned about what might be living in there, she stood at the mouth and threw some rusty cans in that were laying on the ground. When nothing stirred, she cautiously started in. She expected darkness, or half-light at best, but there was a glow that made it easy to look around. Of course, no chest spilling over with jewels and gold was in evidence. The only thing she could see was an odd-shaped object that seemed to be the source of the glow. The thing was painted purple and green, and as she approached, it began to change shape. Square one moment, round the next, then triangular. Now she was scared. But! She’d come this far so she had to check it out or die of curiosity. </p>
<p>When she got close, she heard a hum that could only be coming from the thingamajig. It continued to change shapes, then grew larger and hummed louder. Finally brave enough to touch it, she felt a tingle race through her whole body. It was warm at first, then grew icy cold, then back to warm. The surface was smooth in some places and rough in others. She didn’t think it was alive but wondered if it was a machine of some sort. It didn’t seem to have openings or a purpose other than constantly morphing. When it shrunk to the size of a softball, she tried to pick it up but it was too heavy. Thoroughly puzzled, she sat and watched it for a while as it changed, then decided to explore the tunnel that had probably been dug by the miners before the place was abandoned. Only, she couldn’t. There was an invisible wall she could see through but couldn’t walk through. Now things were really getting weird. Time to go. Brenda would be worried if she didn’t get back soon. Besides. Force fields meant aliens or who knew what. </p>
<p>She decided to run her hands over the thingamajig one more time to see if she could find an opening. At that point, it was a huge triangle and was barely humming. After finding nothing, she reluctantly turned to leave, unhappy to have not solved the mystery or found treasure. After reuniting with Brenda, telling her about the strange object, and starting for home, she suddenly had a brain flash. The image of an alien family sitting in their home ran like a movie in her head. Now she knew what the thingamajig was. A tinny voice whispered a message only she could hear. When she nodded her head to agree that she’d never tell anyone what it was, she was told where she could find a big bag of pirate treasure. Brenda was going to be amazed </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70116932022-07-10T11:05:28-07:002022-07-10T11:05:28-07:00Separate Ways - By Mizeta Moon<p>Brenda didn’t believe there was a treasure. Aliens reading minds was something she didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t believe in, regardless how sincere Madge sounded. So, Madge packed for an excursion to the coast and set her alarm for an early start. Brenda seemed content to idle along through life and use her precious time doing little to enhance the experience. Only, time can slip away like a thief in the night and leave you old and wrinkled, wondering if your journey was joyful and meaningful. Madge wanted to do anything and everything possible and die with a bang. </p>
<p>The drive to the coast was beautiful as usual. Farmers tilling fields. Rows of wine grapes ripening in the sun. Birds perched on wires or flying overhead to destinations only they knew about. Madge left the radio off, rolled her window down, and breathed in the fresh air. The cathartic effect was soothing to her soul and she looked forward to the magnificence of the ocean. As she climbed into the coast range, she hummed one of her favorite tunes while reaching into her lunch bag for a double fudge chunk cookie. </p>
<p>When she crested the highest peak, she had to roll up the window because the coastal effect was still in charge on this side of the mountains. Her sunny day suddenly became dark and gloomy. The fog was too thick to see more than a few feet ahead on the constantly curving road. She slowed and kept her eyes glued to the fog line on the side of the highway. Like a dancer on a high wire she navigated the last few miles. By the time she got to the flats she was a nervous wreck, hoping no one came charging up behind her, not realizing how slow she was driving. When the sun finally poked its head through the fog, she breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed her death grip on the wheel. </p>
<p>After a potty stop, she drove down the coast toward where the aliens told her to look. Recent development raised concerns about the trail through the forest no longer existing but when she reached the small stretch of blacktop turning away from the ocean her hopes returned. Before turning onto it, she pulled into a turnout and sat watching waves crash onto the rocky shores for nearly an hour. After nibbling some crackers, she fired up the engine and waited for traffic to clear. Time to get lucky. If not, this day was a treasure to have and hold forever. </p>
<p>The road led to a parking area where three trails went separate ways. One looked easy to negotiate, wandering through a flower-filled meadow. Another dropped away quickly and would probably follow a small creek she could see through the underbrush. The other led straight uphill through a dense stand of trees. It was narrow, looked treacherous, and was probably precipitous. As she sat wondering which to take, the tinny voice of the alien popped into her head and told her that the easy path never leads to the treasure. Sighing, grabbing her gear, then locking the car, she took a deep breath and started to climb. Two hours of being scratched, bruised, and being sorely tested revealed a tiny clearing with water surfacing in its middle. After taking a big drink she sat and watched the water trickle down the opposite slope. Obviously, this was the beginning of what would turn into a creek that would eventually join the ocean. What now? She asked in her mind. </p>
<p>The tinny answer led her to a giant fir whose semi-exposed roots gripped a pile of rock as it clung to the edge. Probing into the roots required scraping away dirt and small rocks. The small garden trowel she brought wasn’t very effective, but her determination to succeed pushed her beyond her normal limits, She finally felt the trowel break through and started widening the opening with her bare hands. It took a while to drag the bag she found through the opening, and just as she freed it, rain started falling. There was no time to look inside. If she didn’t get going, she could get trapped and die if lost in the dark. When she finally got back to her car and toweled off it was time to look. Brenda was going to be jealous. </p>
<p>Okay Jacki….More next week </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69922672022-06-12T09:59:52-07:002022-06-12T09:59:52-07:00Explorers - By Mizeta Moon<p>“How did I miss that easy shot?” Ravenna asked. “I always hit what I’m aiming at. Maybe I need to get my eyes checked.” </p>
<p>Margot didn’t reply right away. She was amazed at how quickly the target disappeared and was trying to catch sight of them again. She’d asked Ravenna not to shoot something that wasn’t threatening them but was ignored as usual. They’d been sent here to explore colonization possibilities, not kill indigenous lifeforms but Ravenna liked killing things for sport. She, on the other hand, wanted to study and learn. “It’s ears were so big it might have heard the bullet coming.” She said after a lengthy pause. </p>
<p>“Hah.” Ravenna snorted. “Nothing can outrun a bullet.” </p>
<p>Instead of replying, Margot picked up her gear and started walking toward the mountains ahead. The mountains were huge! Nearly twice as high as Mt. Everest and stretching from horizon to horizon. Discovering what was on the other side would require a strenuous climb and she didn’t want to waste energy arguing with Ravenna. They could just call the ship and describe what they found on this side of the mountains and ask to be picked up but had to make certain there was no civilized culture they would disturb. While circling the planet their instruments couldn’t penetrate the thick cloud cover on the other side of the mountains so they’d been set down on the sunny side with orders to check it out. The captain failed to mention how high the mountains were. She probably shouldn’t have dumped him on the last voyage to get this assignment as revenge. </p>
<p>After scaling the foothills, they discovered what appeared to be a game trail running through a rift between two peaks. If it led through, they wouldn’t have to climb over. Ravenna kept her rifle ready in case they ran into whatever blazed the trail while Margot photographed everything they passed. The sparse vegetation conveyed the sense of minimal rainfall and suggested the other side might be a swamp. There were slight rises in elevation but the trail continued to skirt the two peaks and give them hope that they would reach the other side before long. They knew they were close when the air cooled rapidly, the light faded, and wisps of moist vapors began to swirl around them. Within an hour they’d left the mountains behind and were now walking on what felt like wet grass but visibility was so poor they weren’t sure. When the trail led to a pile of boulders and stopped, they were uncertain about which way to go. </p>
<p> “Let’s take a break and just listen,” Margot said. “If there’s anything out there, we’ll hear it and can go toward it.” Ravenna was tired, so she agreed. </p>
<p>After a prolonged, eerie silence, a brilliant light broke through the gloom and dazzled their eyes. When they could see again, they saw that strange creatures were marching toward them in a military-like formation. They reminded Margot of kangaroos but had humanoid faces, long claws, fangs, and huge disc shaped ears. “Oh crap!” Ravenna exclaimed as she raised her rifle. Margot reached out and pulled the barrel down. </p>
<p>“What are you doing? They could kill us. Might as well take them out first.” </p>
<p>“Too many.” Margot replied, still looking for the source of the light. Was a ship hovering overhead? “They look scary but could be friendly. If not, we’re going to die anyway.” </p>
<p>When the creatures were within twenty feet, they stopped. Margot could see that some of them were female and had large pendulous breasts. The males were easily identified by their genital display. The largest male spoke to the group in a tongue she couldn’t identify, then a child emerged from behind one of the females. The big male spoke again and the child pointed at Ravenna. Suddenly, the light went out, and Margot heard the sounds of struggling. When the light came back on, she saw that Ravenna was tied to a pole and being carried away. The rifle lay on the marshy ground. The big one pointed to the trail they’d used to reach that point and motioned that she should use it to beat a hasty retreat. She hated leaving Ravenna behind but was glad she wasn’t prone to shoot first and ask questions later. At least she could report that this planet was unsuitable for colonization. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69922662022-06-12T09:59:29-07:002022-06-12T09:59:29-07:00Mantra - By Mizeta Moon<p>Though my flag be tattered and torn, I shall wave it proudly in the face of all opposition. Never surrendering to tyranny or social derision. Staying at peace in my heart despite what the world brings to bear. Enjoying my journey through life with a song in my soul. When storm clouds gather, I will weather them as best I might and welcome the return of the light. When tears fall, I will dry them with my joy and hope for better tomorrows. There is only this moment and I shall not waste it by harboring bitterness or despairing about the constant flux of human affairs. Hate me. Disparage me. I shall not bow. I will maintain my dignity and seek constant enrichment regardless what obstacles arise. I will always be me and like who I am.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69677302022-05-10T07:53:16-07:002022-05-10T07:53:16-07:00Creative Thinking - By Mizeta Moon<p>Robo Rent-A-Cop d311 was good at enforcing the law but wasn’t programmed for unusual situations. This current problem was causing his circuitry to overheat as he probed his data bank for a solution. When he took up his position earlier, there was no one around. Patrolling the campus was usually routine during spring break but as the day rolled on a large group of naked bike riders stopped riding and took a break on the lawn. Soon the hillside was littered with naked flesh which was definitely a violation of Dine and Dash University’s dress code. </p>
<p>At first, he moved through the crowd politely asking them to move on. Most of them refused so he opened the hatch on his left shoulder and pulled out his ticket book. As he wrote citations the dilemma of where to place them arose. Since they weren’t wearing clothes where would they put them? He solved that problem by using zip ties to attach them to the bikes. Many of the naked riders became unruly and shouted expletives due to that action but since he had no feelings to hurt, they were ineffective. When some of the more aggressive ones started shoving him, he realized he was going to have to be creative since harming humans was contrary to his programming. Remembering that there was a big roll of shrink wrap in the utility shed, he rolled that way, hoping the crowd would disperse before he got back. They didn’t. </p>
<p>He used his hook to round up all the bikes and shrink wrap them together, then dragged them to the empty parking lot. Since he was really fast, he began circling the riders who were now pedestrians and wrapping them in shrink wrap as well. As he was doing this, he called for back up so the miscreants could be shipped for booking at the Fast Food County courthouse. Hearing dispatch contact the fleet of Rent-A-Cops, several television news crews arrived to document the naked bike riders being lifted and loaded onto a flat bed truck. Since they were unashamed by public nudity the riders didn’t mind being filmed but were extremely angry about being arrested. After they were unwrapped at the courthouse, fingerprinted, and photographed, they were delivered to the courtroom of McArthur, Big Mac Burgerking, who chastised them for tying up services and increasing demand on an already overburdened budget. He handed out healthy but reasonable fines and released them without prejudice so they wouldn’t have a criminal record. Their bikes still lay in a pile in the campus parking lot so they had to walk through town and unwrap them as additional punishment. </p>
<p>Needless to say, there was never a naked bike ride in Frytown again. Rent-A-Cop d311 was awarded a software upgrade which allowed him to solve complex problems without overheating The judge used footage from the incident to make a fortune on YouTube which allowed him to take his wife Wendy to Carl Jr’s supper club for a sumptuous barbecue. Creative thinking saved the day better than pushing and shoving ever could. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69677292022-05-10T07:52:54-07:002022-05-10T07:52:54-07:00War - By Mizeta Moon<p>The crowd’s mood was changing. Where before they had hope for their future, recent events made it impossible to believe they would survive the constant attack on everything they’d strived for. Children bleeding to death in the streets. Buildings they’d scarred their hands to erect turned to rubble. Bombs exploding and disrupting a way of life focused on sharing and caring for one another. Sirens blaring. Machine guns burping death and destruction in every direction. Tanks using their steel treads to trample everything in their path. The crowd was now individuals fleeing the onslaught of an enemy hell-bent on genocide. </p>
<p>When their homes were destroyed, they survived by salvaging anything they could reap from the rubble. A jar of pickles. A bag of flour. Two eggs from a chicken whose feathers were singed. Water filtered through a handkerchief from a muddy puddle to soothe a thirsting tongue. Whatever was required to defy the enemy became their daily practice. Their bodies were sore and tired but their souls were unwilling to relent to terrorism. </p>
<p>“Up there! Can’t you see it?” A woman cried out in the midst of a missile strike that killed a hundred people trying to evacuate. “It’s a rainbow. An omen that salvation is imminent.” Unfortunately, her head exploded moments later as a sniper placed her in their sights. Hope was no longer a commodity. Bleakness painted a grim reality for all to experience. Rainbows were simply weather phenomena instead of something to feel good about. Flies swarming around corpses had become the norm. When it rained, gutters ran red with blood. </p>
<p>Since the beginning of time there has always been someone jealous of what another has to eat, or their property, and has sought to usurp it. The thinking is– whatever they believe is wrong and we the righteous true believers have a right to expunge them and absorb the wealth of their labor. War is our way of life. Hatred and destruction are the only path we tread. To share the world is the aim of weaklings as only the ruthless and strong survive. Incessant war creates jobs and the need to rebuild so we are justified in spilling blood. </p>
<p> I, for one, will forever seek to share and plant seeds in opposition to the idea that war is the only way we can maintain a viable economy. My crops may feed few but the joy they bring will echo beyond my tenancy. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69461602022-04-11T17:45:50-07:002022-04-11T17:45:50-07:00Discovery - By Mizeta Moon<p>Officer Porky Pig hung up the phone and sighed. Somedays he hated being a cop. Someone was always doing something crazy and he had to pick up the pieces. Arresting people required a ton of paperwork and his hooves were clumsy when typing was required. Maybe the caller was a prankster and there was no crime but he still had to roll out. At least having Mister Ed pull the hay wagon would give him someone intelligent to talk to. His last partner Daffy Duck had been just that and his lisp made him hard to understand. </p>
<p>When they reached the address that he’d been given, a rusted mailbox sat atop a weathered post leaning over so far that Porky wondered how Yogi Bear the mailman could deliver to it. A small opening in the trees was the access point for whatever lie behind them. Mister Ed said he’d wait there while Porky explored further because something smelled rotten and he’d get queasy if there was a dead body. The twisty lane led to a ramshackle house that looked deserted and a barn that seemed to be the source of the odor permeating the air. </p>
<p>An investigation of the house revealed that it was inhabited but no one was home. Shabby furniture and worn out rugs made a statement about the occupant’s financial status. Sighing, he pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it around his snout. Anything that would make a pig want to vomit had to be terrible. Pulling the handle on the barn door produced a screech from unoiled hinges that made his skin crawl. He could leave and say there was nothing to see, but Chief of Police, Elmer Fudd might send Deputy Dawg to make sure and he’d be demoted. As the door swung open, a wave of stench rolled over him like waves breaking on the beach. His first step into the gloomy interior produced a crunch and he felt something squish under his hoof. He turned on his flashlight to see what it was. Bugs were everywhere. Not only on the floor, but they were also crawling the walls. </p>
<p> The barn was huge and he hated crunching his way deeper but he heard what sounded like someone crying and couldn’t ignore the plaintive wail. When he walked past a huge pile of hay, he could see the source of the horrible smell. Cinderella sat on a stool in the corner, and the remains of a huge pumpkin on wheels that had cracked open was covered with bugs dining on its rotting interior. </p>
<p>“What happened?” Porky asked. </p>
<p>Cinderella sniffed, wiped a tear from her eye and said, “the Big Bad Wolf and Yosemite Sam robbed me of my glass slipper, then held me hostage when I was on my way home from the ball. It made me late and my carriage turned back into a pumpkin. It was dark, late, and raining when I got away from them, then the mice and toads ran away, leaving me stranded.” </p>
<p>“Why didn’t you walk home when the rain stopped? And how’d the pumpkin break open? How long have you been here?” </p>
<p>Cinderella held out a badly bruised and swollen foot. “For some dumb reason I was pushing the pumpkin inside. Why I wanted to protect it escapes me at the moment but just inside the door, I tripped over a bucket, sprained my ankle, then fell onto the pumpkin. It cracked and I almost drowned in the pulp before I could pull myself out. I can’t put any weight on my foot so I’ve been here for two weeks.” </p>
<p>Porky whipped out his Acme walkie talkie and told Mister Ed to bring the wagon. Once they had Cinderella comfortable in the hay, they rolled out toward the Fred Flintstone county hospital. Just as they reached the head of the twisty lane an old jalopy pulled up and waited for them to get out of the way. Porky thought the driver looked a lot like one of the Beverly Hillbillies but being in the midst of a medical emergency, didn’t have time to ask for an autograph. He’d heard they fell on hard times after some bad investments. He still didn’t know who the mysterious voice on the phone was who said he should check out the scene for possible monkey business but was glad nothing was amiss other than a smashed pumpkin and a bug infestation. When his wife Petunia got back from touring Sunnybrook Farm, they could visit the ramshackle house together and maybe get a picture taken with Jed and Granny. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69147462022-03-05T14:05:13-07:002022-03-05T14:05:13-07:00Dyslexia - By Mizeta Moon<p>Officer Lawrence knelt on the wet sand and looked at the young girl’s corpse, wishing he could’ve stayed home for his family’s turkey dinner like the rest of the department. Surrounded by fog with an empty belly wasn’t his idea of an exhilarating day. There was nothing he could do so he snuggled deeper into his Harris Tweed coat. Turning to the man who found the body, he said “why were you here?” </p>
