Abundance Growth April 25

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Dane Allred expresses his thanks for the “Abundance” of this world every Sunday from 7 to 8 p.m. (Mountain Standard Time). This is the entire broadcast which includes one episode of “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”, one episode of “Dane Allred’s Partly-colored Dreamcoat” and two selections from “Literature Out Loud”. These short pieces are available here at podbean and are also available at 1001Thanks.blogspot.com. “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”, which includes all 33 audio episodes and a free book is available on eBay. Also included is Chapter Four of “The Plodder’s Mile”.

Chapter Four -- The Plodder's Mile

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The Plodder’s Mile

by Dane Allred

In chapter one, Ray and Tommy robbed a bank, while John Graham jogged on the railroad tracks after a fight about money with his wife.

In chapter two, Ray left the money behind on the tracks and let Tommy get arrested by the police. The package of $100,000 was found by John Graham as he jogged back home.

In chapter three, Captain Jones gets a call from Detective Harold “Smitty” Smith to watch for Raymond Johnson, and John Graham made a fake money package.



This chapter contains violent imagery and detail which may not be suitable for children.



CHAPTER FOUR



At the police station, Officer Jones looked at John with the RCA Victor dog head-tilt. “You found this out on the railroad tracks?”

John nodded his head.

“I was out jogging and saw the train,” said John. “I talked to the detective, who said cash had been stolen, and right after the train pulled out I saw this package.”

“So, how do you know there is money inside?” Greg Jones was serving in a small town, but he wasn’t slow. His good friend John started to shuffle his feet.

“Uh… I did open the package and look inside, but when I saw it was money.” John lied, “I wrapped it back up and brought it here. I guess that’s bad for evidence, with my fingerprints all over it.”

Greg liked John, but still wondered at the story. “The train came by hours ago, and you’re just bringing it in now?”

John blushed some more. He had expected kid glove treatment from Jones, who he had known for over 10 years. Greg was a favorite speaker at the high school.

“Sorry, I guess I should have brought it in right away.” John moved his hands in the air to look convincing. “But I wanted to shower and get cleaned up before I came in.”

The honest looks and the past history he had with John persuaded Jones to believe. But he still wanted to try one more probe. “Maybe you thought about keeping it instead of turning it in? That’s quite a pile of cash.”

John’s mind was racing. Was he really that transparent? Did Officer Jones suspect that money was missing? Was it better to pretend that all the money was still there? Greg hadn’t done more than a cursory glance at the package, so he wouldn’t be suspecting any money was gone. Or was he? Would it be better to try to convince Greg that the bundle had been faked before he found it, to throw off the cops? Decisions, decisions.

“I don’t think it’s really full of money,” John finally sighed. “I was tempted at first, but when I opened it up and flipped through a few bills, I could see that the rest is just paper.”

Officer Greg Jones acted surprised as he looked. He had been planning to return the money to the bank personally and gain some recognition for his small town, maybe get a reward, a reward for John and maybe get a raise from the city council. He did just as John thought he would, and pulled the brown wrapper off and looked at the stack, flipping the edges.

“You’re right, there’s mostly paper here.”

John looked at his long time friend and asked, “But if no one claims the bundle, do I get the money that is real? It looks like there’s only really about eighteen hundred dollars.” Jones looked up after counting the outside bills and flipping into each stack.

“There is only $1800, you’re right,” Greg said as he smiled at his friend again. “You must have counted those a few times.”

John blushed again, but it worked to effect. “Yeah, I checked it out pretty thoroughly. I hope it doesn’t screw up the investigation.”

“Tampering with evidence. Punishable by 3 to 5 years in the pen.” Greg tried to look serious, but found he was smiling and waved off the concern. “Don’t worry, John, this really is normal behavior. People are curious, and really don’t usually have any criminal intent. We think we know who did this anyway. The real question is where the rest of the money went.”

Officer Greg Jones looked at John Graham, who only shrugged his shoulders. It was the moment of truth, and John wanted this look of curiosity to look sincere. “Is there supposed to be a lot more?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry about it,” Jones replied. “And yes, if no one comes to claim this money, it’s yours after 90 days. But don’t get your hopes up. There was a bank robbery south of here earlier today, and they have the serial numbers. I would bet this is theirs.”

John looked up. “So, probably no reward either, huh? Well, is there anything else you need from me? I guess I’ll go home and tell Reba we just lost $1800 in cash.”

Jones nodded. “That’s all I need for now. But maybe it would be better not to tell Reba the amount.” They both laughed, and John went out the door.

John found himself smiling as he left the tiny police station – really just a two room shack. He was smiling the smile of the deliberate, slow and careful person he now perceived himself to be. His plodding behaviors were crossing over into his thinking, and now he was “plotting” as well as plodding. He believed he had conned his friend, and might be spending a great deal of money in the very near future.

To himself, he thought, “Well, one foot in front of the other. I guess we’ll see what happens.”



To get back to Ridgeway, Ray would have to get some more cash. Tonight. The easiest place for him to hit would be a gas station, since they were cash rich and the smaller ones were usually only staffed by one employee.

Ray had robbed over 30 gas stations during his 49 years stint of living by his wits and a little bit of force. He had served time for only 3 of these robberies, and had learned much more to refine his technique while talking with other inmates during his all-expenses paid “vacations”.

Tonight would be a “hit and run”, especially appropriate since he had no transportation and would have to run as fast as he could to get away. He had been “inspecting” several gas stations locally, and had decided on one that had a small forested area nearby which would aid in his flight.

For his weapon of choice, he had invested in a sharp electricity-testing tool; actually buying it at a local automotive store. No sense in getting arrested lifting something that only cost three bucks. Ray expected to make over $2000.00 tonight with the help of his little three dollar friend.