<p>The man wearing a wet suit with goggles wrapped around his neck said, “I was having my first scuba lesson when the train suddenly plunged off the trestle and fell into the bay. Scared my instructor so bad he ran home to take his heart medication. My phone was in my bag, so I called it in, then started walking the shoreline looking for survivors and stumbled onto her.” </p>
<p>“She the only one you found?” </p>
<p>“So far. I think most of the passengers are trapped under water. Coast Guard’s all over the scene. Why are you looking at me like I did something wrong?” </p>
<p>Officer Lawrence pointed to the woman’s hand and said, “looks like she had several rings on her fingers, and a bracelet on her wrist. The depth of those marks tell me they were on there for quite some time. Want to tell me why they’re missing?” </p>
<p>Realizing he was busted, the diver shrugged, then dug into his kit bag and held them out. “Figured she didn’t need them anymore. Gonna arrest me?” </p>
<p>“Just get out of my sight,” Lawrence said as he palmed them. </p>
<p>Inter-agency investigations were a nightmare. NTSB usually treated locals like they were dirt and since there was no evidence that the crash was anything more than an accident he could go home as soon as they arrived. No point taking on a petty crime that would involve a lot of paperwork. </p>
<p>While he waited, a small suitcase floated onto the rocks about fifty feet from where he stood. Walking over, he picked it up and shook water off of it before setting it on the sand and popping its latches. Examining its contents led to a big surprise. There was a passport with photo attached of the woman lying dead on the beach. The irony of her luggage following her didn’t escape him as he dug deeper. He discovered a train ticket, which was expected but soon realized it was for a different train than the one that crashed. The ticket was for the number 13 express, not the number 31 local that lie at the bottom of the bay. The only thing he could surmise was that she took the wrong train because she was dyslexic. Now the fact she was dead became a greater tragedy. </p>
<p>By the time the feds arrived he’d copied all her pertinent information into his notebook and put her jewelry in his car. He hoped to provide a small degree of comfort to her relatives by sending it along. When he got home dinner was cold and the football game was almost over. At least his in-laws were gone after scarfing everything they could and leaving his wife to do the dishes. He nuked a plate and started to eat but couldn’t get the dead girl’s face out of his mind. Appetite gone he went to his study to type up his report. As he worked, he thought about the effects of dyslexia. How many people suffered misfiled forms or turned the wrong way? How many of those situations led to tragedy? He understood that others died on the train and were where they were meant to be and when. Was the girl? Such questions could lead to drinking and sleepless nights. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69147452022-03-05T14:04:43-07:002022-03-05T14:04:43-07:00Memory Lane - By Mizeta Moon<p>The red gate led to the burial plot of the Duquesne family. It was a pretty gate surrounded by honeysuckle vines and buzzing bees. Dappled sunlight took away what could have been a threatening presence and infused the scene with a sense of tranquility. People inside were truly resting in peace. I unlatched the gate and stepped inside to pay my respects to someone I felt privileged to have known. </p>
<p>Malcolm Duquesne and I joined the peace corps while we were in college. Every summer break found us digging wells in third world countries or vaccinating children against malaria and other diseases. We shared food around campfires, told tall tales and got drunk when the opportunity arose. After graduation I went into corporate law and Malcolm became a fireman, following his family’s tradition. A college education wasn’t required for the job but his degree in computer science led to him making extra money developing apps for gaming. When stuck in boring meetings about some company suing another for copyright infringement, I often wished I’d followed his lead. He was on the front line saving lives and making a difference while I worked hard at protecting my pension plan, hoping not to be downsized. </p>
<p>When caught, the arsonist who caused Malcolm’s death stated that it was the greatest blaze he’d ever ignited. He showed no remorse for the loss of life and millions of dollars-worth of property damage. He smiled at the cameras as the police loaded him into a van and vowed that he would do it again as soon as he was released. Evidently, he considered himself a crusader, at war with an oil cartel my company happened to represent. Local news agencies broadcast footage of the fire for hours before the smoke and toxic fumes forced everyone to evacuate the immediate area. Night fell and all they could show from a distance was a glowing mass along with hundreds of flashing lights from emergency response vehicles. Once again, Malcolm was at the forefront, sweating, laboring, desperately trying to make a difference. </p>
<p>Dawn revealed massive destruction. Soot covered haggard faces reflected the agony of retrieving bodies incinerated by searing heat while ambitious newscasters lobbied for exclusivity, unmindful of anything but ratings. Another day, another tragedy, another opportunity to move up the ladder. Meanwhile, Malcolm was missing. When last seen, he was valiantly trying to rescue a dog nursing a litter of puppies in a storage shed. His captain had advised him that it was too dangerous, but Malcolm’s sense of duty and humanism propelled him into the maelstrom without concern for his own well-being. His body was found the next day with his coat draped over the mama and five dead puppies. </p>
<p>All the medals in the world can’t bring him back or truly commemorate his bravery. I’ll always remember his laughter when we rode into the jungle on the back of a flatbed truck wondering what we were doing there. Being by his grave brought back a flood of memories that will be etched in my mind till the day I die. All I could do was sit quietly on a stone bench and sip from my flask while tears rolled down my face. As the sky began to darken and evening chill caused me to shiver, I rose and slowly walked back to the red gate. I knew I would come again. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68960022022-02-12T11:22:29-07:002022-02-12T11:22:29-07:00Fubar - By Mizeta Moon<p>School was never the same after they turned the dragon parking area into a practice floor for outdoor rhythmic gymnastics. Sure, watching all those lithe young ladies swirl their ribbons and tumble and roll was swell, but being dropped by a dragon required to hover, then leave, led to a ton of bruises and strewn paperwork that was hard to recover on a windy day. Besides that, my dragon missed yakking with the others waiting to ferry their charges home after school. Now there was a traffic jam as they returned instead of an orderly lift off like before. I began to hate the very idea of rhythmic gymnastics being an Olympic event, not to mention the snooty moms who thought their daughter was the cream of the crop. The elitism ran rampant through every grade while thousands of dollars were spent on sequins and hair gel. </p>
<p>Anyway, one day after school I flew into downtown Gresham, thinking I’d treat my dragon to pizza as consolation for being barred from campus. He loves pizza with extra garlic and jalapeno peppers that make his breath super fiery. Me, I’m more of a chicken pesto with extra cheese kinda girl. Fortunately, there was an empty spot in front of Main Street Pizza and we swooped in before someone else could grab it. Parking in Downtown Gresham can be a challenge so I’d learned to be quick or suffer endless circling. Unfortunately, there were nearly a hundred online orders being processed ahead of mine and the wait was interminable. By the time I procured our box of steaming toppings and cheese my dragon was cranky and hungry, not to mention being irritated by the overtime parking citation a zealous meter maid stapled to my saddle. I was amazed he hadn’t torched her but relieved he didn’t, as torching a meter maid was a federal offense. I noticed she was across the street ticketing a group of circus clowns for allowing their elephant to defecate in the street. Thinking I might get her to rescind the ticket, I approached her as she swaggered back to her scooter. </p>
<p>The meter maid she couldn’t and wouldn’t tear up the citation, then plopped her fat butt on her seat and drove away laughing. I was tempted to follow her and have my dragon light her up in an out of the way place but before I could act on that impulse a tremor tore downtown to shreds. Buildings collapsed, fires broke out and the screams of injured people filled the air. I’d never experienced a natural disaster and had no idea what I could or should do to help. Frightened and confused, I climbed into the saddle and urged my dragon to take flight. Circling the area, I noticed there were hundreds of cars experiencing gridlock while trying to escape. Everywhere I looked, a big rock blocked the road or tumbled buildings prevented egress from the impact zone. The one point of humor in the situation was the meter maid’s scooter wedged nose down in a crevasse running all the way across Burnside. She was covered with dust and obviously took quite a tumble. The knees of her uniform were shredded and blood oozed from several patches of road rash. I could have ignored her plight since she’d been such a bitch but I remembered one of my classmates mentioning his mom was a meter maid. That led to me urging my dragon to land nearby and tax his muscles by allowing her bulk to climb aboard. It took a moment, but with a mighty heave we got airborne, then managed to deliver her home. </p>
<p>It took weeks to repair the damage and get things back to normal but the next time I went to school I discovered new parking spaces for dragons near the front entrance. Evidently, someone lobbied on our behalf. Downtown Gresham also dedicated some spaces to dragons. It turned out that several dragon riders helped evacuate wounded citizens to hospitals outside the impact zone and were rewarded for their humanism. After that experience I was proud of myself for being mature enough to not surrender to my base urges. Who knew when tragedy might strike again? </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68960012022-02-12T11:20:20-07:002022-02-12T11:21:14-07:00Fishing - By Mizeta Moon<p>Inspired by a conversation with Darren Schrader</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Someone told me about this great place to fish so I thought I’d check it out. Unfortunately, it was at a lake on an island. That meant I’d have to pay someone to drop me off, then come get me later. Having made a fortune on bit coin transactions, the expense wasn’t the issue, but lack of wifi was until I remembered my satellite phone. Even while fishing I like to make money and track what the market is doing. So, grabbing my gear and packing a cooler led me to a weathered pier where a boat I chartered bobbed gently on the incoming tide. The captain was an affable sort who pointed out landmarks while we were underway so sailing on the bay was peaceful and relaxing. I have to admit that I scanned the horizon a few times hoping a Gilligan’s Island scenario didn’t develop but even if a storm arose, we were within sight of land at all times so I focused elsewhere as we swooshed toward our destination. Squawking seagulls flew by. A pelican dove in and scooped up a fish. A pod of Orcas surfaced, blew, then disappeared. The breeze was warm as it tousled my hair. </p>
<p>After leaving me at a small dock and promising to pick me up the next day, the captain sailed away and I started up a dirt trail leading into a stand of trees. The trail wound its way uphill for about a mile, then emerged into a flower-filled meadow at the edge of the lake. I felt like the queen of the world on my private estate. There was a wrought iron bench to sit on and a fire pit to use after gathering wood. I decided to fish a while then get domestic later. I could hardly wait to land a big Kokanee and pan fry it for dinner. Digging through my bait box, I selected, then plunked my lure in the water. It turned out my friend was right. A half hour later I yelled FISH ON! Though no one was there. It was such a beauty I kinda hated taking its life but would respect it by eating every useable bite and giving the innards back to nature. </p>
<p>As evening fell, the sizzling sounds of butter turning my filets brown in a cast iron skillet made my mouth water with anticipation. A glass of chilled Chardonnay complimented my meal of wild rice and salad I made before coming. My contentment level rose as I listened to thousands of birds singing goodnight to the sun. I wasn’t sleepy so I stoked the fire, then baited my crayfish trap and dropped it in the water after anchoring the chain with a big rock. Crawdaddies and grits would make a great breakfast. When the stars came out, I was treated to a dazzling display of splendor. Eventually, the moon climbed overhead and shone a circle of light onto the gently lapping lake. The ring was beautiful as it worked its way toward me, shimmering like a band of diamonds lying on black velvet. Pouring the last of the wine into my glass, I raised a toast to the universe, then sipped contentedly as the sandman crept into my soul. I slept like the proverbial log. </p>
<p>After breakfast, I caught two more fish and put them in the cooler with some crawdads. One for the captain and one for me and my cat Phoebe. I hiked out slowly, then sat on the dock waiting for my ride. When sails appeared on the horizon, I stretched, then turned to look back at the island. Such a beautiful place required revisiting.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68769092022-01-22T10:17:17-07:002022-01-22T16:37:43-07:00Negative Body Image - By Mizeta Moon<p>Olive Oyl was tired of being skinny. She could turn sideways and people thought she left the room. She wanted to get a boob job but being a cartoon character didn’t pay much. Water balloons in her bra leaked and deflated, so what she was left with was a wet blouse and the same flat chest. Lately, Popeye had been dating Bluto’s voluptuous cousin from Wisconsin and she was jealous. Milk-fed beauty superseded her devotion to her muscular hero. Bluto continued to pound on Popeye like usual, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. If Popeye married his cousin, he’d have to cut him some slack and Olive’s supply of spinach in the pantry wouldn’t be needed to overcome adversity. </p>
<p>Desperate for a solution to her dilemma, she called Daisy Duck’s dating service, hoping the sexiest duck on the planet could help regain her man’s attention. Daisy taught her to waddle her butt as she walked but it was so narrow no one noticed. Meanwhile, the dairy maid was leading Popeye further down the path to eternal bliss. She called Cruella for advice but with so many dogs barking in the background she couldn’t understand a word. Sleepless and fatigued, she called Tom Hanks to ask if someone in Seattle could come to her rescue. Tom said no but wished her luck. </p>
<p>A few nights later, Popeye banged on her door with his big fist. Powdering her nose, and freshening her lipstick, Olive answered with hope in her heart. “I brought you a present,” Popeye said when she answered. He’d obviously been drinking and reeked of cheap perfume. Instead of refusing him entry and rejecting the package he proffered, she grasped it like a life preserver tossed to someone drowning in a sea of self-pity. </p>
<p>After she ripped the paper and stripped away the Scotch Tape, Olive laid eyes on a bottle of muscle building protein powder. Evidently, Popeye thought she needed to fatten up to be desirable. Having hoped for more, her previously suppressed anger exploded. “So, the way I was drawn isn’t good enough for you?” She yelled. “No one asked me what I wanted to look like. What makes you think that someone with large breasts and wide hips can love you more than me? I’ve been your ally and nursed you back to health after countless beat downs from Bluto, not to mention Wimpy’s constant demand on your generosity. His appetite for hamburgers has to be taxing. You owe me more than money. Isn’t loyalty worth something in your world?” </p>
<p>Popeye leaned away from her fury. “I am what I am,” he said. “Do you think I had a choice about my character traits? How would you feel if you were destined to pummel and be pummeled as your ongoing reality? What if I wanted to be a painter capturing images from flowered fields? Did my creator explore different options and give me choices? You’re skinny. I’m a muscle-bound freak who might not like canned spinach. What say we blow this pop stand and write our own script from now on? Bluto said he could use a break and has always been attracted to you. The two of you could be our neighbors in Hawaii and I could marry his cousin Lulu. We could raise three little pigs and share food we grow with the old lady who lives in a shoe with her foster children. I’ve heard her welfare check no longer covers the bills.” </p>
<p>Olive Oyl smiled. “You’re right,” she said. “I always wanted to sleep with Bluto but you always thwarted him. Now that we’re being honest, I got tired of paying for your spinach years ago. If Lulu wants to be your meal ticket from now on, I wish her luck. Men like you never change.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68769082022-01-22T10:16:48-07:002022-01-22T16:37:59-07:00Reluctant Participant - By Mizeta Moon<p>It was cold and the concrete was abrasive to the thin soles of her flimsy shoes. The wind kept lifting her short skirt and she wanted to seek shelter but with a sick child in a motel room she couldn’t turn back. She didn’t want to be a whore but time was running out. If she didn’t pay rent in the morning the street would be their new home. Abandoned by the man who promised her a new life in a new country she only had her body to sell, having lost everything to a war that destroyed all in its path. </p>
<p>A car slowed and she could see hungry eyes scanning her but she must not have been the right type as the man seeking temporary thrills accelerated and disappeared into the night. The wind blew harder and she shivered beneath the see-through shawl affording a glimpse of her tiny breasts. She wished she was more voluptuous but couldn’t change what nature provided. Perhaps she’d need to seek sustenance from a shelter. The problem with that was that resources were stretched thin by the escalation in poverty and homelessness. How could a recent immigrant expect prioritization when displaced natives were struggling to survive? </p>
<p>Her feet felt like blocks of ice and her calves were growing numb. Snow began to fall. It had been two days since her last meal. Her baby needed medicine and was going to die if she couldn’t make money soon. </p>
<p>Approaching headlights gave her hope. It was late and she was the only girl on the street. Servicing someone in a warm car could turn her life around. When a sedan pulled to the curb and a door opened, she scurried to jump in before the opportunity was lost. When the police found her body lying beneath the Hawthorne bridge the next morning, they labeled her as just another whore who took the risk and paid the price. When the motel owner called about a dead baby in one of his rooms, a patrol car swung by but there was nothing they could do. Later that day, a maid cleaned the room after the baby was sent to the morgue. The cops asked about the man who’d rented the room for the deceased but discovered it was paid for with a stolen credit card. With nothing to go on they pursued other crimes. No one knew her name or where she came from. Another Jane Doe to bury in a pauper’s grave. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68484832021-12-21T18:21:08-07:002021-12-21T18:21:08-07:00Beauty Contest - By Mizeta Moon<p>They are beautiful </p>
<p>Each in their own way. </p>
<p>Some short, some tall </p>
<p>Some big, some small </p>
<p>Every color of hair, skin, and eyes. </p>
<p>Who lives inside the body </p>
<p>Is the woman you should know. </p>
<p>You can learn to touch them. </p>
<p>You can learn to share. </p>
<p>You can learn to laugh and love. </p>
<p>You can learn to live. </p>
<p>Because love lives inside her </p>
<p>She is sensuous and warm. </p>
<p>She’s brilliant, she’s awesome </p>
<p>When you learn to speak to her. </p>
<p>Not just speak to her breasts </p>
<p>Expecting clitoris to be available. </p>
<p>Each one a dazzling sparkle </p>
<p>Of the rainbow that is life. </p>
<p>The one you should find beautiful </p>
<p>Is the one who shares your life. </p>
<p>Rape </p>
<p>It’s her body. </p>
<p>She’ll share it with whom she chooses. </p>
<p>Rape is violence, hate and contempt. </p>
<p>It’s her body, </p>
<p>The house where she lives. </p>
<p>No one has the right to invade her </p>
<p>Like a castle under siege. </p>
<p>Should she always walk in fear </p>
<p>Knowing danger’s near? </p>
<p>It’s her body.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68484822021-12-21T18:20:40-07:002021-12-21T18:20:40-07:00Romance - By Mizeta Moon<p>Sharing. </p>
<p>A sense of peace between two people. </p>
<p>Candlelight dinners, imported wine, </p>
<p>Flowers for no reason other than it’s time. </p>
<p>Time. </p>
<p>To look deeply in her eyes. </p>
<p>To really see the woman you love. </p>
<p>To admire everything about her. </p>
<p>Time. </p>
<p>To not care about her flaws. </p>
<p>Caring. </p>
<p>Enough to proudly hold her hand. </p>
<p>Enough to firmly take a stand </p>
<p>About each moment you share. </p>
<p>Warmth. </p>
<p>From tender kisses and a touch. </p>
<p>From a glance that says I love you </p>
<p>No words to be said. </p>
<p>Time. </p>
<p>To love the one you’re with.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68484812021-12-21T18:20:22-07:002021-12-21T18:20:22-07:00Teardrops - By Mizeta Moon<p>An ocean of teardrops has been shed </p>
<p>By millions of women long dead. </p>
<p>By thousands today, </p>
<p>Every moment, every hour, </p>
<p>As love is lost or life turns sour. </p>
<p>When kittens die, when babies cry, </p>
<p>The feelings of women run like underground rivers </p>
<p>Erupting at the surface into myriads of emotions, </p>
<p>Felt, not analyzed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tears of rage. Tears of joy. </p>