Ripping off the electrical connections and pocketing the tool outside the store, Ray walked back toward the gas station and took cover in the trees nearby, knowing that the longer he waited this night, the more money there would be in the till. And the darkness would aid him if he would be patient and wait an hour or two. But if he waited too late, he knew it would be easier for the cops to flush him out, since there wouldn’t be anyone else around to confuse their search. An hour or two would be fine.



Mike Shepherd bounced his head up and down, “head-banging” to the heavy metal music which the boss let him play, as long as it wasn’t too loud. It was incongruous – the music was meant to hurt your ears with its volume, but could still produce the happy feet Mike liked when he listened to metal.

This was a good job for a high school student. Three or four nights a week in the gas station gave him spending money, a gas “charge” account (which came out of his check every two weeks), and access to lots of music time. Sitting around gathering money and then counting it at night beat the old days when attendants had to pump the gas, and with very few other things to buy in the station, there wasn’t the confusion of having to worry about selling drinks, food, and other items like at other stores. It was a simple business, and judging from the stack of money he placed in the safe each night, the owners were happy to keep it simple.

His best friend Eric had got him this job, recommending him to the ancient boss who didn’t hear so well. Training had involved both of them working together for one night, while Eric explained the gas reset controls, the safe, the restocking of oil, the cleaning of windows, the expected pleasant behaviors towards even the biggest jerks who might show up that night to pump their own gas.

Mike had so much information crammed into his head that night he was trained he had bounced his head off the glass-plated sliding door of the cashier’s booth. Hard. He had been carrying two oil cans when he went to cross through the booth to the other side. Through a closed door. He had such inertia going that the impact had knocked him back three to four feet. Both Mike and Eric had a good laugh about it. There was a lot to learn in only one night of training, and the rising bruise on his head helped remind Mike to open the door next time before crossing through.

That had been almost a year ago. This was not the most demanding job in the world, but he was happy to do it, listening to his own choice of music. His long hair swayed and bounced as he marveled at being paid for sitting on his butt for eight hours.



Ray had watched Mike rock out in the small booth, and waited for dark. Lit like a torch, the booth and Mike were on display for anyone who drove by, but this road was not as traveled as some Ray had scoped out. Now that it was dark, and most of the commuters were safely home after their long day at work, the business at the pumps slowed to a crawl. There was a customer every five minutes or so, and that would be plenty of time for Ray to take care of business. If all went well, he could be in and out in less than two minutes.

Ray walked up to the gas station palming the sharply pointed metal calmly in his coat pocket. He was about to pull it out when a car approached for gas. It was self-serve, so the guy got out and started to pump. Mike Shepherd opened the cashier window and greeted Ray.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

Ray looked at the car pumping gas. Looking back at Mike, he muttered something about using the restroom. Mike pointed to the back of the lot, where a separate building held the “facilities”. The company policy was to let customers use the toilets, and if the attendant was feeling generous, to let others use it, too. Though the sixties were long past, Mike viewed himself as something of a hippie, and had the social concerns for the indigent appropriate to that social segment.

“Out in the back, man”, he said, tossing Ray the key to the door.

Mike continued to rock on, feeling justified in his social concerns of helping to equalize the societal inequalities, and turned up the volume a little.

Ray watched from a crack in restroom door while the customer paid with a check. He then emerged with the resolve to do this now, before another interruption came by. The cold metal dagger in his hand fit perfectly across his palm and up to his index finger, so he was confident he would be able to hide the weapon from everyone but Mike, who would be the only one to see the slender spike of steel in Ray’s hand.

As he approached the booth, he took the key and held it out with his left hand, intending to keep that hand in the window once it was opened. Mike blithely grabbed the key and stuck it on its appropriate metal screw to hang from the front of the booth. As he looked back, Ray had his arm in the booth, with his other hand just outside the window holding something that looked sharp.

“Give me the money in the till, and the twenties you have under it. I’ll take any bundles you have already made up, too.”

Mike looked back at the eyes of the man he had just befriended. An incredible sense of betrayal began to well up inside of him, but looking into those eyes immediately banished any protest. The eyes were unwavering and serious, with no hint of compromise. Mike reached into the drawer and pulled out a stack of ones.

“Forget the little stuff. Give me the big bills.”

Still stunned at his first encounter with violent crime, Mike began to shake. He pulled out the stack of twenties, about three hundred dollars worth. “Now give me the stuff under the drawer,” growled Ray, quietly, as if someone nearby might hear. Ray looked about slowly to see if they would be interrupted.

Mike grabbed the fifties and stacks of twenties he had made. They were instructed to put five twenties into stacks and put them under the drawer as they received them, although at this moment Mike was thinking it would have been a better policy to put them in the safe. But then again, you never know when you might need change for a hundred dollar bill.

There were five or six stacks, with another half-dozen fifty and one-hundred dollar bills. Ray could see he was only going to net a thousand, but with $100,000 waiting for him in another town, he decided to cut his losses and not have the kid get into the safe. Besides, the kid was starting to shake pretty badly, and that was when things usually began to go wrong. The cash would fit in his pockets, and then he could run.

“Quick. Give it to me,” Ray barked, making Mike jump. He dropped one stack and began to bend over to pick it up. “Leave it, and give me what you’re holding.”

Mike, in slow-motion it seemed to him, handed over $1300 to Ray. As if to emphasize the seriousness of the moment, Ray held the shaft of the tool in his hand, exposing the dagger. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be watching, and I don’t want you to call anyone for five minutes.” Ray backed away and after 25 steps, disappeared into the thicket of trees to the west. Mike’s eyes were transfixed as he watched his attacker walk slowly backwards. Then he slowly looked down at his hands and noticed he was shaking.

His pacifist roots also shook loose at that moment in the realization that he had just been robbed. The station policy was to not resist when a robbery happened, but it had never happened to Mike before. It felt like someone had just kicked him in the stomach, and as his blood began to heat, the money became not the station’s money, but his own money, which he had just let a greasy little man escape with into the woods.

Logic and reason lost their appeal as Mike unlocked and threw open the sliding doors and ran into the woods after Ray. There was no reason to try to get the money back, but the sheer terror of the moment had been replaced with anger, and a desire to tackle the short guy. That single thought drove him forward on his young legs. Mike was in considerably better shape than Ray, and in moments had overtaken him. Mike jumped onto the back of the smaller man, and wrestled him to the ground.

Ray had never been chased and caught before in his countless robberies, and was in fact, used to getting away without any trouble. The excitement of the moment must have distracted Ray as well, since he didn’t even hear Mike approaching. All he felt was the sickening thud as two bodies thrashed to the ground in the leaves.

Mike had never been a fighter, so he had no idea what to do now that he had Ray on the ground. Ray, however, had spent his life scrabbling for bits, and the fighting instinct took over. He fought almost without thought, and though Mike was bigger and stronger than Ray, it was only moments before Ray was pummeling Mike with his fists.

A kind of frenzy took over as the blood began to flow from Mike’s face, which seemed to change. Ray then saw the face of his brothers, saw cruel cellmates, and saw the face of oppression. The rage swelled as Mike stopped caring about the money and was fighting to protect himself, and thought only of escape. He flailed out at Ray, scratching and punching as best he could, but mostly Mike was just trying to dodge the punches.

As Mike dragged his fingernails across Ray’s face, blood oozed out slowly. The pain of the scratches were the final blow, and with renewed energy, Ray grabbed Mike’s long hair, pulled him up, and took the spike of steel in his other hand. Turning Mike around, Ray stabbed the short piece into the base of Mike’s skull.

Mike’s body went limp and collapsed to the ground.

Ray was pulled down with the body. Then he let go of the hair. Blood was running down his cheek, and his bottom lip was beginning to swell. He could taste blood in his mouth, and the anger he had felt continued for a good while. Slowly, he backed away from the body and looked around in the trees.

No one had seen this. Ray doubted anyone had even seen the robbery. He took a deep breath and backed away a few more steps.

He rubbed the blood from his face and gathered his thoughts. He needed to get away from here as fast as he could, and the bus station was only a few blocks away. He could get cleaned up there and find out when the next bus was going to Ridgeway. “What a stupid kid,” Ray thought to himself. Stupid to get killed for money. This would complicate matters a bit, but for the money that waited for him in the near future, this inconvenience wouldn’t stand in his way. He had killed before and not been caught.

Another dead body would make no difference.

As I Walk These Broad Majestic Ways by Walt Whitman

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As I Walk These Broad Majestic Days


by Walt Whitman


As I walk these broad majestic days of peace

(For the war, the struggle of blood finish’d, wherein, O terrific Ideal,

Against vast odds erewhile having gloriously won,

Now thou stridest on, yet perhaps in time toward denser wars,

Perhaps to engage in time in still more dreadful contests, dangers,

Longer campaigns and crises, labours beyond all others),

Around me I hear that éclat (ay clay) of the world, politics, produce,

The announcements of recognized things, science,

The approved growth of cities and the spread of inventions.



I see the ships (they will last a few years),

The vast factories with their foremen and workmen,

And hear the endorsement of all, and do not object to it.



But I too announce solid things,

Science, ships, politics, cities, factories, are not nothing,

Like a grand procession to music of distant bugles pouring,

triumphantly moving, and grander heaving in sight,

They stand for realities–all is as it should be.



Then my realities;

What else is so real as mine?

Libertad and the divine average, freedom to every slave on the face

of the earth,

The rapt promises and lumine of seers, the spiritual world, these

centuries-lasting songs,

And our visions, the visions of poets, the most solid announcements

of any.

An Attempt at Reform by August Strindberg

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An Attempt at Reform

by August Strindberg

She had noticed with indignation that girls were solely brought up to be housekeepers for their future husbands. Therefore she had learnt a trade which would enable her to keep herself in all circumstances of life. She made artificial flowers.

He had noticed with regret that girls simply waited for a husband who should keep them; he resolved to marry a free and independent woman who could earn her own living; such a woman would be his equal and a companion for life, not a housekeeper.

Fate ordained that they should meet. He was an artist and she, as I already mentioned, made flowers; they were both living in Paris at the time when they conceived these ideas.

There was style in their marriage. They took three rooms at Passy. In the centre was the studio, to the right of it his room, to the left hers. This did away with the common bed-room and double bed, that abomination which has no counterpart in nature and is responsible for a great deal of dissipation and immorality. It moreover did away with the inconvenience of having to dress and undress in the same room. It was far better that each of them should have a separate room and that the studio should be a neutral, common meeting-place.

They required no servant; they were going to do the cooking themselves and employ an old charwoman in the mornings and evenings. It was all very well thought out and excellent in theory.

“But supposing you had children?” asked the skeptics.

“Nonsense, there won’t be any!”

It worked splendidly. He went to the market in the morning and did the catering. Then he made the coffee. She made the beds and put the rooms in order. And then they sat down and worked.

When they were tired of working they gossiped, gave one another good advice, laughed and were very jolly.

At twelve o’clock he lit the kitchen fire and she prepared the vegetables. He cooked the beef, while she ran across the street to the grocer’s; then she laid the table and he dished up the dinner.

Of course, they loved one another as husbands and wives do. They said good-night to each other and went into their own rooms, but there was no lock to keep him out when he knocked at her door; but the accommodation was small and the morning found them in their own quarters. Then he knocked at the wall:

“Good morning, little girlie, how are you to-day?”