<p>All in the same woman, same day. </p>
<p>Breasts filled with caring, capable of giving </p>
<p>Nurturing to a soul in need. </p>
<p>Loneliness </p>
<p>She builds a dream castle in the sand by the sea. </p>
<p>She fills it with hope, love, and mystery, </p>
<p>Shapes it with her heart and welds it with her strength </p>
<p>Until the tide changes and tears it apart. </p>
<p>She waits for a sailor from far seas, </p>
<p>Holding a wreath of flowers to welcome him to love. </p>
<p>Alas, there is no lover, only emptiness to sea.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68484802021-12-21T18:19:32-07:002021-12-21T18:19:32-07:00Closing Time - By Mizeta Moon<p>The sinister looking fellow at the end of the bar made her nervous. His eyes followed her every move as she served customers, wiped the bar, and filled the dishwasher. She’d never seen him before because few strangers ventured down the long pier to her bar catering to the fishing fleet. It was nearly time to close and she hoped he’d leave soon. She wasn’t looking forward to hiking to her car with a big storm front moving in and didn’t want to cope with him if he had something on his mind. As if reading her mind, the man finished his beer, put money on the bar, then said “good night.” </p>
<p>While she poured a beer for one of the regulars, the keg ran dry. She could change it in the morning but if she did it after closing it would settle and be ready for the day drinkers. After shooing out the last customer and stowing her till in the safe, she put on her rain gear, grabbed the hand truck, and went to her storage shed after locking the door behind her. She hated being so cautious about the door but the one time she left it open she found someone sitting at the bar when she came back. A cold blast of wind made her eyes sting and sent her hat skittering down the pier. She watched with dismay as it plunged into the heaving ocean. </p>
<p>Before she could unlock the shed, a hand clamped over her mouth while two arms wrapped her tightly. She struggled but couldn’t break free. Using body weight to pin her against the shed, the assailant put a blindfold over her eyes, then bound her hands with a strong cord. She thought they were going to take her keys and go in the bar but they picked her up, slung her over their shoulder, and carried her down the pier. Her screams went unheard while howling wind tore through deserted darkness. </p>
<p>She heard a door open and she was roughly lain on a hard surface. After the door closed, a motor started and they sped away. Tears wet the blindfold as she struggled to free her hands. Where were they taking her? Was it the sinister looking fellow from the bar? What did they want? Why was this happening? She wondered as the miles ticked away. After what seemed an eternity, the vehicle eased to a stop and she was retrieved from confinement. “Start walking,” a man’s voice said gruffly. She tried asking questions but was told to shut up and get moving if she wanted to live. She wanted to live so she obeyed. </p>
<p>They entered an overly warm room that smelled like beer and recent cooking. She was led to a chair and told to sit down. She could tell there were several people in the room because she could hear them breathing. She trembled as she awaited her fate. “Who are you? And why am I here?” She asked but no one answered. </p>
<p>When the blindfold came off, a strong light dazzled her eyes and it took a moment for her to see anything. When she was able to look around, she was dumbfounded. Her sister, brother, her husband, and several friends sat grinning at her like mischievous children. Before she could speak, they broke into a spirited rendition of the happy birthday song. When that stopped, her husband stepped forward and untied her hands. Instead of confusion and fear she now felt anger. “What is going on?” She yelled, ready to slug her husband. </p>
<p>“It’s your birthday.” He replied. </p>
<p>“So.” </p>
<p>“You said you wanted a unique experience as a present. Since you’ve always boasted that nothing can scare you, we wanted to test that claim while granting your wish.” Pointing at the sinister looking fellow, he said, “Bill works with me at the bus barn. We figured if he kidnapped you, it would make it feel real.” </p>
<p>Fuming, but not knowing what to say, she finally noticed a table laden with brightly wrapped presents, cake, and her favorite foods. “I think I would have been in the mood to enjoy all that if you hadn’t scared the crap out of me. Now, I just want to go home after I get my purse from the bar.” </p>
<p>Her husband retrieved her purse from under his chair and grinned. “C’mon honey, relax and have a drink. Now that we know you’re truly human and can be frightened we’ll never prank you again. You got the unique experience you wanted, but like the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.” </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68070902021-11-12T11:00:30-07:002021-11-12T11:00:30-07:00Snow - By Mizeta Moon<p>Snow came early. By midnight the house was buried by frozen crystals blotting out the sky. No stars shone through the windows. A feeble fire flickered in a hearth unable to block the advance of entombment. The feeble old woman huddled beneath threadbare covers offering scant relief from death’s infringement. The Grim Reaper’s footsteps rang hollow on stair treads worn by the passage of time as it entered. When the hooded figure stood by her bedside, she was ready to embrace it. As her limbs grew numb and her breath turned shallow, she remembered a conversation she had with her neighbor several days before. </p>
<p>“I don’t fear death. I welcome it with open arms. This world of larceny, pain, war, pestilence, and greed has tasked me for longer than any soul should endure. I only wish I could have seen Paris before taking the next step of my journey. Darkness or light, I’m prepared to explore what comes next.” </p>
<p>“Why didn’t you go to Paris?” Her neighbor inquired. “You had the money and plenty of free time.” </p>
<p>“I had no one to share it with. Besides, tourism in a wheelchair has limitations. It’s not like wandering the streets at will.”” </p>
<p>“What if you found someone there? It’s supposed to be the city of love.” </p>
<p>“True. But a journey is more fulfilling when taken together instead of wandering alone, hoping dreams will come true. And look at me. Who’d want this wrinkled bag of bones?” </p>
<p>“That seems a defeatist point of view. Living without hope.” </p>
<p>She remembered smiling ruefully. Scars on her body and heart spoke of life’s cruelty to flesh and spirit. She’d known love as well as abandonment. Success and failure. None of it permanent in a world of constant transition. </p>
<p>“ Hope.” She snorted. “I always hoped there would be an end to war. That people could learn to share. That children wouldn’t starve and be raped by insensitivity. Instead, I learned mankind isn’t kind and embraces heartless agendas that shatter hope and destroy love.” </p>
<p>“Then why should anyone bother to aspire to anything if it’s pointless?” </p>
<p>“Because the experience itself is worth making the best of what comes along. Having feelings and knowing what being alive is all about. Don’t mind me, I’m simply worn out. I need to move aside so younger, stronger idealists can fight the battle.” </p>
<p>As the snow grew deeper and the hearth grew cold, the dog wouldn’t stop barking. As its master’s heart stopped beating and her limbs grew cold, it nestled against her, hoping to revive joy they’d shared. He knew not of Paris and dreamed of nothing but a full bowl and water to drink. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68070762021-11-12T10:59:53-07:002021-11-12T10:59:53-07:00Disillusionment - By Mizeta Moon<p>Since the hippie days, when everyone was on a quest to discover who they were, and find meaning for their lives, I wanted to go to India. Yogis and mystics were alluring with their grasp of eternal truths. Being from Boring, Oregon, I felt left out when wisdom was distributed. When I won a bunch of money in the lottery, I immediately booked passage to the land of cattle worship and smoldering incense. My friends told me about a swami they studied under who set them on the path to enlightenment and could be trusted to deliver results. I was hungry for knowledge and unfulfilled, so I flew to Bombay, prepared to embrace any lifestyle other than what I previously encountered. </p>
<p>A worn out Jeep picked me up at the airport and transported me sixty miles over bumpy, rut-filled roads to a compound that looked like it might sink into the underbrush if no one stopped its advance. Dung fires filled the air with smoke, and kettles containing unidentifiable substances bubbled while solemn women stirred their contents with wooden paddles. Everyone seemed haggard and thin. Underfed and unwashed. When I alit from the Jeep, I was accosted by a band of ragamuffins who tugged my sleeves and begged for anything I might be willing to share. Clutching my belongings tight, I walked to a building that was obviously the center of activity, hoping to meet the swami I was told about. I brushed a reed curtain aside and stepped into the opposite of what I expected to find. </p>
<p>The swami wore a dirty robe, and his bony knees were grimy. His matted hair looked like things were crawling in it. When he smiled at me, I saw that his teeth were blackened and rotting. While it was true that I felt a wave of love radiating from him, my senses were repulsed by the conditions he embraced. Was the key to enlightenment ignoring the physical and focusing on the spiritual? If so, how could I accept tenure among the unwashed? </p>
<p>On his shoulder sat a magnificent green and gold parrot that appeared to be the most healthy and well fed entity in the compound. Its beady black eyes assessed me as I sat my travel bag on the hard-packed dirt floor and waited for someone to speak. I didn’t have long to wait. The parrot said, “enlightenment comes at a price. How many Rupees have you?” To say I was flabbergasted by the parrot’s enunciation would be an understatement. I expected to pay for tutoring, but this was far from the school I expected. </p>
<p>“How many do you require?” I replied. </p>
<p>“All of them.” The parrot answered as the swamy ogled me in a way that made me uncomfortable. Would I have to pull my panties down as well? </p>
<p>The swami reached over and held the parrot’s beak closed. “Stay the night,” he said in a quiet voice. “We’ll talk business in the morning. Please ignore my pet’s abruptness.” </p>
<p>So, I stayed and supped on the mystery ingredients from the cauldrons, hoping not to get diarrhea. Slept fitfully on a reed mat and had a snake slither across me in the night. Woke to the sounds of water lapping. It turned out the nearby river was rapidly overflowing its banks after recent torrential rains. The water rose six more feet before noon. By then, I was ready to go home. All I’d learned was that buying spiritual enlightenment was a mission for fools. That there is always someone willing to exploit the naïve. I’d come halfway around the world to discover what I could find in my own heart. A sense of me and my place in the world. </p>
<p>Since then, I’ve planted a garden and watched the process of nature unfold. Embraced the seasons and relished my own existence, no longer trying to find peace through someone else’s point of view. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68070752021-11-12T10:59:29-07:002021-11-12T10:59:29-07:00Following orders - By Mizeta Moon<p>I was young and people expected me to swear allegiance to the flag. To fight for my country and die with valor to protect the dream. I was taught to fire a weapon and kill people I’d never met without knowing their hopes and aspirations. To wipe their blood from my hands with aplomb and trample their essence. Behind my mask I was the juggernaut carrying out orders without understanding the crimes of the enemy. There but to serve. </p>
<p>Should I die, my parents would grieve and mourn my loss without feeling the agony of families I shattered with my bullets and boots. The rubble I left behind didn’t matter. Only victory was important. </p>
<p>Losing my limbs in a foreign land turned me into a hero. A wounded warrior. Sadly, I was but a pawn in an ongoing game. In the end I was left to beg for treatment and sustenance. </p>
<p>The lie continues as new enemies are created and young people enlist to thwart threats to an agenda serving those above the fray. Following orders from generals unconcerned with their safety. Patriots to a country without allegiance to its servants. Killing and dying for greed and aggrandizement. </p>
<p>Hopefully, my prosthetics will arrive soon and I won’t be charged for them. One never knows when benefits will be denied. Hopefully, I can walk again without suffering so much pain. Hopefully, my son and daughter will find careers that don’t destroy the lives of others.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67772542021-10-15T12:41:04-07:002021-10-15T12:41:04-07:00Dead end road - By Mizeta Moon<p>Her children disowned her because she was a crack whore. She’d do anything for a fix; even stealing from souls she birthed. Nothing was sacred. When she came to visit, she had to be watched like a hawk. The man she took up with after their father died was a three time loser who’d spent more time behind bars than free on the streets. His connections kept her addicted so she’d continue turning tricks to feed a horde of freeloaders. She was a puppet and her offspring wanted to save and love her but knew she was beyond salvation from outside forces. If she wasn’t willing to save herself, they couldn’t do anything but protect themselves. </p>
<p>Taking care of strangers’ needs in dark parking lots and ratty cars, she grew thin as the drug stripped her of flesh and substance. Her heartbeat quickened when the crack swirled from the pipe and filled her failing lungs, but death loomed with each exhalation. Dark lesions tinted her skin and her addled mind assumed it was okay to use anyone in her quest for another puff. Her children pretended to not be home when they heard her knocking on the door. They hated ignoring her and grieved at their inability to save her from herself but realized she’d chosen to travel a dead end road and would be mired until she chose a different path. Though they hoped for such a solution, they’d come to expect the opposite. Their mother seemed hopelessly addicted and in search of artificial ecstasy. When her face appeared on the morning news as a participant in a kidnapping/robbery the kids weren’t surprised. The charted course led to an expected destination. They were embarrassed to be her progeny when cameras and questions came. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67772532021-10-15T12:40:05-07:002021-10-15T12:40:05-07:00Afraid to sleep - By Mizeta Moon<p>“Why did you scream?” The nurse asked as she inspected my bandages and checked my temperature. The orderly stood by the door with muscles flexed like he expected to confront an intruder. When he saw there was nothing wrong, he shrugged, and walked away. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s those nightmares again. I’m afraid to sleep because they get more powerful each time and I’m not sure whether I’m awake and they’re real or just bad dreams.” </p>
<p>“Would you like a sedative?” </p>
<p>“No. That makes it harder to focus when I wake up.” </p>
<p>The nurse’s short gray hair was tousled and her red-rimmed tired eyes showed a burning desire for that which I feared. I knew the small hospital’s staff was stretched thin by the pandemic and treating the victims of a suicide bombing was pushing them to the brink of collapse. I felt bad for requiring her attention. She might have finally had a moment to rest before I screamed. </p>
<p>“I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’ll try not to bother you again unless I really need something.” </p>
<p>She smiled, rose, and ran a soothing hand across my forehead. “Thanks. Someone will look in on you in a while.” </p>
<p>After she left, I lie thinking about how I got there. I should have thought about pleasant things to reduce my trauma but images of recent events were too powerful to ignore. If we’d gone somewhere else for lunch, I wouldn’t be partially paralyzed and my wife and kids wouldn’t be dead. Every thought of them brought tears to my eyes. I didn’t try to stifle them even though I could raise my hand to wipe them away. </p>
<p>The kids wanted pizza. I wanted a big juicy burger but my wife sided with the kids and we went to Sal’s. Parking wasn’t easy to find but the short walk back to the restaurant was made pleasant by autumn colors and a bright sunny day. The kids would be back in school come Monday so my earlier grumpiness about not getting a burger dissipated as I watched them eat what they referred to as their last meal before going back to the torture chamber. Little did we know how prophetic such words were. According to the news I watched when I finally came to, a disgruntled employee Sal fired three weeks earlier packed his car with explosives and drove it over the curb into the huge window we were sitting by. The roar as the bomb went off and the sounds of agony from injured diners still ring in my ears. Broken glass was everywhere and smoke filled the air as flames from the damaged pizza oven spread. I couldn’t move my legs. Evidently, the car ran over them as it smashed into our table and killed my family. I could move my head enough to see their broken bleeding bodies covered with shards and debris. My daughter’s favorite stuffed dinosaur lie stained in a pool of her blood. Eleven people died and a dozen were injured that day. Now, I’m faced with a long rehab and a lonely existence when I can go home again. I do best when I don’t fall asleep because I can eventually focus on something like raindrops on the window for comfort. While dreaming there’s nothing to stop horrible images crowding in. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67432132021-09-11T10:15:53-07:002021-09-11T10:15:53-07:00At the Market - By Mizeta Moon<p>I went to the Farmer’s Market to buy refrigerator magnets. They have the good ones there. Not all those cute sayings about how to live, be happy, and that kinda stuff. Theirs have pictures of carrots, broccoli, and the things I should be eating to stay healthy. Of course, they do sell junk food for high prices as well as organic products so I stay away from that area. When I walked into the market, I saw that sidewalk graffiti was everywhere. Evidently, modern day teen monsters found some paint and decided to destroy the beauty of the park with profanity and gang sign. The vendors had to set up or go home penniless, so they’d placed their cartons over some of the most offensive remarks but walkways had to remain open and were still exposed to shoppers with children. Hopefully, the toddlers in their strollers wouldn’t grow up as insolent and destructive as the current generation. I know. . . I got old and cranky, and things like that bother me. I should probably look at it like cleaning up the mess creates jobs. </p>
<p>Anyway, I was pondering the magnets at one of the stalls when I noticed the vendor had a portable TV and was watching a breaking news alert. A cruise ship was foundering off the coast of Mexico, and the rapidly sinking boat was being evacuated. When they said the name, I was dumbfounded. My ex-wife had sent me a text three days earlier bragging that she was going on a cruise with her rich new husband. She likes to make me feel inadequate because we always struggled on my salary as a door-to-door spot remover salesman. She considered herself above working and constantly iterated my failings instead of helping out. Why didn’t I get a better job? You might ask. I loved being outdoors and talking to strangers. You wouldn’t believe some of the conversations I’ve had. But getting back to the news. My evil side wanted her to go down with the ship but being a good person at heart I had to hope she was safe. At least she deserved a good drenching for being such a harridan. If her new husband died, she’d be a rich widow and might be good for a loan to launch my new business plan. </p>
<p>I’ve always loved to Polka. Yeah, she laughed too and would never watch Lawrence Welk with me or attend dances at the Grange hall. So, my plan was to invest in some camera gear and teach people how to Polka using the Internet. My long term goal was to create a group of naked Polka dancers who could frolic in the privacy of their own homes. Once a year I could rent the Grange and invite them to a real life event where we could Polka until we dropped. Anyway, all those dreams went out the window when I was notified three days later that she’d been eaten by a shark. I guess all I can do now is save and save until I can do it on my own. That, and watch my collection of Lawrence Welk VCR tapes and continually hone my skills. At least she won’t blow up my phone with nasty remarks anymore. As they say, every cloud has its silver lining. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67432092021-09-11T10:15:14-07:002021-09-11T10:15:14-07:00Adversity - By Mizeta Moon<p>Her smile was insincere. I could tell she was uninterested in processing our claim but was required to play the game to keep her job. The more money she saved the company, the brighter her future would be. Poor people such as my wife and I meant nothing to her. Only the fat cats with big premiums were worth coddling. She could see from the file in her hand that my wife and I had to scrape pennies together to make ends meet and our renter’s insurance had been a strain on our budget but was required to live in company housing. That the company was unwilling to help was another issue altogether. When she left I knew we’d never see a dime. </p>
<p>I’d come home from work at the PEZ dispenser factory two nights earlier and discovered our front door standing open. My wife was still at her wrapping station in the shipping department and wouldn’t learn that we’d been burgled till after the cops left. They didn’t give a damn either. Our part of town was treated like a wad of gum on their shoes. I discovered that the burglars took everything but a few old clothes and some outdated foods in the pantry. Furniture and appliances gone. Ratty TV gone. Even our mattresses and bed linens were stripped and carried away. Oh. . . Our toothbrushes lie on the bathroom floor but no toothpaste. A scrap of toilet paper hung limply by the toilet but wasn’t enough to blow my nose, let alone clean my butt. Tears welled up, then fell as I pondered the bleakness of our future. When my wife got home, we held each other and cried more before sleeping on the cold linoleum floor. Even in the face of such tragedy we couldn’t miss work. </p>