“Very well, darling, and you?”

Their meeting at breakfast was always like a new experience which never grew stale.

They often went out together in the evening and frequently met their countrymen. She had no objection to the smell of tobacco, and was never in the way. Everybody said that it was an ideal marriage; no one had ever known a happier couple.

But the young wife’s parents, who lived a long way off, were always writing and asking all sorts of indelicate questions; they were longing to have a grandchild. Louisa ought to remember that the institution of marriage existed for the benefit of the children, not the parents. Louisa held that this view was an old-fashioned one. Mama asked her whether she did not think that the result of the new ideas would be the complete extirpation of mankind? Louisa had never looked at it in that light, and moreover the question did not interest her. Both she and her husband were happy; at last the spectacle of a happy married couple was presented to the world, and the world was envious.

Life was very pleasant. Neither of them was master and they shared expenses. Now he earned more, now she did, but in the end their contributions to the common fund amounted to the same figure.

Then she had a birthday! She was awakened in the morning by the entrance of the charwoman with a bunch of flowers and a letter painted all over with flowers, and containing the following words:

“To the lady flower-bud from her dauber, who wishes her many happy returns of the day and begs her to honor him with her company at an excellent little breakfast–at once.”

She knocked at his door–come in!

And they breakfasted, sitting on the bed–his bed; and the charwoman was kept the whole day to do all the work. It was a lovely birthday!

Their happiness never palled. It lasted two years. All the prophets had prophesied falsely.

It was a model marriage!

But when two years had passed, the young wife fell ill. She put it down to some poison contained in the wall-paper; he suggested germs of some sort. Yes, certainly, germs. But something was wrong. Something was not as it should be. She must have caught cold. Then she grew stout. Was she suffering from tumor? Yes, they were afraid she was.

She consulted a doctor–and came home crying. It was indeed a growth, but one which would one day see daylight, grow into a flower and bear fruit.

The husband did anything but cry. He found style in it, and then the wretch went to his club and boasted about it to his friends. But the wife still wept. What would her position be now? She would soon not be able to earn money with her work and then she would have to live on him. And they would have to have a servant! Ugh! Those servants!

All their care, their caution, their wariness had been wrecked on the rock of the inevitable.

But the mother-in-law wrote enthusiastic letters and repeated over and over again that marriage was instituted by God for the protection of the children; the parents’ pleasure counted for very little.

Hugo implored her to forget the fact that she would not be able to earn anything in future. Didn’t she do her full share of the work by mothering the baby? Wasn’t that as good as money? Money was, rightly understood, nothing but work. Therefore she paid her share in full.

It took her a long time to get over the fact that he had to keep her. But when the baby came, she forgot all about it. She remained his wife and companion as before in addition to being the mother of his child, and he found that this was worth more than anything else.


Another 800 word/ 5 minute podcast from "Dane Allred's Partly-colored Dreamocoat". From the program “Abundance”, Dane Allred also presents pieces from "Literature Out Loud". These episodes are broadcast live every Sunday on www.k-talk.com from 7 to 8 p.m. (Mountain Standard Time), and are also available at www.daneallred .com and at www.daneallred.podbean.com. His new book, “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred” is available at www.daneallred.com and on eBay. You can also sign up and get automatic downloads as a subscriber at daneallred.podbean or on Apple’s iTunes.

Proclaim Thanks

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Proclaim Thanks

What is “Abundance”? It is a chance for you to celebrate with me this incredible universe, where we are given 3 million seconds a year to spend as we wish. We may have to work during some of that time, we all have to sleep, eat, travel from place to place, and perhaps do other things we might not really want to be doing. I hope you are doing those things which bring you happiness and joy.

If not, it might be time to re-examine what I believe is an incredible opportunity for you to find out why you are here, what it is you are supposed to accomplish, and how you are to bless the lives of others. It really isn’t just about ourselves, but being happy in what we do is one component of the plan of this universe for you. I believe we all live in a time of incredible abundance, and with all of the creativity and potential of the billions of people here on this earth, we can all find a way to find our own individual purpose.

Why do I try to proclaim thanks here each week? I want to show you how a grateful attitude can open your eyes to the abundance which surrounds all of us. I celebrate the 1001 things I am thankful for in my list of 1001 Thanks, so that you might start to proclaim a thankful attitude for all that you have. I try to share with you the ups and downs of my life to show it isn’t all a bed of roses. But maybe when we look back on those terrible times, we might be able to laugh about some of them, but at the very least, be glad for the strength we had to make it through the especially tough times, to the better times today. The real message might be that even if today looks especially dark and gloomy, we have experienced those kinds of days in the past and survived. We have grown and strengthened our resolve to succeed, to help others succeed, and to offer thanks for even the smallest success.

Robert Byrne once said, “The purpose of life is a life of purpose.” I also believe this, but I want to modify it a bit and say the purpose of life is a life on purpose. This means we are doing what we do because we have chosen to do what we are doing. You may not want to go to work, but you may choose to go to support your family, to earn a living, or maybe to pay your bills. This is a choice, and we make it every day when we awaken. But unless we know why we are doing what we do, we may still be asleep, walking through a life which seems to have purpose, but is only a connected series of events.

I know you wouldn’t enjoy the things I do. They are for me. I’ve been given a set of skills and talents, and when I use them in a productive way, I get a feeling of peace and happiness. You might think it strange to enjoy mowing the lawn – you may even curse the time you spend doing it. But I know I have to do it, or pay someone else to, and I’m much too cheap for that. So I have decided to make the best of this weekly summer chore by paying attention to the job at hand, but also celebrating the following facts: I am healthy enough to work the mower; I have the disposable income to buy a mower; I have a lawn, I have the time to mow; The lawn grows mostly without my supervision and makes my home more attractive; I have a home. I think you can see why my list of 1001Thanks is really just a few notes about the incredible abundance which blesses my life. Have you stopped to consider the abundance in your life today?

I hope you are doing something to help others, because this may be the best way to show our thanks for all we have, and also the best way to find out how much we really do have. My mother is a volunteer at a local hospital. She loves the work, and throws herself into it. A hospital administrator once introduced her as an employee. She corrected him, and said she was a volunteer. She didn’t want the pay, but she does want the satisfaction of doing for others. If you have been able to help others, you will understand it really isn’t about an hourly wage, but about a personal feeling of fulfillment.

What is “Abundance”? It’s all about learning to say “Thank You.”

The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter 3

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The Plodder’s Mile

by Dane Allred

In Chapter One, Ray and Tommy robbed a bank, while John Graham jogged on the railroad tracks after a fight about money with his wife.

In Chapter Two, Ray left the money behind on the tracks and let Tommy get arrested by the police. The package of $100,000 was found by John Graham as he jogged back home.



CHAPTER THREE









Captain Greg Jones sat fiddling with his holster as the phone rang. “There has got to be a way to fix this thing,” he muttered under his breath, wondering how long the latest bruise from his gun would take to disappear. “Captain Jones speaking.”

“Hey, Greg, this is Harold from the big city! How’s the ‘burg?” Harold Smith never let a chance go by to harass his old high school buddy.

Jones smirked into the phone. “Smitty, here the air is clean, I haven’t shot my gun in a month, and the only bruise I got this month was from my holster turning my pistol into a hammer – on my hip.”

“You country bumpkins really know how to rub it in, man,” said Smitty, as his friend interjected another barb.

“How’s the leg hole?” inquired Greg.

Now Smitty was smirking as he thought back to the six months he had just spent rehabilitating a gunshot wound to his calf. “Good as new,” he lied into the phone. Greg knew it was a lie, and let it slide.

“What’s the occasion? I never hear from you anymore,” the small town cop said.

“Just a head’s up. We’re calling all the towns along the rail line to be on the lookout for some bank money. You remember, that big guy you helped us with on the train?”

“The ‘brains’ of the operation?”

“This oaf walked into a bank and got the teller to find $100,000. We think,” continued Smitty,” that they dumped the money somewhere along the tracks.”

“They?”

“Yeah, we’re looking for a small guy,” said Harold Smith, wondering how many more calls he would have to make like this today. “At least compared to the big guy, who we got off the train, the other guy is small.”

“The big one talking?”

“Yeah, non-stop about his kitty and the trip he was gonna take with his friend Raymond.” Smitty let the name sink in.

“Short guy named Raymond. Got it, Harold,” said Jones, letting the dig sink in. Smitty hated being called “Harold”.

“I knew I shouldn’t have said this was Harold.”

“You love the attention,” said Jones. “But I better let you go – lots of miles of train track to call.”

“Yeah. Thanks for reminding me.” Smitty chortled to himself. These small town cops really had it made. “Give me a call next time there’s a murder.”

“Ouch.” Jones kneaded the leather of the holster again. “I’ll call when we get our next moose sighting.” Jones hung up and wondered if there would be another incident with the local moose herd this year.



John Graham had a problem. There was no way he could keep the money, but there was no way he was going to give it up. Dueling with his conscience, he found that if he rationalized long enough, there was usually a middle ground where reason was not too shaky and ethics were somewhat satisfied. But where would that middle ground be with $100,000 sitting in front of him in a neat stack of bills?

If he turned the whole amount over to the cops, the bank would get it. If he kept it, his greed would never let him rest. Even now, he was having a struggle trying not to involve Reba, and only because he knew she would be the moral compass that she always was. He could hear her in his head, “Take it to the police. Now. Right now.”

But moral relativism was winning out today. They had struggled for so long with so little reward for the good they were doing in the community. Everyone knew school teachers don’t get paid enough, and if there was a magic way to bless the lives of two dedicated education employees like themselves – well, you just don’t kick fate in the groin when offered a gift. Perhaps the bank would write off the loss and the insurance company would pay the claim, and no one would ever come to claim the money. Right. That was never going to happen.

But in the convoluted paths of mystery and intrigue that were crowding John Graham’s brain at the moment, a brilliant solution was beginning to form in his head. He thought back to when he had first unwrapped the bundle, and noticed the 10 or 20 bills that surrounded the hundreds of other hundred dollar bills. At first, his mind registered disbelief and convinced him that there really wasn’t an entire bundle of bills, but that someone had made a fake bundle with just the outside bills being real.

And John Graham had created just enough stage props to understand how to make the bundle that looked like it had $100,000 in it.

So after three hours of cutting paper and hand dying it over the sink, the bundle, once retied, looked exactly like when he had first opened it. He had kept the brown paper wrapping of the original, and once again, sat looking proudly at the newest addition to the Graham home. A brick of mostly bogus bills, still consecutively numbered except for 18 bills which were now a stage prop. An $1800 stage prop, but still a prop ready for the performance John hoped would convince Officer Greg Jones down at the local police station. Satisfied with his afternoon of work, he now turned to the large stack of real money. Where to hide it for a while?



Raymond Johnson had a problem. There were two pressing urgencies he needed to take care of, but he was uncertain which to handle first. Not the fastest thinker in his third grade class, Ray had devised a system to help him make decisions. He didn’t realize he was using the same system Benjamin Franklin discussed in his autobiography, but that was just a sign of a good teacher in his past who had passed the idea from the book by Franklin into the brain of Johnson.