<p>The next day was payday. After cashing my meager check, I paid the utility bills so we’d have heat and not live in the dark but had little left. My wife bought foods we didn’t have to refrigerate and went to a thrift store for a pot, a couple knives, spoons, forks, and a dingy quilt. Thankfully, our stove was bolted to the floor and hadn’t been taken. We ate from the cans, hoping to buy bowls and plates in two weeks. She had enough to buy a bar of soap and toilet paper and a pack of disposable razors. She was beyond menopause so tampons weren’t necessary. Our greatest commodity was each other and we took comfort in that. We would find a way to survive as we always had in the past. </p>
<p>When I realized we didn’t have the means to wash clothes anymore it was disheartening. Even in poverty I’d always taken pride in presenting a clean person to the world every day. The prospect of going to work in tattered old clothes left by the burglars was humiliating. All I could do was rinse my uniform, hang it out to dry on the back fence and hope it would be available by morning. It was when I was pawing through the closet that I remembered the loose board. It concealed my hidey-hole where I kept anything I didn’t want my wife to know about or find. Anniversary presents, a couple dogeared girlie magazines, some chewing tobacco I could indulge in when she spent the night at her sister’s house. When I pried it up, I was overjoyed. Reaching in, I put my hand around the last bottle of wine from our wedding all those years ago. I hoped against hope that it was still palatable. If so, we could pass it back and forth to numb our pain and kindle a glow of hope for brighter tomorrows. We still had jobs and were reasonably healthy, so things could be worse. I could hardly wait for her to come home. Adversity visits everyone from time to time, but I wasn’t going to let it take us down </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67432042021-09-11T10:10:07-07:002021-09-18T14:35:08-07:00Elements Dance - By Mizeta Moon<p>“Get dressed! We need a change. These walls are closing in and I can’t take it anymore. And I don’t want any back talk. You’re coming with me, like it or not.” </p>
<p>My girlfriend Jana stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room with her dark hair in disarray and her darker eyes challenging me to defy her. At the time, I was lying on the couch in panties and bra, waiting for the news to come on. Before I could declare my desire to watch the daily barrage of chaos, she said, “You won’t miss anything by coming with me. It’s time I showed you there’s more to life than absorbing other people’s viewpoints and feeling the way you’re expected to.” </p>
<p>WOW! What could I say to that? I slid off the couch and reached for the dress I’d peeled off earlier. This was one of those times that no was the wrong answer if I wanted to have a girlfriend the next day. It’s not like I’m subservient, but I understand the give and take of long-lasting meaningful relationships. </p>
<p>“Don’t dress up. Wear jeans, sneakers, and something warm.” </p>
<p>YES MAAM! I thought, but said, “where are we going?” </p>
<p>“You’ll see when we get there.” </p>
<p>When we headed west, I knew we were going to the beach. Jana grew up in Lincoln City and has an affinity for the ocean. Me, I prefer mountains, but have never been unappreciative of why people love sand between their toes. When we parked at the turnout in Road’s End, I was glad we weren’t far from restaurants and amenities but quickly realized she had no plan to visit them. She opened the trunk and procured a picnic basket, a small cooler, a blanket, and a bundle of kindling. Evidently, we were dining al fresco. Did she plan to stay all night? If so, where were our sleeping bags? </p>
<p> After gathering firewood and piling it for later, we sat holding hands on the blanket and listened to the incessant roar of waves battering the shoreline. As sunset erupted in an electric fusillade of color, I slipped into bliss generated by the power and serenity of our love. A fusion of heart, soul, and body. Surrounded by such beauty I understood Jana’s message. Our troubles mean nothing to the wind and rain. Every footprint we place in sand gets washed away by the tide. Such transience could seem sad were it not for love. Connectivity leading to meaningful existence. Though brief, splendorous. </p>
<p>There were no clouds to reflect artificial light that night. Dazzling stars soon littered the sky with diamond-like brilliance. Salt air filled our lungs and we exhaled our sorrows into a playful breeze. We swam in each other’s presence while life’s water cleansed our blood from despair. We had each other. That was enough. What path lie forward would be traveled as one. Jana sensed we were falling apart while I flopped on the couch and fretted over the state of mankind. She did something about it because she wanted to continue loving me. For that, I will remain grateful. We sat there all night. Wet hair from fog that crept in like a shadow. Blanket wrapped around us while we kissed in front of our small but valiant fire. Limbs rubbery when we rose with dawn. </p>
<p>As we prepared to leave, I saw that a bottle washed ashore in the night. I could see there was a message inside. I ran to it eagerly with childlike anticipation. Grasping it to my breast, I felt its moisture dampen my clothes as grains of sand merged with my skin. I waited till we were in the car and exiting the parking lot before I pried open the cap and retrieved the missive that was cast adrift from where I might never know. I read the message twice, then read it aloud to Jana as she drove us past the river through the trees. She smiled, and I felt joy from viewing her contentment as the words spilled from my lips. </p>
<p>Elements dance, and life swirls through time wearing constantly shifting facades. What we feel and seem in one moment becomes the next and we are constantly transformed. Yesterday’s sorrow becomes tomorrow’s hope and the past echoes while we experience now. We struggle for understanding and forget what we’ve learned. Souls in eternal transit, on our way to who knows where.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67116942021-08-09T18:20:08-07:002021-08-09T18:20:08-07:00Vanished - By Mizeta Moon<p>Rowena pulled the curtain back and stared into the darkness. The silence was so dense she could hear her pulse pounding through her body. Everything outside was threatening since the dog disappeared. She didn’t mind that her husband ran away because she didn’t love him anymore. She was okay with living so far from town as long as her canine alarm system warned her someone or something was in the yard. Now, the mutants could sneak up and break in. </p>
<p>When they started genetically altering plants, no one expected them to become sentient. Now, they not only thought for themselves, but they could also uproot themself and relocate. Due to the drought, many of them were inhabiting riverbanks and streams as well as ponds and lakes. They were so thick humans couldn’t access waterways for pleasure or fishing. The reason Rowena was scared was that she had over a ton of fertilizer in her shed. The mutants loved to drink it like humans did whiskey. So far, she’d been able to burn them with her propane torch and chase them away but the tank was getting low and their attacks were increasingly bold. There were times she thought about letting them have it and selling the farm, then move into the city, but this was not only her childhood home, NASA was paying top dollar for fertilizer to grow normal food on Mars. These days plants refused to be eaten so everyone was eating synthetic food. NASA felt they could finance deep space explorations by selling vegetables to Earth. </p>
<p>After a long vigil through darkness, she made coffee, then carried a steaming mug onto the porch, planning to check on the shed. What she saw made her drop the mug and stare with her mouth agape. The shed was missing. Completely gone. Vanished. Only a hole in the ground remained. There were no tracks or drag marks to indicate who took it or which direction they went. Sobbing, plagued by concern over destitution from the loss of her only commodity, she went inside and called the police. </p>
<p>The policeman was baffled as he walked the property. He’d never seen anything like it. “Were there any strange lights?” He asked. </p>
<p>Rowena blew her nose on a tissue and said, “no. I stood at that window all night with my torch ready, but nothing moved.” </p>
<p>Meanwhile, on a cargo ship bound for Andromadea, a planet in a binary-system light-years away, the captain was raising a toast to celebrate their new acquisition. “ I give you Farrah Fawcett 11009 whose tractor beam allowed us to wrest precious libation away from those heathen plants on that tawdry planet we visited recently. Her power assist technology allowed us to access what humans call fertilizer without entering their planetary defense systems’ range.” There was a sound of twigs and branches rubbing together as a slender willow-like woman with hair the color of autumn leaves stepped forward and bowed. </p>
<p>Raising a cup, she said, “Go easy on this stuff. It’s undiluted. By watering it down and redistilling it we should have enough to keep us smiling till we can replant ourselves in Andromadea’s sweet soil. Three cheers to whomever hoarded it.” The only sound in the room for quite some time was lips smacking together as the good stuff went down smooth as silk. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67116922021-08-09T18:19:31-07:002021-08-09T18:19:31-07:00Inquiry - By Mizeta Moon<p>The coroner adjusted her glasses, then looked at the corpse lying on a cold cement floor. The stench of rotting flesh permeated the garage of a once beautiful house now burned to the ground. She was used to the smell but the detective in charge of the investigation was struggling to not puke. </p>
<p>“What do you think?” The detective asked. </p>
<p>“My best guess is that the fire spread to here rather quickly. Forest fires have a way of doing that. The residents were told to evacuate but didn’t, thinking it wouldn’t reach this far. This one counted on the asbestos siding on the garage not burning as easily as the house. What he didn’t think about was the roof. Such a pity. If he’d obeyed the directive he’d be alive even if he was homeless.” </p>
<p>“So. Death from exposure to noxious smoke and extreme heat? He obviously isn’t burned.” </p>
<p>The coroner shook her head as if undecided, then knelt and turned the dead man’s head to the side. “See that?” She asked, pointing to a puncture wound in his neck. “How did that happen?” </p>
<p>“Dunno. Maybe he fell on something in the scramble.” </p>
<p>“Something’s not right. Let’s get him in a bag and I’ll take a closer look at the morgue.” </p>
<p>Two weeks later, the dead man’s wife was arrested on suspicion of murder. The puncture wound had been inflicted by an ice pick and the body was placed on the garage floor after the fire. The coroner determined there was no smoke in his lungs and he showed no sign of being consumed by fire. </p>
<p>At the station house, the detective rolled up his sleeves and confronted the woman sitting calmly, as if unconcerned with the charges against her. </p>
<p>“Why’d you kill him?” </p>
<p>“Who says I did? Dumb ass wouldn’t evacuate so he deserves what he got.” </p>
<p>“I say you did. Our inquiry revealed he’d just won Megabucks and didn’t die in the fire. Did you want all the money instead of half?” </p>
<p>The woman’s eyes narrowed while she thought about her answer. “Wasn’t gonna get half.” She said bitterly after a pregnant pause. “Didn’t your so called inquiry reveal he filed for divorce right after he won? That he was planning on moving to Mexico with some floozy he met at a strip club?” </p>
<p>The detective took a drink from a bottle of water on his desk, then tried to play off the fact he didn’t know about that by saying. “So, where’s the money? I checked with lottery and the ticket was redeemed.” </p>
<p>The questioning went on for hours before the woman admitted to killing her husband at a motel they’d fled to when the fire threatened their home. When the ashes cooled she dumped his body where they found it. Her explanation was delivered with a sigh of resignation. Her plan didn’t work because she didn’t expect the coroner to be thorough with so many deaths caused by the fire. </p>
<p>“The check was bigger than I expected. I thought he won a few hundred thousand but it was millions. I couldn’t let some skank live a life of luxury after I gave him the best years of my life. You’d do the same for that much money.” </p>
<p>After saying that, the woman hiked up her skirt, revealing beautiful legs the detective stared at wolfishly. “You look tired,” she said. “Ever think about retiring and spending time with a rich widow?” Watching his eyes told her everything she needed to know. He was hungry and ambitious. They’d have to be cool for a while after the charges were dropped but having a new man in her life could be fun for a moment. If she dropped him later he couldn’t change his story about lack of evidence. Who knew? They might make a good couple. Only time would tell. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66850552021-07-11T16:28:51-07:002021-07-11T16:28:51-07:00Showdown - By Mizeta Moon<p>John Doyle stood looking out the saloon window as noonday sun baked a dusty deserted street. He hated these moments and wished he’d never gained fame as a gunslinger. Slapping leather and spilling blood was fun when he was young, but now it was an obligation he’d rather not fulfill. These days, he craved whiskey and loose women over violence but couldn’t outrun his reputation, even in backwater towns like this one. His horse was tired, as was he, and riding away again after killing someone wasn’t what he’d planned. He needed rest but could find no respite. </p>
<p>The barkeep put another shot on his table and scurried away after Doyle flipped him a silver dollar. Most of the customers had fled the bar and were seated on the shaded porch awaiting the action. The piano player sat idle, nervously flexing his fingers as if anxious to play a jolly tune instead of a funeral dirge. Doyle tossed him a coin as well and continued looking out the fly-specked glass brought by wagon from St. Louis. </p>
<p>When the lanky young cowpoke appeared at the end of the street, Doyle was overcome with pity. What would the young man become were he to not kill him? Would he marry and sire champions of great pursuits? Would he bust broncs and string barbed wire for decades? Would he be a wastrel wallowing in self-indulgence and pity? Whatever might have been would end when bullets pierced his heart. Doyle never missed, and though long in the tooth, his reflexes were still lightning quick. Survival was a harsh taskmaster and he’d learned his lessons well. </p>
<p>When he rode into town earlier in the day he’d prayed for anonymity but the young buck at the livery stable recognized him despite layers of trail dust and lack of a shave. Evidently, newspapers with tales of his exploits reached beyond where he could ride. “Hey, old man. I can take you,” he said. Now it was showdown time and bloodshed lie on the horizon. Reluctantly, John Doyle raised the shot to his lips and relished the whiskey’s fire burning its way to his guts. After a soft caress to his pistol butt, he pushed the saloon doors aside and stepped onto the porch planks. The townsfolk wanted him to lose and said so. The young man was one of their own and they wanted a legend to talk about. When he stepped into the wheel rutted street, dust rose from his footsteps and a soft breeze quickly blew it away. It was symbolic of what his life had become. </p>
<p>It felt like time stood still as he faced his opponent. The boy hadn’t had his first shave and his peach-fuzzed cheeks still carried the glow of youth. How could he hope to triumph over someone who’d put down hardened criminals and ranch hands with itchy trigger fingers? What was it about young people that consigned their elders to meaninglessness? As he brushed his long coat aside and prepared to draw, he hoped the young man would repent his folly and walk away. When it became apparent the boy was hell-bent for destruction, he sighed and squared up. </p>
<p>There was only one gunshot. When her son fell to the ground and bled out in the dust a mother raced from the crowd to embrace her progeny but couldn’t alter his fate. John Doyle hated seeing her tears but understood that if he hadn’t fired he would be the one felled. His survival was guaranteed, but once again he was a pariah without comfort or a place in society. All he could do was walk back in the saloon and order another shot of whiskey before plodding to the livery and saddling a horse who longed for green pastures and an end to desolate trails. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66850542021-07-11T16:28:22-07:002021-07-11T16:28:22-07:00Door to Door - by Mizeta Moon<p>Jamus Carbunkle looked down the pothole laden street at a row of ramshackle homes and sighed. So this was his new territory? Once upon a time he’d been the crackerjack lead salesman for Super Duper toilet bowl cleaner and had his own office. That was before he got the boss’ daughter pregnant. He tried to do the right thing and marry her but she didn’t love or want him and chose to have an abortion. The boss was furious about being cheated out of a grandchild, legitimate or not. As a result, Jamus was offered a choice. Get fired or join the door to door sales squad and accept the scruffiest beat the company served. He objected to such treatment but was reluctant to start a new career, so he packed up his office and went to the warehouse to claim his sample kit and a map of his territory. </p>
<p>As he approached the first house, he was nervous but also concerned. Did the residents even need toilet bowl cleaner? From the look of the place they might have an outhouse. Meeting his sales quota could be impossible in such an impoverished area. Failure would lead to him residing in similar circumstances so he had no choice but to put a smile on his face and a spring in his step. A skinny dog lie on the porch and he was concerned about being bitten but stepped onto the rickety stairs hoping the dog didn’t have the energy to confront him. Thankfully, that was the case. Knocking on a rickety screen door led to a slattern woman in a cotton housedress asking him what he wanted. Before he could get halfway through his well-rehearsed spiel the woman started laughing and shooed him away. </p>
<p>So it went as he worked his way down the street. Some people showed him the courtesy of letting him complete his pitch, but still turned him down. Most of them had never heard of Super Duper toilet bowl cleaner and couldn’t afford to buy any. Several of them took free samples and his card but he didn’t expect them to call in an order. It was possible none of them had a telephone. He didn’t see many overhead wires on the street. By mid-afternoon he was tired, despondent, and hungry. Counting the change in his pocket he calculated he could afford a hamburger and a coke at a cheesy-looking stand attached to an auto repair shop. Carrying a webbed plastic basket full of greasy food, he asked a man sitting at a tilted picnic bench if he could join him. That request changed his life forever. </p>
<p>While he ate, the other man finished his chili dog, then poked a finger in his mouth and fished out a partial denture. “Damn thing,” the man declared. “Always getting food stuck on it and hard as hell to clean. Used to have some of them tablets but I ran out. Now they’re getting stained cause I can’t clean em proper.” It dawned on Jamus that dentures were porcelain. “Mind trying something?” He asked as an idea flooded his mind. </p>
<p>It turned out the local water was corrosive to natural teeth and most of the residents who could afford them wore dentures. His lunch companion was amazed when Jamus pulled a toothbrush from his pocket and squirted one of his free samples onto it, then scrubbed the partial to a gleaming whiteness. Three days later he was the talk of the town and completely out of free samples but walked into the warehouse with a pocketful of orders for what he would secretly relabel as Dr, Carbunkle’s magic denture cleaner. His sales increased so rapidly the boss rethought his position and granted Jamus three adjoining territories that always yielded poor returns. Eventually, Jamus bought the company and marketed Super Duper toilet bowl cleaner as well as Dr, Carbunkle’s magic denture cleaner using the same formula. After he grew rich the boss’ daughter decided he was worthy of consideration, but by then he’d figured out he was gay and moved his headquarters to a city where he could enjoy the fruits of his labor and hopefully meet the man of his dreams. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66530402021-06-08T11:52:18-07:002021-06-08T11:52:18-07:00Runaway - By Mizeta Moon<p>Lindy Albright was tired and cold. She hadn’t thought the consequences of running away from home through, and now she was confused, hungry, and without a penny to her name. She spent the last of her babysitting money on a bus ticket and a sandwich from the bus depot vending machine. Coming from a small town near Spokane she’d never had to fend for herself in a big city and had no idea how challenging it would be. Blind flight into unknown territory turned out to be a poor decision. After stepping into a strange new world the night before, she huddled in a doorway in downtown Portland but couldn’t sleep. She quickly discovered how vulnerable a young girl alone could be. She fought off a crazy homeless man who kept touching her and rejected the advances of a smooth-talking man who promised to make her a star if she were willing to do dirty things with strangers. All she wanted when she ran away was escape from overbearing parents who beat her for not saying her prayers properly and skipping church. She didn’t know a lot but knew she didn’t want to be like them. Their desire to have her marry one of the church elders disgusted her. She wanted to be free but now realized she should have waited and planned instead of acting on emotional impulses. When a woman in a gray KIA pulled to the curb in front of where she sat, then waved at her, she waved back. </p>