He sat at the diner eating his banana cream pie, which he noticed, had no banana pieces in it. But the large amount of whipped cream more than compensated for the lack of real pieces of fruit. Even though the waitress had given him a strange look when he ordered double whipped cream, Ray found unless he asked, he never had enough whipped cream. “A little pie with his whipped cream,” his mother used to say.

In front of Ray was a paper napkin with two columns. One was titled “Tommy” and the other “Football”. Ray was just paranoid enough to not write the word money, even though the robbery had taken place over 100 miles away. All the local newspapers had carried the story, with a giant photo of Tommy smiling as he held up his ID number for his arrest photo. The list for “Tommy” was not as large as the list for “Football”, and it looked like the money would be the very next thing Ray would take care of. He had less than $20 in his pocket, and would have to make some sort of “arrangement” tonight for another kind of “withdrawal”.

He liked Tommy, and realized that it was wrong to desert Tommy on the train, and probably just as wrong to leave Tommy in jail. But busting him out would get them both put away, and with both of them in jail, who would get Tommy out? Plus, Ray was seriously contemplating the loss of an excellent “business associate”, who would be dependable to get the job done without asking too many stupid questions. A partner who didn’t care how much of the take he was able to keep, a partner who would never be trusted by the police or attorneys to testify credibly in court. The list was long, and almost persuasive.

The nagging doubt about someone else finding the money first, or the police finding the money were the deciding factors for Ray. He knew where it should be, and the faster he got back to “Ridgeway”, the faster he could come back here and wait quietly for the police to release Tommy. Ray figured that there was no way for the cops to convict Tommy since he was not responsible for his own actions, and no one would want to take care of the big lummox anyway. So when the release came, Ray would be right there to scoop up his valued partner.

Besides, without the money, neither Ray nor Tommy would be going anywhere soon. Ray pushed the empty pie plate back from the counter and left a quarter tip. He needed to go get that money now. But first he would need to make “some arrangements” for some traveling money.

Food in Travel by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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FOOD IN TRAVEL

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


IF to her eyes’ bright lustre I were blind,

No longer would they serve my life to gild.

The will of destiny must be fulfilid,–

This knowing, I withdrew with sadden’d mind.

No further happiness I now could find:

The former longings of my heart were still’d;

I sought her looks alone, whereon to build

My joy in life,–all else was left behind.

Wine’s genial glow, the festal banquet gay,

Ease, sleep, and friends, all wonted pleasures glad

I spurn’d, till little there remain’d to prove.

Now calmly through the world I wend my way:

That which I crave may everywhere be had,

With me I bring the one thing needful — love.

The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allen Poe

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The Cask of Amontillado



by Edgar Allan Poe

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled–but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is un-redressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally un-redressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good-will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point–this Fortunato–although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity–to practice imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack–but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting party-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.

I said to him: “My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”

“How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!”

“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain

“Amontillado!”

“I have my doubts.”

“Amontillado!”

“And I must satisfy them.”

“Amontillado!”

“As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If anyone has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me– “

“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”

“And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.”

“Come, let us go.”

“Whither?”

“To your vaults.”

“My friend, no. I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi–”

“I have no engagement–come.”

“My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp, They are encrusted with nitre.”

“Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.”

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaure closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.

“The pipe,” said he.

“It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls.”

He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

“Nitre?” he asked, at length.

“Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?”

“Ugh! ugh! ugh!–ugh! ugh! ugh!–ugh! ugh! ugh!–ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh!”

My poor friend found it impossible to reply. For many minutes.

“It is nothing,” he said at last.

“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi–”

“Enough,” he said: “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”

“True–true.” I replied; “and indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily–but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.”

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

“Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.

“I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose around us.”

“And I to your long life.”

He again took my arm, and we proceeded.

“These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”

“The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.”

“I forget your arms.”

“A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel.”

“And the motto?”

“”Nemo me impune lacessit.”

“Good!” he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

“The nitre!” I said; “see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river’s bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough– “

“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc.”

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed, and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement–a grotesque one.

“You do not comprehend?” he said.

“Not I,” I replied.

“Then you are not of the brotherhood.”

“How?”

“You are not of the masons.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, “yes, yes.”

“You? Impossible! A mason?”

“A mason,” I replied.

“A sign,” he said.

“It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaure.

“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to the Amontillado.”

“Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and, descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunate, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.

“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi–”

“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped back from the recess.

“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power.”

“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.

“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.”

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building-stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated–I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I re=approached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed–I aided–I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said:

“Ha! ha! ha!–he! he! he!–a very good joke indeed–an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo–he! he! he!–over our wine–he! he! he!”

“The Amontillado!” I said.

“He! he! he!–he! he! he!–yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo–the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”

“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”

“For the love of God, Montresor!”

“Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud:

“Fortunato!”

No answer. I called again:

“Fortunato!”

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick–on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.

In pace requiescat.


This is another episode of "Literature Out Loud" from the weekly program "Abundance". As the host, Dane Allred reads selections from famous literature each week on www.k-talk.com from 7 to 8 pm Mountain Standard Time every Sunday.

Abundance Escapades April 11

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Dane Allred expresses his thanks for the "Abundance" of this world every Sunday from 7 to 8 p.m. (Mountain Standard Time). This is the entire broadcast which includes two episodes of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred" and two selections from "Literature Out Loud". These short pieces are available here at podbean and are also available at 1001Thanks.blogspot.com. Watch for his upcoming book, “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”. Also included is Chapter Two of “The Plodder’s Mile”.

The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Two

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The Plodder's Mile
by Dane Allred

CHAPTER TWO


Tommy sat in the railroad car turning the bundle over and over again in his hands. Smaller than a shoebox, it contained something very solid, and the brick seemed to weigh almost ten pounds. A strong and very tall man, Tommy had no problem hefting the weight in his hands, tossing it up and down, then from side to side, then rolling it over from top to bottom, then back again.

Ray didn’t have the patience that seemed to come naturally with Tommy’s mental challenges. Although easily amused, it was also easy for Tommy to irritate Ray. “Give me that, you idiot,” Ray whispered to Tommy a bit too loudly, since the other three passengers in the car looked up to see if Ray was going to reprimand his big friend again. Ray smiled and asked a little too politely, “Could you give me that for a minute, Tommy?”

“I like playing with it, Raymond.” Tommy held the package close as if protecting a pet. “It’s like a really heavy football, and I feel like I’m one of those catching guys on the football team.”

The little girl, the girl’s mother and the businessman turned to look at Ray. Over the last hour they had seen several tantrums, cajolings, negotiations, and stand-offs over the package. Ray realized he would need to get rid of this unwanted attention.

“Tommy, you do look like one of those football guys, but not the receiver,” Ray intoned in a child-like voice. “You look like the quarterback, the guy who throws the ball.”

Immediately Tommy lifted the package for a forward pass, which brought Ray to his feet. “But, sometimes, Tommy,” he said getting closer to the towering Tommy, “sometimes the quarterbacks pretend to throw and just hand-off the ball.” Although shorter than Tommy by at least a foot, Ray sidled up to the quarterback and took the hand-off, and excused himself into the next car. Tommy followed like a puppy.

As soon as the door shut, Ray pulled Tommy closer, which also meant lower. “Listen you big stoop,” said the little man. “You drop this package and it breaks, there won’t be no money for us to spend later. Those people in there, you think they’re just going to sit there while money flies around the train?”

The idea seemed to have an appeal to Tommy, who reached again for the package. “No, Tommy, we are not going to throw the money around the train. I want you and me to spend the money, not them, so I am going to keep a hold of it for a while, okay?”

Tommy slumped into another seat, with his lower lip protruding in a pout. He rehearsed the rules he had learned on this train ride. “Don’t talk about the money, don’t say the word money, don’t talk about what you are gonna spend the money on, don’t play with the money…Why do there have to be so many rules?” Ray sat down next to Tommy to whisper more instructions.

“Stop saying the word money.”

“But you just said money.”

“That’s because you said it four times in a row.”

“But then you said it, so I can say it, too. Money, money, money, money…”

Ray knew there was no hope in winning an argument with Tommy, so the next best thing was to distract him. Out came the yo-yo, which Tommy had yet to master. But he could spend hours flinging the yo-yo down and then winding it back up again.

“Yo-yo!” erupted the squeal, which frightened the two other people in this car to move farther to the end. Tommy was an imposing sight, and when fully frenzied, he would strike fear into grown men. Even cops. Especially cops.

A confrontation with the cops was where Ray got the idea to recruit Tommy as a partner. After three cops had retreated from an especially big Tommy tantrum, calling instead for back-up and some psychiatric help, Ray had sat back and made some plans. Fortunately, Tommy had committed no great crime, only wanting to ring the bell at the carnival hammer game 50 or 60 times, so when the proper authorities worked to sort out the confusion, Ray stepped up to gain a partner.

“Sorry for the fracas, officers,” he had said. “My friend here isn’t working with a full deck, and sometimes he scares other people. I’ll take care that he don’t cause no more trouble.” Tommy had then looked at Ray, smiled, and everyone was happy to part company. After a few hamburgers, Ray found out Tommy was alone at the carnival, but lived up the street in a group home. Taking Tommy by the hand to a new life, Tommy was content to leave his past behind and seek the adventures Ray had planned for him.

Ray knew the perfect partner when he saw it. Though twice the size of Ray, Tommy was unable to distinguish right from wrong, instead relying on Ray to “clarify” the situation. Ray had been in prison several times for burglary and other minor crimes. The short stocky red-haired man was getting older now, and had yet to make his big heist. Now he greedily hugged the bundle of money, hardly able to contain his enthusiasm for the successful crime. It was almost all he could do to not stand on the seats and proclaim their collective brilliance, which of course, meant Ray’s brilliance.

Tommy was almost more trouble than he was worth, botching the first two hold-ups by pointing out Ray and confessing the entire plan to the tellers. Out came all the details, and after another rescue or two, Tommy had finally got it right.

One hundred thousand dollars right.

Now if Ray could only get him to shut up long enough to get away, they would have plenty of time to figure out what was next. Ray confessed as much to himself. He hadn’t really thought it would be this easy, but with the gentle giant next to him, he started to contemplate the next big heist.

But then the train began to slow, and then stopped.

The train was still miles from its destination, and Ray knew they weren’t supposed to stop for at least another hour. The few times Ray had checked out this escape route, the train had never stopped this early.

Tommy looked up and kept winding up the yo-yo. He looked out the window and pointed. “Look at the pretty lights!” he said, motioning to the two police cars directly outside the window of the train.

Ray instinctively pulled Tommy to the near side of the car, popping open a window to hear the conversation outside. Ray and Tommy huddled next to the window. Four detectives were gathered around one of the cars.

“Short guy and a big guy,” said the boss. “A really big guy,” he motioned with his hands gesturing far above his own head.

Almost before the gesturing stopped, Ray was dragging Tommy to the front of the train. There was no way they could leave the train and not be seen in the opens fields which surrounded the tracks. Ray was thinking as fast as he could, still dragging Tommy along with him wondering what to do next.

As he opened one door at the front of a car, and crossed the landing to enter the next car, Ray paused to look down. He could see the tracks under the train. The entire train was about to be searched. But maybe they wouldn’t think to search under the train.

Ray tossed the bundle up under the next car, hearing it hop two or three feet before landing next to a wheel. Perfect.