<p>“Hi, honey. You look cold.” The woman said after exiting the car. “Been out here all night? Bet you’re hungry. I know I would be.” </p>
<p>Lindy sniffed, and a tear crept out of her eye though she didn’t want it to. The woman seemed friendly and had a great smile, but did she stop? “Yeah. But why should you care? I’m nobody.” </p>
<p>The woman smiled warmly. “I care because you’re in trouble and I can help. What say we go somewhere warm and get you some grub? My treat.” </p>
<p>“What makes you think I’m in trouble?” Lindy asked, without the defiance in her voice she intended. </p>
<p>“Because I’ve been there, honey. I know someone hurt you and you’re alone in a strange place. Come on. Hop in. I know a great place for breakfast. Later, we can shop for a warmer coat. Is that all you brought with you?” The woman asked, pointing at a small tote and Lindy’s denim purse sitting on the sidewalk. </p>
<p>Seconds later, another human fell into the web of deceit, to become a pawn in a centuries old game of usury and exploitation. It was warm in the car. Breakfast was the best thing she’d tasted in a long time. By nightfall, the woman had her in a holding cell in Rockwood, awaiting transport to Bogota and slavery to a cocaine magnate who ordered such freshness. </p>
<p>What happened to Lindy? </p>
<p>Part two of Runaway </p>
<p>As Lindy woke to blackness, her mother paced the kitchen of her home. Where did she go wrong? Not enough love at the right time? Trying to shape Lindy into a copy of herself? Or had she tried hard and wasn’t guilty of neglect? All she could do was pray that God would guide her daughter home. It was too late for that as Lindy was tied in the hold of a ship riding heavy seas near Nicaragua. Hurricane warnings crackled through radio static as the crew battened the hatches and stowed loose gear. Lindy wound up lying in a pool of vomit as they lurched and plowed through monstrous waves. </p>
<p>Surviving the storm, the ship docked at a seldom used pier near a rundown warehouse in Cartagena. When freed from the dark hold and drug on deck, the light was blinding. Two muscular shirtless men stripped her reeking clothes from her starving body, then hosed her down and scrubbed her with a brush. When they were done, a well-dressed Hispanic woman came from the forecastle and eyed her nakedness with disdain. </p>
<p>“You’re a sorry sight. We’ll have to clean you up before we take you to meet Chato.” </p>
<p>“Why are you doing this to me?” Lindy blubbered, trembling with fear and exhaustion. </p>
<p>“Money. Stark naked profit. Pretty young girls are worth a lot to powerful men. If you come peacefully, you won’t be hurt again. Resist and I’ll have you whipped before being tied in the trunk of my car. I’d rather get you into a pretty dress than drop you off covered in welts.” There was no choice but to comply. She had no idea where she was and lacked the strength to run. </p>
<p>“Could I have some water please?” </p>
<p>“Sure. There’s food at my house if you behave.” </p>
<p>Hours later, Lindy was full and warm for the first time in days. She was experiencing the onset of Stockholm Syndrome, grateful for the woman’s kindness. For the moment, the horror of her situation slipped into the background. </p>
<p>“Will I ever go home again?” </p>
<p>“No. You belong to Chato now. How your life proceeds depends on your behavior. He kills anyone who displeases him. Let’s not talk about the future. Enjoy tonight. Tomorrow will bring what it brings.” </p>
<p>She cried herself to sleep after contemplating escape, but realized she’d easily be captured and punished. Her only hope lie in finding out where she was, then looking for a way out. </p>
<p>The next morning she found fresh clothing laid out and decided it would be best to put it on and do as told to avoid being tied and dragged to her new master. Her body ached and her mind was tired and confused. Who was this person who purchased her? What kind of monster preyed on teenage captives? Was he hideous and couldn’t lure a girlfriend, or was it a game of power and manipulation? She wasn’t a virgin but the thought of being defiled by a stranger made her cry again. When the woman stepped into the room, she tried to compose herself, but failed. Instead of handing her a tissue or comforting her, the woman slapped her hard. </p>
<p>“Okay, Chica. Time to quit crying and put a smile on that face. Chato’s lack of patience is well known. If we’re late he might shoot both of us and I’m not ready to die.” </p>
<p>Meanwhile, her mother genuflected in front of a rhinestone covered plastic cross she bought at the bible store. “Are you listening? I need your help. Why don’t you speak to me? My daughter needs help and I don’t know what to do. I’m probably a bad mom but don’t kill her to punish me.” </p>
<p>No one answered. </p>
<p>Rejection </p>
<p>Part three of Runaway </p>
<p>She was forced to kneel in front of a hawk-faced man with cruel dark eyes. He sat like an emperor on a throne, in charge of everything and everyone. The ground was hard and bit into her flesh as she quaked with fear. </p>
<p>“Too fat.” The man declared angrily. “I said I wanted skinny. Give her to the crew. They’ll have fun with her.” </p>
<p>Chato’s edict spelled danger for his procurer. Not pleasing him could lead to her death. “I’ll starve her again,” she said. “I let her eat so she wouldn’t die. I’m sorry you’re unhappy with my choice.” </p>
<p>“I said I don’t want her. Don’t make me punish you. Find someone else.” </p>
<p>Unknown to Chato, his greatest rival was watching this interaction through binoculars from a nearby hill. His soldados were poised and ready to attack. </p>
<p>Lindy rose when a rifle was placed in her back. She meekly preceded a brutish-looking man with knife scars on his face to an enclosure surrounded by barbed wire. Tears streamed as she realized she was about to be gang raped or worse. Had she curried the big man’s favor she might have bought time to plan an escape. </p>
<p>As the man shoved her into the enclosure, gunfire erupted. Diego Suarez and his men swarmed into Chato’s enclave like locusts. Blood spilled as bodies fell in every direction. Lindy hugged the ground and put her arms around her head. She had no idea whether rescue or death was imminent. All she knew was that she’d placed herself in harm’s way and wished she’d made better choices. The bus depot in Spokane seemed a million miles away and a lifetime ago. </p>
<p>While Lindy waited for death to come calling, her parents were receiving visitors expressing sympathy for their loss of a wayward daughter. The consensus was that they’d offered their child the comfort of Jesus and she chose to be a heathen. Everyone brought food and prayed for their offerings to be blessed. </p>
<p>Meanwhile, Lindy found an opening in the barbed wire and started running. She had no destination and no idea where safety lie. Unfortunately, bullets were flying in every direction and one of them tore through her thigh. She fell and writhed in pain. </p>
<p>A man with broken teeth soon stood over her grinning. Was he there to save her? Her blood flowed freely and without aid she would exsanguinate. In fiction stories heroes rise and come to the rescue in the nick of time. In real life, heroes are few and far between. In the heat of battle the man could only address his carnal desires. As Lindy took her last breaths, the man lowered his pants and delivered the final humiliation. As she died, her parents thanked everyone for coming and swore to bravely carry on. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66260162021-05-09T15:32:44-07:002021-05-09T15:32:44-07:00Sitting - By Mizeta Moon<p>The path led to a creek quietly wandering through a stand of old growth conifers. Birds chirped and warbled as they flitted through filtered light and shadows, filling the air with their symphony. A stump on the bank invited me to sit and watch the water tumble over a pile of rocks and become a pool before continuing on its way to the river. A hummingbird hovered near the waterfall where a sunbeam turned its feathers into an iridescent display of natural beauty. By staying quiet and becoming one with the forest I was treated to a variety of creatures stopping by for a drink. </p>
<p>All care slipped away and my insides calmed while I sat. The outside world never touches such magical places. The more I looked, the more I saw. The textures of moss and lichen. Flowers peeking from behind fallen branches and rocks. Grass waving in the hint of breeze. A snail inching its way to an unknown destination. A raccoon digging for grubs in an old half-rotted log. Ants marching in both directions from a piece of fruit dropped by a previous visitor. </p>
<p>I didn’t want to leave but knew I had to. Appointments and responsibilities were unavoidable. Back to life in the big city and its noisy progression. Before rising, I breathed in deeply and inhaled every bit of serenity I could. I stretched my arms in an all-encompassing gesture, then drew them towards my body to scoop beauty into my soul. As I stood to leave, I walked to the bank before kneeling and touching my lips to the water. A gentle kiss like I’d seen the hummingbird do. I splashed some on my face and shivered from its coldness. It was ice before sunlight caressed the glacier’s face. </p>
<p>As I slowly walked back to the trailhead, I adsorbed every detail so the memories would go deep in my memory bank and be there for viewing should the world and its woes threaten my peace. I wanted the joy I felt to be transmitted into the air around me so everyone could share my wealth. I was rich with understanding at that moment. Understanding how tiny we are in a universe with billions of stars. How trivial our issues are juxtaposed to wonder and glory. How every breath we take shouldn’t be taken for granted. Understanding the passage of time and its effect on every living thing. Though my body won’t survive that finite journey, my soul will. One last look back down the path, then wave goodbye to the trees. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66260152021-05-09T15:31:47-07:002021-05-09T15:31:47-07:00Trail's End - By Mizeta Moon<p>The two men had seen better times. In the 1950’s, their television show was watched by millions, their images were on all manner of merchandise, and they were adored by the American public. But now their money was just about gone, they lived in the foothills outside of town in a ramshackle squatters hut, and the humiliation of it all had taken its toll. They were nobodies and they knew it. </p>
<p>“I just checked on Silver,” the once daring and resourceful masked rider said to his faithful Indian companion. “I figure he’s got about one more ride in him and then it’s curtains for the big fellow, Tonto!” </p>
<p>“Mmmm, Kemosabe,” was the answer from his taciturn companion. ”A fiery horse with the speed of light. Too bad. Me like Silver.” </p>
<p>“Your eloquence is, well, impressive, trusted scout. Must be the firewater. Which reminds me, we’re down to our last bottle and the food’s almost gone, too. You know what that means, faithful friend?” the masked man queried. “If we’re to return to those thrilling days of yesteryear, we’re going to have to do something with this place to make some money!” Then, looking excitedly at Tonto, he asked, “Do you think you can stay out of trouble long enough for us to make this into a cute little B and B?” </p>
<p>“Mmmm, trouble find Tonto even when him not look for it, Kemosabe.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, like you and that young cowgirl at the Tuscosa County Fair back in ‘87.” </p>
<p>“Hmm, Tonto remember, Kemosabe. Him not make same mistake again.” </p>
<p>“Good, good. Now, what do you think of my idea of a B and B right here in this box canyon, Tonto? We could fix it up and I think folks would flock to it? You know, retro, and all that.” </p>
<p>“Hmm,” Tonto thought, “Tonto never use bed or eat breakfast.” </p>
<p>Taken aback, the Lone Ranger mulled over that last comment, “You’re right! We’ve never slept in beds, eaten breakfast, or even changed our outfits! Not once during all our episodes or since!” Sitting down dejectedly, the masked rider asked himself, “How could I have possibly imagined we’d know how to run a B and B, faithful companion?” </p>
<p>“What we do now, Kemosabe? Tonto has needs.” </p>
<p>“Right. Well, we’ve got the stimulus checks, a few bucks in the bank, the horses, and this place. Can you think of anything else we have that might be worth something, trusty scout? Anything at all?” </p>
<p>“Hmmm, Tonto remember something.” </p>
<p>“Good. What is it?” </p>
<p>“Silver bullets.” </p>
<p>The Lone Ranger stood up suddenly as he, too, remembered about the bullets. “Yes, Tonto, the silver bullets! I had them made not as weapons, but as symbols. Symbols of justice to remind me and others that life, like silver, has value and is not to be wasted!” He quickly ran to his secret hiding place where he found them just where he’d hidden them years before. “We’re rich, Tonto, rich! There must be tens of thousands of dollars in silver here, my old friend. We can live out our lives in security and luxury!” </p>
<p>As the Lone Ranger counted out his silver bullets, his taciturn companion took the opportunity to make a point, “Tonto like Absolut, masked man, not that rotgut you get in town. And Tonto want go back to Tuscosa. Tonto has needs.” </p>
<p>“Sure, sure, old friend. But first, I’m thinking maybe we buy a couple of beds, some new duds, and a toaster. Oh, and a new headband for you and maybe some fancy masks for me. Whatya say, companion? You ready for some changes around here?” his masked friend wondered. </p>
<p>Tonto just grunted. </p>
<p>End </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66003182021-04-10T11:54:49-07:002021-04-10T11:54:49-07:00Spontaneity - By Mizeta Moon<p>The scruffy man stood on the corner in the rain. Shirtless, shoeless, dancing around–seemingly unmindful of the cold. I’d seen him hundreds of times on my way to the store or the bar. Sometimes he had a coat on, sometimes not. I was afraid of him so I never engaged him in conversation though we often passed close in parking lots. I knew he had mental health issues and his outbursts made me think he could be violent. He never had a begging sign and didn’t seem to collect refundable bottles and cans so I wondered how he supported himself. </p>
<p>That day I was on my way to Goodwill to donate some clothing that was too big for me after shedding some pounds. With the sky pouring the way it was I could barely see him but something tugged at my heart and I pulled to the curb. I reached over the seat and rifled through one of the bags until I found the coat I was looking for. I didn’t have shoes but thought maybe he went barefoot on purpose. I’d noticed that several of the homeless in the area did the same. Anyway, I rolled the window down and waved him over after locking the doors. At first, he ignored me and I almost pulled away to keep my seat from getting soaked. I beckoned again and he peered at me like someone looking down a hole. As he shuffled toward me, I put the car in gear and planted my foot on the brake. At that point I was wondering why I’d stopped. </p>
<p>When he got close, I held the coat out and asked him if he wanted it. His toothless grin made me so frightened I almost dropped it and sped away. The deranged look in his eyes chilled me to the bone but I managed to stay put. Cackling and rubbing his hands together, he closed the gap, then reached for the coat. As soon as he touched it, I released my grip, lifted my foot off the brake and stomped on the gas pedal. Rolling up the window I noticed my hands were shaking and my sleeve was sopping wet. The phrase “No good deed goes unpunished” ran through my mind as I pulled into line at the Goodwill donation station. I wondered if he might pester me in the future now that he’d seen me in my car. </p>
<p>After dropping off the clothing, I went to Pastimes and ordered a double shot of whiskey because my hands were still shaking. As my nerves responded to the whiskey, I realized my attempt at kindness was misdirected. He hadn’t asked for my help and donating to charities serves the same purpose. Offering him an umbrella would have been better than giving him something that would be soaked in minutes. Since I don’t like to drink and drive, I figured it would be wise to order one of Pastimes’ excellent pizzas and a glass of water, then sit for a while before leaving. You’ve probably guessed by now that on my way home I passed him again. The rain had slackened but a cold wind was blasting. Typical weather for the mouth of the gorge. There he danced, shirtless still, my coat lying on the sidewalk, sodden and bloated. It made me sad to think that someone might have appreciated its warmth if I’d left it in the bag. </p>
<p>Since then, I see him everywhere but he hasn’t bothered me and my fear has abated. I’ll always be happy that my heart has the ability to share and care but now I understand that spontaneity can be a good thing in certain situations but not in others. Reaching to pet the wrong dog can get you bit. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66003172021-04-10T11:54:14-07:002021-04-10T11:54:14-07:00The Crying Bartender - By Mizeta Moon<p>It was a quiet night. Just me at the bar. She had tears in her eyes and I asked her what was wrong. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me your troubles?” She asked. “I don’t want to burden you with mine.” </p>
<p>“I’m all ears,” I replied. She poured me another drink, then propped her elbows on the bar and cupped her chin with her hands. </p>
<p>“Do you know what it feels like to be lonely?” She asked. “To watch people holding hands all around you and have no one want to hold yours. To see them kiss and be reminded that yours haven’t tasted passion for years. To go to bed alone every night wishing someone in the world wanted to be with you. Feeling ugly, rejected, and unworthy. To beg the universe for crumbs while watching those who have someone disregard their good fortune and throw love in the gutter. Have you ever cried yourself to sleep at night, wishing someone would hold you?” </p>
<p>“No,” I replied. “I’m lucky. I have someone who cares about me.” </p>
<p>She nodded, grabbed a napkin, and wiped her eyes. “Hopefully, you appreciate them and give them your all. I have so much love to give, but no one wants it. My fingers ache to stroke someone. My skin cries out for contact. I spend every waking hour hoping someone will kiss me and make me their own. At the end of the day there’s just me and my aching desire, trying to stay happy despite striking out again. I ask why no one can love me but have no answers. Everyone tells me I’m a good person. Funny, friendly, all that stuff, but the only hugs I get are friendship ones. No one hits me with surges of heat spawned by their desire. Loneliness is a dark deep pit where your pleas for companionship echo but find no resonance. I don’t want to die without the taste of love on my mouth.” </p>
<p>“Wow. I had no idea. You’re such a vibrant person. You hide your misery well.” </p>
<p>She noted that my drink needed refilling, then took care of it. No one else came in so we were destined to be fellow voyagers this night. I could leave but felt she had more to say and it might help if I heard her out. </p>
<p>“It’s not about sex. It’s about having someone to share the journey. Someone who likes being with you. Who enjoys your company. Who doesn’t care that you have flaws and make mistakes. Someone who’ll be there when things go bad and you need support. Someone who’ll give from the heart and allow you to do the same. I’ve quit making my bed since no one wants to sleep in it. I’ve stopped having dreams because they never come true. I just get up each day and do my job, smiling at customers who get drunk and go home and argue. Even that would be better than emptiness. At least I would feel alive. As it is, I’m growing dead inside. Not suicidal, not depressed and unwilling to go forward. Dead in the sense that hope doesn’t bring resolution. There’s just routine. Eating, sleeping, existing without the spark and excitement romance brings. The thrill of knowing someone holds you dear to their heart and thinks of you as special.” </p>
<p>By then, tears were flowing down her face and I felt awkward. What could I do or say? As if sensing my discomfort, she wiped her eyes again and worked at regaining her professional demeanor. Pouring me another, she said “this one’s on the house.” </p>
<p>Before I could say anything, the door opened and a couple walked in. They were in the midst of an argument and broadcasted tension. The bartender looked at me with an unspoken “see what I mean,” and greeted them with a smile. When I got home that night, I kissed my lover deeply and held tight for a long moment. We’d weathered storms together and might face many more. But those going it alone had nothing and no one to cling to but their own inner strength. Loneliness in a crowded world was an abyss they had to navigate without knowing how long they’d be mired there. Desperately reaching for a hand to hold. </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65685812021-03-08T20:30:46-07:002021-03-08T20:30:46-07:00War zone - By Mizeta Moon<p>The shoeless one-eyed man sat in the dirt, leaning against the wall of a bombed-out building. His wife lie dead inside and his children were being eaten by vultures on what was once a beautiful patio. He knew he was close to death but wanted to hold on long enough to spit on one of the invaders. He knew they would come. They always did. They looted what wealth remained, then burned what their bombs left unsullied. Their desire to desecrate and eliminate was an unquenchable thirst. They hungered for supremacy. Submission and surrender were impossible when their juggernaut thrust into the lives of those targeted for extinction. </p>
<p>He was a farmer who’d tilled the soil for a meager existence. Tending a small flock of sheep for wool, milk, and meat when a lamb could be spared. A simple man who loved his family and greeted each day with reverence, thankful for every moment given. A man who gazed at stars in wonder. Who stood in rain and marveled at its ability to replenish the land and allow life to spring forth. A man who felt malice towards no man and coveted not their bounty. </p>
<p>He could hear the clank of metal treads approaching but was also aware of his ragged breathing. Too weak to stand, he could only wait for a face to look into his as they certified his termination. He was thankful his wife wouldn’t be raped and degraded like many wives had been. Death saved her from humiliation. His children wouldn’t be sent to toil in camps where beatings and starvation would precede their expiration. Death came to them suddenly from the sky. Their souls were no longer in residence while their flesh was consumed. </p>
<p>Footsteps crunching through sand became the dominant sound as the enemy drew near. His mouth was so dry he struggled to produce enough spittle to properly display his contempt. Expiring without a moment of defiance wasn’t an acceptable end for someone whose only crime was being in the way of greed. A pawn in a power struggle he’d never participated in or understood. When a shadow loomed over him, he used the remainder of his energy to eject all that he’d been into the face of the enemy. </p>
<p>“This one’s a goner. Not much left of the house. Looks like they were pretty poor. Maybe the next town has more to offer.” </p>
<p>“Roger that. Good hunting,” </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65685802021-03-08T20:30:13-07:002021-03-08T20:30:13-07:00Time warp - By Mizeta Moon<p>The park was deserted, just as she’d hoped. Solitude was what she needed at the moment instead of company. She would burst into tears if someone asked what was wrong. The death of her mother left her hurting and depressed, adrift in an ocean of self-pity. They’d been more than parent and child, they were friends. Now the house was lonely and cold without laughter and joy they’d shared. Taking a walk in the park they’d frequented over the years probably wasn’t good therapy, but it beat having the walls close in as she packed donation boxes and sorted what she wanted to keep. Most people kept too much and burdened themselves with sentimentality. She wanted to cherish her mother’s memory but understood that a few significant items were better than closets full of things left unused or visited for decades. </p>
<p>Her reverie was so intense that without realizing it she wandered into a section of the park she’d never visited. When she finally became cognizant of her surroundings, she was lost. Looking around, she saw several paths going in different directions. Which way had she come? If she did an about face could she find her way back to her starting point? After a bout of indecision she chose one of the paths and hoped for the best. After only a few yards, she took a wrong turn, but rather than cause her to suffer, the path turned into a cure for her despondency, though she didn’t know that at the time. Fearful now, her anxiety mounted with each step. </p>
<p>The path led through a stand of trees and emerged into a sunlit meadow where hundreds of people milled around, laughing, smiling, and romping about with abandon. A bandstand stood on one side of the grassy expanse and a series of tents sporting brightly colored flags fluttering on the breeze occupied the other. People with long hair wearing beads and feathers beckoned her to join them. The smell of patchouli oil and marijuana dominated as she drew near. To her, it looked like the type of gathering her mother would have attended in the sixties. She’d seen pictures of her mother dressed like this, smoking a joint at a concert in the photo albums she’d inherited. She knew her mother once sang for a rock and roll band such as the one currently mounting the stage. Dazed and confused, she moved through the crowd without feeling connected. It was as if the people were ether and she was the only solid object there. </p>
<p>As she neared the stage, she saw a woman pick up a microphone and begin to sing lyrics to a classic song from days gone by. It was one of her mother’s favorites. Sly and the Family Stone’s Everyday People. She knew the words by heart since they’d played the album Stand hundreds of times. Its timeless message still relevant decades later. Taking a closer look, she was amazed to see that the woman singing was her mother. Face rapturous, transmitting love and happiness, centered in the moment. It suddenly struck her that everyone had their moment in the sun and she was being afforded a glimpse into one experienced by someone she loved. Tears of joy poured from her eyes as her sadness was replaced by the understanding that though all things must pass, each was significant in the fabric of time. </p>
<p>Moments later, the scene dissolved and she found herself standing in the parking lot next to her car. Reaching into her purse for her keys, she knew it was time for her to choose her own destinations for the rest of her life. Sadness and sorrow would only lead into darkness. She needed to pick up the microphone and sing her own favorite song. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65420322021-02-07T11:30:19-07:002021-02-10T12:30:22-07:00Afternoon Stroll - By Mizeta Moon<p>The sun finally made an appearance after a two week absence. By then, cabin fever raged in my entire being, and I had to get out of the house or go mad. After bundling up, I hopped on my bike and rode to Blue Lake. During the winter it’s generally quiet, save a few dogs dragging their owners around on a leash. No one was using the playground equipment so I chained my bike to a pole and started walking. It felt wonderful to breathe fresh air and bask in the warming rays of the sun. I had a chocolate bar in my pocket that I unwrapped and munched on while surveying the starkness of deciduous trees combing the breeze with their barren branches. Across the lake a boat bobbed at the end of a pier that belonged to one of the private homes. Seeing it made me want to come back in the summer for a cruise in one of the rentable paddle boats. A few yards later, a flotilla of ducks started quacking at me from the water but I hadn’t anything to share. A gaggle of geese moved across the grass with their heads down, avidly searching for sustenance. Their honking grew louder as I neared so I made sure to give them room. Engrossed in my thoughts and the scenery, I hadn’t noticed the woman who’d quietly walked up behind me. When she spoke, I nearly jumped out of my skin. </p>
<p>“Mind if I walk with you?” </p>
<p>Looking her over as I recovered my wits, I was pleased to see a slender young lady wearing sneakers and sweats with a brightly-colored knit scarf loosely draped around her neck. She held a violin and a bow in her left hand. Her smile seemed genuine and her demeanor wasn’t threatening. Before I could answer, she spoke again. “Sorry for startling you. I thought you’d seen me while you were locking your bike.” </p>
<p>“Um . . . that’s okay. Sure, you can walk with me. Are you from around here?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, I live in Wood Village. I come here to play to the ducks since they don’t care that I’m still learning. My family doesn’t appreciate sour notes. My name’s Carla, by the way.” </p>
<p>Shaking the hand she held out, I said, “Mine’s Louise. Nice to meet you.” </p>
<p>We walked and chatted for a while, then sat on a bench to visit and get to know each other better. I was enjoying her company and didn’t mind my stroll being interrupted. After a few minutes I asked if she would play for me. At first, she said no, due to fear of embarrassment, but relented when I assured her that I wouldn’t critique her performance. </p>
<p>The first few notes proved she was gifted. As she worked her way through several songs, she did hit a bad note every so often but her verve and passion for playing shone through. I was quite impressed and thoroughly enjoyed the private concert while watching wispy clouds cross bands of blue and purple in the sky. I noticed that the ducks were all facing us while quietly bobbing on gentle breeze-driven waves, making a statement about their enjoyment of her visits. </p>
<p>As evening grew near, there was a chill in the air and I needed to move my limbs or sit shivering. When I stood, she stopped playing and jumped to her feet as well. No words were needed as we resumed our stroll. She knew I’d liked our time together. As the light faded, we prepared to part ways. I unlocked my bike and offered to give her a lift but she said, “It’s uphill all the way. I would be a burden. I’ll call my mom and she’ll come get me. Don’t worry, I do this all the time.” She’d obviously noted my look of concern. </p>
<p>I went to the lake several times after that but never saw her again. The songs she played still echo in my mind and that magical afternoon is a memory I will cherish forever. Knowing that the ducks are music lovers created a new pastime for me. I bring a bag of frozen peas and my Boombox, then sit on that same bench, tossing them peas and sharing some tunes. People walking past often look at me like I’m crazy, but what do they know? </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65420252021-02-07T11:29:48-07:002021-02-10T12:31:03-07:00Hello, Friend - By Mizeta Moon<p>We’re different. That’s okay. I’m not texting you to assign blame for anything going on in the world, or to be absolved from it. I’m reaching out to show I care. You’re part of me–therefore I love you because I love myself. I, nor you, can’t escape being cojoined. We are one organism with billions of facets. Is it possible our desire to survive can convert from carnage to cohabitation? I entertain such a notion. </p>
<p>If everything were the same shape or color, what would we see? A blank screen? Squiggly lines? A void swallowed by a bigger void? Sounds boring to me. Texture, variety, and tactile interaction make life interesting. We soar to heights and plummet to depths. Such is corporeal existence. I can go on and on about lofty, esoteric things. But! What about you and me? Can we remain friends despite our points of view? Can we share the world? Accept and understand that everyone has a hungry mouth to feed? Can we work to provide instead of deny? </p>
<p>Recent events have shown me that there are people who spew hatred regardless of what the issue is. I often wonder if such vitriolic postings are their true feelings or if they are inspired by others. I’ve read postings by people who chose to be my Facebook friend that are unsettling at times but I can honestly say I’ve never unfriended anyone for their point of view. I seldom comment because fighting word wars would consume too much of my time. Writing my stories and living a good life are my daily concern. Enjoying the beauty of the world for as long as I’m granted such privilege. Something I look forward to is seeing the smiling faces of my friends when we are able to freely interact again. I may be foolish to hope that the weapons and rhetoric can be muzzled while we work to erase the common enemies of poverty, divisiveness, and sickness, but I’ll continue to send love into the world towards such an end. </p>
<p>Song lyric: If you smile at me, I will understand. That is something everybody everywhere does in the same language. </p>
<p>At the moment I can only see your eyes because of your mask. When they light up, so do mine. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65118472021-01-01T16:27:28-07:002021-01-02T19:02:32-07:00Christmas on the Corner - By Mizeta Moon<p>I’d been sleeping on the streets of San Francisco for about a year. The injury that caused my inability to work was healing but I still had a way to go. Like most of the other homeless, I pushed a shopping cart around and scrounged for cans and bottles to provide the most basic needs. At that time there weren’t big groups camping together like you see today. Two or three was common as there are few open areas in that city other than parks. Camping in them was a big no no, and patrols enforced that rule nightly. I wasn’t out there by choice and wasn’t suffering any type of mental health or addiction issue. It was always my intention to heal my body and get back to work as soon as possible. I stayed by myself, didn’t associate, didn’t panhandle with a begging sign, or steal. Most days I sat quietly reading a book when I wasn’t pawing through garbage cans for recyclables. I stood in line for meals from the soup kitchens and said please and thank you for what was given. The money I earned went toward showers at a local spa, beer, of course, keeping my clothes neat and clean, and toiletries. I wasn’t going to let the street beat me down. </p>
<p>My standoffishness led to problems with a bunch of old drunks who clustered on Haight Street and panhandled for beer money. I liked going to Haight because someone would usually be passing a joint around and I could get a toke. Anyway, they would harass me, claiming it was their turf. Since I usually wandered the avenues and avoided the homeless haunts it wasn’t that big a deal. On Christmas eve I was sitting on the steps of a bank and the generosity of the residents led to people just walking up and handing me food, money, toothpaste, etc. People were often kind to me spontaneously since I didn’t ask for anything and they could tell I didn’t belong out there. It was Christmas morning that one of the funniest moments of that time in my life occurred. </p>
<p>I hit Haight street just after dawn, as I knew the drunks would be sprawled on the sidewalk sleeping it off. They were prone to keep banker’s hours. Anyway, about fifty feet away from them I saw a huge pile of beer and wine boxes and garbage bags stacked on the sidewalk. Hustling over, I planned to grab all the bottles and scoot. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be the leftovers from a huge party. I scooped up nearly a hundred full beers, about twenty five bottles of wine, some champagne and one bottle of whiskey. There was a lot of unopened food as well. Constantly looking to see that none of the assholes were stirring, I loaded my cart with it all and quietly rolled away. It was so heavy that I knew I hadn’t the strength to go very far, so I crossed over to the opposite side and made for Golden Gate park, happy that part of the street is flat. For the rest of the day I couldn’t stop breaking out laughing at having plundered a treasure those guys would have found had they woke before me. I sat at the entrance to the park all day, handing out beer and wine to passersby. It was a jolly Christmas to say the least. I saved enough for myself to eat well and drink for a couple days, then went back to my regular routine. </p>
<p>I eventually healed enough to work at the recycling center instead of being a client. From there my life moved along and led me to where I am today. The reason I’m sharing this story is to show that even in the bleakest times one can set goals, maintain their dignity, and constantly strive to do better. This year has been hard on everyone, but I stayed focused, upbeat, and shared the love in every way I could. As a result of that focus I published my eighth book just before Thanksgiving and have been the recipient of a lot of love in return. I sincerely thank all of you for your comments and support. None of what I’ve accomplished would be possible without a lot of wonderful people in my life. I hope you are all warm and well and haven’t let the darkness shroud your light. This time will pass and everyone will have a remember-when story. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64948142020-12-08T19:03:07-07:002020-12-08T19:03:07-07:00Uh oh! - By Mizeta Moon<p>Living on the edge can lead to waking up in bed with a stranger, having a severe hangover, and wondering where your panties got to. Not to mention concerns about whether protection was used and if you drove drunk. Or, if not, where is my car? Seeing a used condom wrapper on the floor when getting up to pee reveals one answer but leads to another question. Was the sex any good? </p>
<p>By living on the edge I mean going to bars and nightclubs alone and having no concerns about trying new drugs, drinks, or people. Running hard every night of the week after work. Staggering through another boring day at the office while the boss keeps trying to get in your pants. Hoping he doesn’t fire you for lack of interest in him or the job. </p>
<p>This time, I knew I was in trouble when I tried to get up and couldn’t because a chain was wrapped around my whole body. Uh oh! Had I entered the lair of a serial killer and would be complicit in my death? Looking around for a bed partner, I discovered that I was in my own bed and alone. What in the world? Before I could speculate, the door opened, and my mom walked in, carrying a plate of pancakes. If there’s anything that can make me gag it’s the smell of those odious gut bombs. Especially if they’re swimming in Mrs. Butterworth’s. </p>
<p>Ignoring my instant rage and discomfort, my mom smiled sweetly, then said, “There you are sleepy head. It’s about time you woke up, Wouldn’t want your breakfast getting cold, would we?” </p>
<p>“What the hell is this about?” I screamed. “And get that crap out of here or I’ll puke.” </p>
<p>Mom smiled indulgently before placing the offensive plate on my nightstand. “Now, now, dear. No need to speak to me that way. I’m only looking out for my little girl.” </p>
<p>“By chaining me up and forcing me to eat Bisquick? What are you up to? Is this another of your little schemes to reform me? You should know better than that by now.” </p>
<p>Mom pouted for a moment. “It’s just that I worry about you. Staying out all night. Sleeping with strangers. I hardly know you anymore. Didn’t Sunday School teach you anything?” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” I replied contemptuously. “It taught me that Reverend Jopner had dirty hands and loved to pull my panties down in the storeroom. Unchain me now and I won’t press charges.” </p>
<p>Mom got her indignant look on immediately. “You should be ashamed of yourself for such blasphemy. Reverend Jopner is on his way here now so we can pray for your redemption together.” </p>
<p>At that point I started bucking and squirming so hard that the newel post she’d wrapped the chain around broke. Using the slack that created, I wriggled until I was free. Mom retreated immediately, knowing I would be too much for her if I turned violent. I would never hit her, but she needn’t know that. Fear is a great equalizer. </p>
<p>It goes without saying that I flushed the pancakes before hopping in the shower. By the time I was dressed and ready for work, Reverend Jopner and my mother were at my kitchen table with hands joined and heads bowed. There was an intimacy between them that made me wonder if the reverend had pulled my mom’s panties down in the past. Oh my word! I thought. What if he still does? </p>
<p>“Just so you know,” I said on my way out the door. “I’m having the locks changed this afternoon. Next time you stick your nose into my business I might not be so forgiving.” </p>
<p>Reverend Jopner smiled sardonically. It was obvious now that he’d be happy to see me go. Hopefully, mom would change the sheets before leaving.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64948132020-12-08T19:02:30-07:002020-12-08T19:02:30-07:00Redemption - By Mizeta Moon<p>His decline into alcoholism, drug addiction, and constant self-abuse led to sleeping in an alley. What little he still owned was tattered and torn like the clothes he wore. Unkempt, unloved, unnoticed, he slipped behind the veil of polite society. Where a heart filled with hope once dwelt inside a vital body, despair now oozed from the pores of a walking corpse. His only solace lie in sitting at the bus stop, pretending he had a destination and the means to arrive there. Sometimes, people boarding or exiting the bus offered him money but he wasn’t there to beg. He was there to dream. </p>
<p>One morning he discovered that a twelve string guitar had been left at the bus stop. It was a beautiful guitar with an ebony fret board, mother of pearl inlays and tuning keys. The strings looked new and were taut, appearing capable of performing in tune at first asking. He was afraid to touch it. If the owner returned for it, he might be accused of theft. Having been jailed before, he had no desire to return. He did stare at it though, and that caused memories of who he used to be to flood his mind. </p>
<p>He remembered the roar of the crowd. The lights. Sweat running from his brow as he performed. He remembered the sound of his voice as it soared and waned, bringing joy and sorrow in equal measure while he strummed and plucked his guitar strings. The brotherhood he shared with fellow musicians as they toured the world. He remembered the woman who’d broken his heart one too many times. Numbing the pain of her departure with a shot and a beer. </p>
<p>As the day went on, his desire to touch the guitar strengthened. People came and went, but he and the guitar were the only constant. When no one came to claim it by evening, he succumbed. Though his hands were dirty, the feel of its highly polished surface evoked a thrill they remembered. Tears formed when the first strum spread beauty in every direction. Without further thought, he began to play a song he’d written for her when they were young and in love. Though scratchy from years of hard living, his voice stirred and emitted lyrics he’d thought forgotten. Soon, a gentle breeze carried his long abandoned feelings into the ears and hearts of passersby. They paused, smiled, and swayed as his fingers flew over the strings and his voice grew stronger and sweeter with each passing moment. </p>
<p>Hours later, a crowd had formed and gone, then formed again. When he finally tired and ceased playing, they drifted away, having witnessed redemption of a previously broken man. One of the last to leave was a woman who held out a beautiful hand-woven guitar strap and asked him to take it. </p>
<p>“I can’t,” he said. “The guitar isn’t mine.” </p>
<p>“It is now,” the woman replied. “I could never make it sing like you. I’d planned to hock it, but now I know why I forgot it in my haste to catch the bus.” </p>
<p>Speechless, he caressed the strap for a moment before attaching it. Staring at her afterward, he said, “You made this didn’t you?” </p>
<p>“Wear it proudly,” she said. “The world is waiting to hear your voice again.”</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64745972020-11-10T19:28:58-07:002020-11-10T19:29:49-07:00Still Life Portrait - By Mizeta Moon<p>Still Life Portrait </p>
<p>By Mizeta Moon </p>
<p>There is a bench at the edge of the woods where people sit when they want to enjoy a spectacular view. A shimmering lake whose ripples gently touch a sandy shoreline fills the foreground while snow-capped peaks rise in the background. The bench itself was carved from a fallen tree over a century ago and its weathered seat has hosted thousands of visitors. Some visitors were sad and in need of an uplifting panorama. Others sought quiet respite from a noisy world. Some simply needed to rest a moment before traveling on. Photographers and painters often pause there to capture spectacular sunsets and sunrises. Me, I was looking for inspiration that would lead to a new story. Ironically, someone had left a book on the bench when they departed and it captured my attention immediately. </p>
<p>The book left on the bench was faded and worn. It had obviously been a treasured read throughout its life and I wondered why it was abandoned. Had someone read it, then wanted to pass it along? Was it left by accident? How long had it been there? Should I leave it for someone else to find? What if it rained? Being an author, I would feel guilt for such ruination. While I pondered these questions, my mind suddenly turned in a different direction. I started thinking about how that book came to be. The beginning, rather than the end of its life. </p>
<p>It stated as an idea, then flowed out of someone onto some form of manuscript. Whomever it was spent time on their labor of love. Write, edit, write, rewrite, edit some more. Like a sculptor, they shaped it into what they wanted it to be. They were probably like me in the way you ask yourself a million questions along the way. Is it scary enough to be classified as horror? If it’s romantic, does it provoke the feelings spawned by love? Is it mysterious enough to be a mystery? What am I really trying to say, and have I said it properly? When they considered it worthy of being published, they, like me, had to design a cover and develop a plan for its distribution. I know how happy and proud they felt when they first held it in their hands, as I always savor that moment when my idea enters the world as a completed project. Having people enjoy it as they read brings me a pleasure nothing else on earth can. I wondered how many had curled up with this book during its journey to this moment. </p>
<p>Part of me wanted to pick the book up and thumb through its pages. Another part of me felt that this still life portrait had given me what I was searching for and wanted to leave it untouched. Before I could decide, I heard footsteps on the path through the woods. Moments later, a beautiful young woman emerged from the trees and ran towards me and my silent companions. Her eyes expressed anxiety as she neared me, somewhat out of breath. When she stopped, her delight at seeing the book on the bench was obvious, and I was glad I’d left it alone. When she joyously clutched it to her breast, it verified my belief that some people consider books valuable and would be saddened by their loss. That reading a book forges a relationship between the author and the reader. Her concern for the friend she’d inadvertently left behind inspired me to keep writing stories and sending them into the world, in the hope someone like her will sit by a fire on a rainy day and consider them a worthy companion. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64505442020-10-06T17:38:17-07:002020-10-06T17:38:17-07:00The price of absolution - By Mizeta Moon<p>Hot breath from the hounds of hell seared his nape as he ran from his pursuers. Stumbling, faltering, he feared their victory, for it would ensure the loss of his soul. There was no return from damnation for him. He’d torn limb from limb and tarnished beauty. Forgiveness would require mercy no judge could bestow. As he blindly careened through the wilderness, he could only hope for refuge. He knew he was undeserving, but as long as his heart kept beating, he would seek to survive. </p>
<p>He hadn’t always been a monster. There’d been a time when he knew peace and embraced tranquility, but those days were gone. Now, he was a killer without the support of a cause. A nomad left adrift by changing ideology. A hero who became dispensable when his services were no longer required. A soldier haunted by nightmares and blood on his hands. </p>
<p>To soothe torment he’d turned to drugs. Their comfort became agony when he could no longer afford them and stole to acquire them. Their powerful beckoning compelled him to commit heinous acts. Each step leading him to further depravity and erasing his conscience. Now, he was a fugitive from a society that shaped and employed him, then turned him out without concern for what they’d created. The sidewalks were cold. His needs went unfulfilled. No one cared. </p>
<p>He reverted to the savagery he’d needed to survive the hell of war. That led to slaughtering innocents and his current flight into unknown territory when he’d been identified as an enemy to the life around him. While that definition was true, it didn’t take his programming into consideration. He’d never learned other skills. He’d been taught to kill and was good at his job. He’d nearly abandoned all hope for sanctuary when a path opened up beneath his feet and an eerie light shone through overhanging limbs. Compelled to plunge forward to escape his pursuers, he hadn’t the time to concern himself with where it might lead. </p>
<p>The path led to a moonlit clearing where an oddly tilted cottage made of dark wood sat on a weed-choked knoll. Fog emanated from it like tendrils of smoke from an abandoned campfire. The eerie light that had illuminated his journey radiated from small windows that were shaped like human eyes. There was a stillness in the air and he could sense something waiting behind the façade. He felt fear for the first time in years. Hearing no footsteps pounding behind him, he approached cautiously, ready to fight if attacked. He was fatigued, thirsty, and starving. He’d been led here and had no choice but to knock on the door. No one came, but the door opened. Stepping inside, he had no idea what fate had in store for him but turning back would only lead to imprisonment and death. </p>
<p>The air inside the dwelling was musty and warm. There was a slight smell of sulfur laced with the odor of rotting flesh he’d become familiar with through combat. Cautiously moving forward, he entered a room that became brighter as he moved towards its center. The source of the light turned out to be the aura of a wrinkled crone who sat in a willow-branch rocker, slowly rocking as she eyed his approach. When he was several feet away, he could see a pair of dice glowing in her gnarled hands. Her bony fingers caressed them in a loving way. Now that he was close, he could hear her voice softly crooning to the dice. </p>
<p>“He’s here.” She said, then turned dark eyes to him and proffered the cubes. “Is he ready to gamble for his soul?” </p>
<p>“What are the rules?” He asked. </p>
<p>“Beat my roll, and salvation awaits. Lose, and the consequences of your depravity will manifest. Should you choose not to roll, your flight will continue and the outcome determined by chance.” </p>
<p>“Who rolls first?” he asked, eyeing a table laden with food and wine behind the crone. </p>
<p>“Why, you, of course. Are you feeling lucky?” </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64505432020-10-06T17:37:46-07:002020-10-06T17:37:46-07:00A time for tears - By Mizeta Moon<p>The sky looked like a sandstorm was coming, but I knew better. I’d seen plenty of storms while working oil rigs in the middle east and knew that western Oregon couldn’t generate such an event. Knowing that a fire was nearby, I rounded up my horses and trailered them in case we had to evacuate. After doing that, I went inside where my wife Maudie was transferring important documents into the firesafe we bought for such an occasion. For years we’d been living without television and only listened to the radio occasionally. Our days were spent tending our vegetable gardens and gathering eggs to sell at the country store, so we didn’t know how much devastation was occurring statewide. We could only prepare for the worst and hope for the best. </p>
<p>The smell of smoke grew stronger, then a huge cloud of it came over the ridge and enveloped our property. I could see burning embers settling in the corn field that was still green but could ignite. Maudie looked at me with fear in her eyes and I knew it was time to leave. I grabbed the keys to the truck and put on my hat, then helped her load suitcases into the crew seat. Before driving away, I turned the chickens loose after dumping a bag of feed on the ground. Hopefully, they and our home would be standing upon our return. It was only when we topped the ridge surrounding our little valley that we could see the conflagration sweeping across the land ahead of a strong, steady wind. Maudie clutched my arm and I saw tears forming in her eyes. The wall of flames was headed our way. </p>
<p>Getting to the road into town was a harrowing experience. When we did manage to outrun the fire, I swerved onto the pavement and kept the gas pedal glued to the floorboard. As we entered our little community of 650 people, I saw a procession of cars heading in the opposite direction. A Sheriff’s car was blocking the road ahead, and an officer was waving a baton to divert traffic toward the freeway. When I idled to a stop next to him and asked what was going on, he told me that several towns had been destroyed and that everyone was taking refuge at the county fairgrounds. We didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I turned around and joined the swarm of refugees. </p>
<p>I’d shown horses at the fair several times, but those occasions were nothing like what awaited us. Hundreds of campers, RVs and tents filled the parking areas. Later, I would discover that those without shelter were being housed in the livestock barns. A water truck was dispensing life-giving sustenance to a line of people carrying containers of all sizes and types. Concession stands were open and giving away food to those who’d been forced to flee unprepared. I was dismayed at first, but soon realized these were the fortunate ones as tales of missing people and deaths were broadcast by the media. </p>
<p>Though the circumstances were dire, we had one thing in common. We were Oregonians. Over the next weeks, politics, race and religion ceased to matter. Staying alive and rebuilding became the goal. Sharing what we had or could garner. Maudie and I mucked out toilets and volunteered to cook as emergency rations became available. When the fires subsided and the smoke cleared, we were allowed to go back home, only our house was gone and our property lie incinerated. Maudie cried. I cried. It was a time for tears. As we stood holding hands surveying the devastation, our tears of sadness were suddenly transformed into tears of joy when our rooster emerged from a pile of rubble leading a dozen clucking hens. There would be a tomorrow and life would begin anew. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64345832020-09-15T18:10:01-07:002020-09-15T18:10:01-07:00Dreaming of Days Gone - By Mizeta Moon<p>The TV is down to three channels now. One offers 24-7 bible studies and guest preachers. One is a constant barrage of fake news and indoctrination. The one that pretends to be entertaining is hardly that. Where once I had hundreds of options by pressing a button, now I’m lucky if there’s batteries available for my remote. I stood on a circle today like an obedient servant, but there still wasn’t any coffee. How I miss a good cup of Joe. </p>
<p>I hated being forced into social isolation. I wanted to walk through a real store and shop. I didn’t want to live virtually without contact and emotional support from friends. It seems that everything we used to enjoy has been deemed sinful and un-American. I wanted to picnic in the park. I wanted to swim with my kids. All such activities were curtailed. Evidently, having fun was a really big no-no. Toiling incessantly for the elite was the only goal a plebe should, and could pursue. Private enterprise was discouraged at first, then quashed for corporate health. </p>
<p>My big question is WHY? The planet can provide sustenance for every inhabitant. The sun can power us for eons. Incessant wind can be our friend. Is our problem a matter of unequal and unfair distribution of resources? Greedy bastards with a hundred cars when mine hardly stayed on the road. But, constantly fixing it didn’t matter once the roadblocks went up and you couldn’t travel outside a prescribed area that conveniently had services to provide for all your needs. Only, there seems to be a forever shortage of everything. </p>
<p>I guess I’ll just have to sit here and take the abuse. Protestors are shot, or taken away and tortured. I’m old, so they’d love to get rid of me. Programming the young is easy. Getting old dogs to accept new masters is difficult, so they’d rather bury us in mass graves than allow us to contaminate the world with free thinking. My books got burned because they were filled with emotions. Good, bad, indifferent. Peaks and valleys, twists and turns. Now, we are flat-lined. Living in accordance or facing erasure. </p>
<p>A woman ahead of me in line today smelled good. Was perfume available and I missed the opportunity to buy some? I guess I should lower my expectations. After all, without the guidance of our leaders there would be nothing at all. That’s what they tell me anyway. But I remember buying black lacy panties instead of stiff white ones. I remember the silky feel of nylons on my skin. I remember shades of lipstick and hundreds of products that fell by the wayside. I remember having a choice. That’s what I miss most of all. Deciding what’s best for me instead of being told what I can have, and do. </p>
<p>Am I wrong for seeking to remain an individual? Not being a face in a herd? Aspiring to my own dreams instead of being channeled into limited opportunity? I don’t remember giving anyone permission to thwart my ascendance. Regardless how I feel, who cares? Is there an end to this madness? Do I have to live another hundred years to see a return to reason? I hope all of you are staying safe and thriving. Love Mizeta</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64073142020-08-11T11:46:03-07:002020-08-11T11:46:03-07:00Understanding History - By Mizeta Moon<p>People who’ve never taken an interest in history don’t see the pattern. America is about to have its first true encounter with authoritarianism. Lack of freedom. Restricted movement. Denial of goods and services. No free enterprise. Soldiers in the streets. While it’s true we’ve survived wartime rationing, the great depression where thousands starved and died, we have yet to face the wanton disregard of our elected officials for our health, welfare, and safety. Other nations that have existed for thousands of years have been enslaved many times, and have fought valiantly for their freedom, only to lose it again through negligence. Our country is young, spoiled by success, and has no idea how badly its citizens are being played. Driven into stockades and pitted against each other through propaganda. </p>
<p>Every dictatorship follows a time-worn formula. So far, wholesale slaughter of dissidents hasn’t occurred, but kidnapping protestors and silencing science and intelligence have. We are being force-fed an agenda that is leading to compliance with social isolation and a virtual world that can be constantly manipulated to make us believe that we believe in the lie. Thinking for yourself will not be allowed. Mindless entertainment will flood the airwaves. We will be told that our leaders are wonderful people who love and cherish us while they plunder the coffers and wallow in excess. Meanwhile, commodities will disappear. Small businesses will perish. Art will become disloyal and unfashionable. Throughout history there has been suppression of free will, leading to mindless obedience. Lack of education is the greatest tool of an exploitive regime. Ignorant and hungry people will work their fingers to the bone to survive while their masters sneer at their efforts and tread on them like paving stones. Only when the burden of servitude becomes intolerable do the masses revolt and lop off the head of their exploiter, only to find that they were only a figurehead representing a conspiracy to keep all power and economic opportunity within a small circle of what could be deemed The Chosen by an absentee God. </p>
<p>I could recite a list of murderers who’ve practiced genocide on their own people, but their names don’t matter. Their journey to supremacy follows the same path. A megalomaniac who can be convinced they are the supreme being on the planet but are actually controlled by those whose purse strings they cling to. Because of their desire to rule, they can be incited to commit horrible acts of cruelty and injustice because they are without conscience. Their self-serving ego allows them to believe in their invulnerability as long as praise and servitude are heaped upon them. When toppled, it is because their drunken misuse of power made them reckless and unaware of the quiet distancing of their supporters. Others thinking they want some of the loot and glory. </p>
<p>We’ve raped and despoiled the land. Murdered and exploited indigenous peoples to establish an arrogant society based on prejudice and greed instead of husbandry for all living things. Our comeuppance has arrived. While we descend into chaos other societies will continue to flourish due to learning from their mistakes. We’re like a toddler who doesn’t know that sticking a fork in the light socket is unwise. Someday, we may understand that cooperation is required for humanity to survive the volatile nature of the planet we live on. That should we disappear, the monuments we’ve erected will turn to dust or become overgrown. At the moment, there’s no escaping the onslaught from those in charge of our survival as they purge the herd to create more for themselves. Hopefully, we can survive their indoctrination and exploitation to create a society based on mutual respect and admiration. </p>
<p>As always, I offer you a piece of my heart to experience the love it feels for you. I am you. You are me. Together we are greater than the sum of our parts. Mizeta </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63792712020-07-07T18:12:34-07:002020-07-07T18:12:57-07:00Demilitarize - By Mizeta Moon<p>Demilitarize, don’t defund </p>
<p>I grew up in west Texas where cops would kick your ass for running a stop sign, going two miles over the limit, or skipping school. Whining about it only got you more punishment. Judges were considered paragons of virtue and sinners were incarcerated until they repented or died. No mercy was shown by teachers at school and being whipped by a length of rubber garden hose across the back of your thighs was supposed to instill fear in you and make you a better person. None of their fearmongering and beatings cured me. By the time I was twelve the state of Texas deemed me incorrigible. Incapable of rehabilitation and unworthy of being a productive member of polite society. </p>
<p>In high school, I was considered the local sissy and an open target for ridicule and continuous beat downs. I quickly learned that being different was not only unacceptable, but subject to dire consequence. Due to the mindset of the people around me, I became a fugitive seeking escape from the world I lived in. Only when I reached adulthood, was I capable of roaming free without the restrictions of bible thumpers, prigs and moralists. Leaving Texas behind was the beginning of a life without constraint. </p>
<p>For a moment, Haight Ashbury offered the freedom I sought, but the incessant hunger and needs of the revelers soon crushed the idea of a utopian society. Exploiters exploited the weak and naïve. Parasites latched onto those willing to dedicate their souls to a more enlightened society and give without discrimination. Drug addicts and rapists soon populated streets previously relegated to free concerts and love. Even the free box of unwanted clothing became a toilet for those uncaring of sharing with others. In the end, cops prevailed and a brief moment of enlightenment was ground to dust beneath the wheels of indifference. Those who stayed peddled souvenirs of an idea whose time had passed to tourists. </p>
<p>Decades unwound and the world showed momentary sparks of enlightened brilliance, but the savage nature of man constantly resisted change. I found myself transitioning to an entirely different persona but felt hemmed in by those same moralists who sought to make me be like them or be exterminated. Even with my embedded dislike and disrespect for authority, I realized that without law enforcement the world descends into chaos and thuggery. Nothing is sacred and only those willing to sacrifice the dreams and hopes of others survive. Cops are necessary to maintain some degree of civility in a species that preys on itself. </p>
<p>These days, I understand the plight of those who’ve suffered the slings and arrows of human interaction. I sympathize with their pain but want to remind them that life on this planet has never been easy or kind. What happiness we find can easily be crushed by outside forces. Now that our country has descended into a state of misinformation, illogical hatred, and factional separation, we run the risk of eliminating our species from an evolving biosphere that will leave us to petrify without the slightest concern while other organisms flourish and gain dominance. </p>
<p>Recent legislation has given hope of eventual equality to the LGBTQ community but it doesn’t stop haters from hating. It doesn’t disarm those willing to kill them goddamn queers. We need protection from law enforcement or we’ll be hunted down like animals and slaughtered. Defunding and punishing police forces without clear evidence of malfeasance and disregard for their rights as citizens will lead to a state of mind where no one wants to be a cop anymore. That will allow the thugs of this world to dominate and ruin the lives of every-day people. However, demilitarizing police forces is essential to stop the beatings, racial profiling etc. When they show up to a protest in full riot gear and ready to fight, it is inevitable that someone will start one. We seem to have lost the art of negotiation and debate. </p>
<p>I consider it a sad state of affairs when our elected officials are only concerned with their own needs and have abandoned the pursuit of liberty and justice for all. We voted for them because they promised to serve us and enhance our quality of life, but in that respect they’ve failed badly. Once their lips are attached to the public tit, they suck till it’s dry and leave us to suffer in squalor. Even though I recognize the heroism and good intentions of the majority of them, I still fear cops because they’ve become tools of those who wish me harm. Most of us and them have no idea what we’re fighting about but blindly follow orders. </p>
<p>Power has been granted to those seeking to abuse it rather than enlisting those intelligent enough to discern the difference between outright thuggery and disdain, loitering without intent, or simple stupidity. Laws need to change. People need to change. Our very existence is on the line. We possess the weapons to destroy our culture but also hold the tools to fine-tune it into a spectacular machine churning out abundance for all. I don’t care if some guy has more cars than he can drive and a trophy wife that will milk him for millions in the divorce. I just don’t want him legislating me into a corner where my broken-down old van and I no longer have the right to use the road. Quit using cops to kill us. I beg you to grant me this simple request. I believe and understand that they are humans with feelings about family and friends, just like me. Does it always have to be an us or them scenario? I’d love to share the world with you. You might not like me wearing a dress but I might think you look crappy in those jeans. I’m not going to say a word about it or shoot you for dressing the way you like. Love forever, Mizeta. </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63408592020-06-03T12:01:45-07:002020-06-06T11:35:48-07:00The Great Die Off - By Mizeta Moon<p>I was homeless for years. Slept on the sidewalk, ate from the garbage, cashed in cans to pay for showers, and to wash the few clothes and bedding I owned. This was not by choice but circumstance as I was injured from working seven days a week to survive in SoCal and could barely lift my arms. No agency cared. No one had room for me on their couch or money to feed me. During that time, I traveled alone and refused to become one of the lost. When I stood in line for a free meal I said please and thank you and avoided becoming buddies with those who were there by choice. I was assaulted several times for being a stuck-up snob who didn’t belong to the community of parasites. I kept myself clean, never begged for spare change and avoided criminal behavior. You could often find me sitting in the sun reading a book gleaned from someone’s recycling bin. While waiting for my body to heal I never surrendered my dignity. </p>
<p>As soon as I was able to resume working, I did so and applied myself diligently to every given task. I pulled myself up by my own bootstraps and a series of fortunate encounters with people who saw my struggle and cared. When the age for retirement arrived, I fell short of the threshold for Social Security benefits and continued working until I’d paid in enough of my earnings to qualify for a meager stipend. These days that check barely pays my rent so I’ve been forced to rely on the Food Stamps program to put food in my mouth. Yes, I could work, but would be penalized for doing so. The greatest advantage I’ve gained by being dirt poor is free access to health care. Without it, my aging process would be an exercise in suffering and pain. </p>
<p>Now that this administration seeks to disassemble Social Security, deny universal health care, and roll back food programs for the elderly, I and millions of others are being scheduled for the great die off. Evicted from our homes, unable to access medication, and unlike myself, lacking skills to weather life’s storms, the streets will be littered with corpses of people who toiled for years to earn their late life comfort. </p>
<p>These days patriotism is equated with military service where one goes and kills for their country. What if true patriotism is standing firm at one’s job despite all obstacles? Caring enough to go without sleep to restore power so babies don’t die from freezing temperatures and many other heroic acts. What if the true patriots paid into a system that is now being pillaged by uncaring robber barons who sneer at cries for equality? We’ve been manipulated to bare our fangs to anyone unlike us while our rights and freedoms are stripped away. If asked, most people couldn’t give a good reason for hating others. Their litany has been injected by outside forces and defies logic. </p>
<p>I probably won’t survive the streets this time due to my need for medications and age but will give it my best effort. No act of tyranny will silence my defiant howl nor break my spirit. Should I die in the gutter, my will to live shall remain unbroken. Meanwhile, I hope for a return to sanity and some semblance of humanism but am prepared to face the fact of an uncaring society. As always, I wish you peace and prosperity. Mizeta </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63408582020-06-03T12:01:21-07:002020-06-03T12:01:21-07:00Not Interested - By Mizeta Moon<p>I refuse to kneel to any invisible god when those who represent them preach suffering, pain, prejudice and xenophobia. </p>
<p>I will not worship greed, nor money. </p>
<p>Instead, I will follow my heart and tread my own path into the unknown. </p>
<p>I refute anyone’s right to rule my actions and feelings when their orders require blind obedience. </p>
<p>I choose to see the wonder of it all with my own eyes rather than be led as if blind. </p>
<p>To have a society requires cooperation, but for me the laws must be just and apply to all. I refuse to cooperate when branded unworthy of freedom and equality by anyone desirous of enslaving my mind. There will always be different viewpoints and philosophies, yin and yang, but I never ignore the merge point where extremes come together and create harmony and balance. A center where the greatest variety can exist. Practical rules and guidelines can be applied there despite constant pressure from extremism. </p>
<p>Never ask me to enlist in the armies of hatred. My soul is geared to love. </p>
<p>Never ask me to kill someone for you who’s done me no harm. I can only imagine the pain of loved ones from their loss. Never expect me to quit caring about casualties of incessant war as I question the desire to profit from misery. </p>
<p>Flaying skin from bone because we are different will never be my agenda. If it’s yours, I can only hope to remain beyond reach. I was born into this world. How can anyone say I don’t belong? </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63034582020-05-03T10:01:48-07:002020-05-04T11:01:59-07:00Pertinent Questions - By Mizeta Moon<p>To say these are both interesting and perilous times would be an understatement, so I won’t waste time before stating the obvious. We’re under permanent arrest. Everywhere you go from now on there’ll be a sign directing you how to behave in that environment. Entering some of them will be so strenuous they’ll border on paranoiac frenzy and test your willingness to comply. Others will be more inviting, but whoever controls them will still be watching you like a hawk. Our appliances spy on us already, so inviting more monitoring devices into our homes only strengthens outside control of our lives. Every interaction we have with a debit or credit card is recorded, thus we’re signed, sealed and delivered. Big Brother is perched on every shoulder because we surrendered our right to privacy a long time ago in order to belong and make a living. Fortunately, most of us are so unimportant that our transactions and movements simply become part of the mega-database. Our lives are only strenuously examined if we become someone of note. </p>
<p>Here are some of the questions floating in the air around me. Can you survive having the water to your house turned off? The human body requires hydration, so have you stashed any water? Is there a river or stream nearby? Do you have the means to purify water you glean if that’s even possible? What if there’s no electricity for months? Are you prepared for darkness and our rulers forcing us into deprivation? Can you get by without your medications? What if your kid gets sick and insurance won’t pay? What if the pharmacy won’t accept the cash you hoarded? Now that meat processing plants are closed, should you be growing vegetables? Will you have to live on the street when the landlord kicks you to the curb? What if the car runs out of gas and there is none? Are you strong enough to walk to work? What will you do if there is no work? Doubt surrounding despair and uncertainty, leading to utter confusion. Who really knows what’s going on anymore? Can we get to the root of one issue before being embroiled in another? </p>
<p>Purposeful obfuscation has been the nature of our current administration from its onset. A group of people set out to rob an entire population of its wealth and freedom–not only plundering its savings, but compromising homes, livelihoods, and dignity. From my point of view, they’ve achieved their goal. We now stand in line to face shortages and further regulation, then become grateful for being given meager portions. Movement is strictly regulated. Are checkpoints and roadblocks next? </p>
<p>Instead of worrying and losing sleep, I take small steps to ensure myself the greatest possibility of survival and focus on being happy and healthy. I’ll roll with whatever punches come my way. The big question for me is how long it will be until it becomes illegal to post my thoughts and stories. One of the steps every dictatorship takes is to silence intellectuals (not that I am one) and any creative endeavor that doesn’t meet the new standards. Feeding the populace flavorless pablum gradually erases their ability to think for themselves. </p>
<p>Facebook already decides who of our friends can view our content. Recently, a woman I know asked, “Why have hundreds of friends if you can only interact with the same twenty over and over?” This form of censorship will eventually expand to our use of all electronic communication. Dialing the number of a friend, you might get a message that their phone is no longer in service or have undeliverable email because the filters found unacceptable verbiage. By keeping us in our homes and segregated, we won’t know that the person’s devices are fully functional unless we make the effort to go see them in person. </p>
<p>Meanwhile, I’ll keep working and hoping that I don’t get arrested for being a social rebel whose rights are constantly under attack by evangelicals, assorted bigots, and our government. On a sunny day I can work in the yard, tend my beautiful flowers, and wear a pretty spring dress to the store. It would be nice if I had enough face masks to go with each different outfit, but, oh well, maybe I can learn to sew. Last week, a beautiful friend ordered me some new shoes for my birthday and I hope to wear them the first day the bar opens, along with the wig I’ve never unwrapped. Until then, as long as the liquor store stays open and my ice machine keeps working, I can party on. </p>
<p>Wherever you are, I hope you’re taking the high road, not floundering and contemplating suicide. Bailing out and reducing the population allows those seeking to dissect and imprison our society to achieve their goals. Only by staying strong and doing everything you can to survive will we ultimately undermine this menace and make these people a bad memory. I’m not nostalgic when it comes to music, but I am a veteran of the hippie era and remember the poignant compelling lyrics that came from that period of protest. When our youth finally decide to quit being insolent underachievers, there will be another upheaval against the status quo. I may not be around to see it, but I know it will come. Every monster holding a population in slavery eventually succumbs to the ravages of time , and seeds we sow today become the flowers of tomorrow. I love you my friends and wish you well. Mizeta.</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62724982020-04-05T09:53:56-07:002020-04-07T14:34:26-07:00Seizing Opportunity - Mizeta Moon<p>I accepted the reality of Big Brother decades ago, so I’ve never allowed watching the puppet show to distract me from thinking about the puppeteer. From my lowly social position, I’ve never been privy to who actually calls the shots but understand that our elected officials work for them, not us. The salaries aren’t the major consideration in running for office–it’s the perks. The money spent financing a campaign is an investment in hope of future returns. While it’s true there are altruists in the world of politics, few of them make a big impact on our society. Most campaign money comes from people who believe in a candidate’s ideas or those with an agenda they expect to be realized by the elected. Recent events have shown how little consideration most elected officials have for the people they supposedly serve. Even while drafting legislation based on humanism, they insert other agendas into it that are designed to control our morals, freedoms, behavior and movements. Using the current crisis as an excuse to rescind certain constitutional guarantees will solidify the goal of turning this country into a theocracy where women’s right to control their reproductive health will disappear along with same sex marriage and any aberration from religion-based law. </p>
<p>Personally, I’m glad I don’t believe that Jesus will save people from an invisible enemy. It keeps me from being delusional. Good safety and health precautions will dictate who lives or dies. Science, not faith will prevail. Meanwhile, church is cancelled, (lack of faith in Jesus’s healing power?) pastors are dying, and instead of begging God to intervene, medical professionals are the front line against the current boogey man. The little people are stepping up and shouldering the load while the puppet show drones on and on about how hard they’re working to save our world. The fact that many of them dumped their stocks instead of pledging money to food banks, the Red Cross and local charities is testament to their selfishness. It’s heartening that the few officials who really care are making their voices heard and doing all they can to rally support, but the power blockade in Washington thwarts the majority of their efforts. Maybe some of the bible thumpers who want to control our sex lives will get sick and discover why they should have supported disaster preparedness for everyone instead. It saddens me to think that only the death of someone they love might point out what the rest of us endure on a daily basis, but maybe their hearts are so hardened by avarice they’ll never embrace empathy and simply cut their losses and buy a new yacht. </p>
<p>Though it’s true we’ve had our activities curtailed for good reason, it’s become a lesson in how a totalitarian regime works. Once this crisis passes another will follow and freedom will never be completely restored. Culling the herd and indoctrinating the young are only part of creating a caste system wherein the elite benefit from the labor of millions whose lives are meaningless. The greatest part of this process is mind control. Instilling the belief that we deserve our fate and that it has always, will always and should be this way. If we cannot change and grow, then what exactly is the point? Forcing women to continuously gestate cannon fodder or hands to push the wheel? Filling the world with more starving orphans? Killing each other so the war machine makes more money for the rich? </p>
<p>I’m among the vulnerable by being a senior citizen with respiratory issues but hope to survive by using common sense. If I don’t, I leave behind a lifetime of work that could be considered incendiary and subject to deletion since my mind is unwilling to be controlled by the desires and beliefs of others. Whatever happens I will face each day with a smile and love for my fellow man. I don’t like a lot of them, but I don’t like rutabagas either. That doesn’t mean I would ever ask a farmer to not grow them. I, like Dylan Thomas, will not go gentle into that good night. Mizeta</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62472362020-03-12T17:18:16-07:002020-03-13T10:19:02-07:00Political Clout - By Mizeta Moon<p>While it’s disheartening to see more and more anti LGBTQ legislation being enacted across the country, it’s equally disheartening to see people sit idly by and allow themselves to be marginalized. I don’t understand why the community I consider my comrades in arms allows their own prejudices to keep them from becoming a massive voting bloc that can prevent such hatred from becoming the law of the land. “We’re lesbians so we’re not interested in gay boys.” Hello! We’re all in the same boat that’s being pounded by religion-based artillery. “You’re hetero even though you dress like a girl so you’re not part of the gay agenda.” Hello again! Anyone not conforming to the WASP agenda is considered expendable. If we all voted for someone who’s openly not of the accepted persuasion (even if all of their plans didn’t please us), we would win hands down. If everyone in America came out of the closet at once we would be the majority. I’m not talking about just the sexual closet. I’m talking about people who care about others and are afraid to lose social status by speaking their minds. I’m talking about standing up to outdated thinking that’s retarding human evolution. I’m talking about free will instead of ideologic enslavement. </p>
<p>LGBTQ rights are being stripped away because this generation doesn’t respect or understand how much pain and suffering went into the few freedoms we gained over the years. There was a time I could have gone to jail for wearing a dress. Two men or women kissing in public led to ostracism. Are we going to allow that stigma to be reattached to our existence? Are we so self-centered that we’ll ignore each other until it’s too late? Once laws go on the books, they’re hard to erase. Those with an agenda to eradicate the LGBTQ community rely on complacency and lack of solidarity to further their goals and embed religious dogma into legislation. </p>
<p>It amazes me that women can support misogyny and vote for rapists, abusers and chauvinists while their rights are being stripped away. It amazes me that any member of the LGBTQ community can support candidates who promote racism or sexism and oppose same sex marriage and child adoption. What’s happened? Have we truly become a nation of sheep unwilling to declare ourselves different? Do we no longer take pride in our individuality? I don’t speak for anyone other than myself but I’m happy to let my freak flag fly proudly and prominently in the face of all derision. My dog dropped out of the race due to lack of support but I’ll gladly support anyone who represents the possibility of shedding this shroud of confinement we’re being forced to wear. It would be easy to use the excuse that one vote doesn’t count. While that might be true, millions of votes backing open-minded people whose souls haven’t been sold will and do make a difference. </p>
<p>Hitler executed hundreds of thousands of homosexuals and the citizenry waved flags and cheered. Please help stop this cycle of madness. I may be hetero, but I dress like a girl, am a girl in my heart and have no plans to be gay. If you keep holding that against me then we’ll never stand united against the onslaught of conformity. I don’t want to be bland. Do you? Love Mizeta</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62082172020-02-07T16:49:10-07:002020-04-05T09:53:23-07:00Shaved Legs and All - By Mizeta Moon<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">LGBT Pogrom</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_regular">By Mizeta Moon</span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_regular">I volunteered to be the first one executed because I didn’t want to watch my brethren die. Witnessing their frailty be surrendered to the brutality of hate was a sight I couldn’t face. Blood sickens me. Possibly watching rivers of it flow and being helpless to stop it pummeled my sensibilities. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_regular">Armed warriors came for us at night and herded us into vans that carried us blindfolded to unknown destinations. Chains bit into our skin. Our cries for aid and sympathy fell on deaf ears. We’d been targeted for extinction by a zealous xenophobic society that considered itself more worthy of existence than us. Though we considered ourselves harmless and them misinformed, we became their victims as hatred overwhelmed reason. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_regular">As we starved in filthy facilities, we learned that people were being accosted on the street, swelling our numbers and making conditions worse. We were appalled that family members would sentence parents, offspring, or siblings to agony beyond imagination. At first, I wondered why they didn’t kill us right away, but soon realized mass execution required a totally brainwashed populace and strenuously managed release of information. There were still a few people with a heart left in the world. They were the only thing standing between us and wholesale slaughter. Debate raged in the country while more of us were crammed together, making it easy to dispose of us all at once, but in the end, sympathy waned and they prolonged the torture. In lines, we shuffle towards our doom, bound by suffering more than chains. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_regular">The killing fields are composed of sand that absorbs our blood and will never know our names. I wasn’t the first one chosen. Now my tears flow while my heart breaks and I await my turn to die. My empty stomach churns with anger while my mind questions why. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_regular">A pat on the shoulder as you pass a friend. A hug when it’s needed. Maybe that’s all it takes to make the world a better place. Love, Mizeta.</span></p>spearpointpub.com