John noticed the commotion on the tracks after he had started jogging back toward home. Even though he knew it was better to keep running so there wouldn’t be as much muscle soreness the next day, the sight of four policemen escorting a huge man from the train was too intriguing to miss. He stopped next to the end of the train and watched.

“Yeah, we took the money and it was a big football, but it was heavy, and Raymond said we could spend it on anything we wanted.” The big man practically gushed at the prospects, not wanting to wait to share his excitement. “I told the nice lady at the bank we was going for a train ride, and she said she wanted to ride, too, and on the same train, and so I wonder if she is here?”

Two of the detectives held onto Tommy’s head to make sure he didn’t hit it on the door as they put him in the patrol car. The car springs bent under the load as his head barely cleared the doorway.

While the car sat full of Tommy, John finally decided to ask what was going on. His friend from the local police force told him it was a search for some stolen cash, and that he should stand off to the side of the tracks. It wasn’t more than 5 minutes before the train pulled out.

The prospect of sore muscles faded as John decided to stay and watch the show. Just like everyone else who slows and gawks, John wanted to be in on the discussion. So little happened in Ridgeway that a good police story would be discussed for a week.

After the train left, John approached the same detective, his friend Greg Jones . “Any luck?” The dark-suited man shook his head, but pointed to the car. “Looks like we got the brains of the operations, at least,” he smirked, ducking into one of the cars and pulling away.



Ray smiled to himself as the train pulled out. He had told Tommy he had to go to the bathroom, but that he didn’t want anyone to know about it. So Tommy was supposed to wait for Ray in the second car, while Ray went to the bathroom in the third car. Ray had actually gone several cars down, and sat in the toilet for a while. When the police found Tommy, Ray was several cars away and the two were never matched up. Ray had sat next to the small fatherless family looking out the car amazed at the sight, and when the detective walked by them he didn’t even give Ray a second glance. Even though he had to ditch Tommy, the money would be here on the tracks when he came back – if he came right back. Then Ray would worry about what to do about Tommy. Or maybe he wouldn’t worry.

Now to look for some landmarks so he could find his way back. The sign at the edge of town said “Ridgeway.”



John shook his head and watched the police cars pull away. He stretched briefly on the rails, trying to get the stiffness out of his calf muscles. Sitting for too long next to the train had made him feel the cold, and he could also feel his muscles beginning to stiffen up, which would give him something else to worry about when he finally got home.

The railroad tracks were now his again, and they pulled him homeward. The steady rhythm began again.

He put one foot before the other, starting again another plodding mile, which was not really running and not really walking. Especially when he ran up hills in races, he often thought to himself that he was the only person who knew he was running. Plodding, like the Budweiser horses. But like Confucius said, “It matters not how slow you go, only that you do not stop.” Step after step, he built momentum.

Then he started to build a small bit of speed, as much as uneven railroad ties would permit. He ran past a package and looked down at it as he passed. For one moment, he thought about ignoring it since it would involve another stopping and more stiffening of his muscles.

But finally, curiosity got the better of him. He slowed, turned around and walked back to pick up the package, which was much too heavy to be a football.

The brown paper wrapping seemed ordinary enough. Secured with some twine, it was big enough to get the best of John’s curiosity. It hadn’t been here earlier in his run.

Picking it up, John wondered at the mass. It was heavy. Much heavier than it looked, and the substantial weight both surprised and intrigued him. Why would a large, heavy package be dropped on the tracks?

Untying it was too slow, and now John now was really curious. Carefully he grabbed the brown paper and pulled at a corner, hoping to expose enough of the package to get an idea of what it was.

Dense stacks of greenish-white paper were under the brown. A fragrance wafted up from the package and the sight and smell of the bills punched John like a right-left combination. This package was money! He tore at the corner a bit more, and then saw the paper wrapper encircling the top stack. They were one hundred dollar bills!

“This has to be thousands of dollars,” John thought to himself. He looked around the fields that surrounded him. There was no one to be seen, and even the dark horse was pre-occupied with the hay. John tucked the package under his arm, and like the halfback on the winning team, jogged triumphantly back home.

A thousand thoughts crowded his mind, but the image of the high school touchdown was the dominant thought that kept crowding out the others. He should have left the evidence in place. Cue the Rocky theme. He should have contacted the police immediately. Tuck the cash under his arm and protect it, and cross the goal line, ready to solve all the problems he had been contemplating earlier. Touchdown!!



John flipped through a small stack of $100 bills. There was the crisp smell of newly-minted money, and after checking, he decided that all of the numbers were consecutive. This bundle had to be the package the detectives wanted.

But it was $100,000 dollars! Enough to do whatever they wanted with lots left over to pay bills, buy cars, to go on vacations. Whatever Reba wanted, he would be able to give her. It was a powerful feeling, which was followed by some thoughts about the reality of the money.

“Stolen cash,” the detective had said. Consecutive numbers meant it was probably stolen from a bank. The big guy they had arrested was talking about the lady at the bank, so he was the one who took the cash. But like the detective had said, probably not the brains of the operation. Would there be a reward for its return? From a bank?

John shook his head silently to himself. It would be wrong to keep the money, and banks wouldn’t offer much but congratulations for being a good citizen. There had to be a way to keep some of this money, if only for a finder’s fee, that would let his conscience rest and still benefit his family somehow. But how?

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

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JABBERWOCKY
by Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Hand by Guy de Maupassant

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The Hand

by Guy de Maupassant



All were crowding around M. Bermutier, the judge, who was giving his opinion about the Saint-Cloud mystery. For a month this inexplicable crime had been the talk of Paris. Nobody could make head or tail of it.

M. Bermutier, standing with his back to the fireplace, was talking, citing the evidence, discussing the various theories, but arriving at no conclusion.

Some women had risen, in order to get nearer to him, and were standing with their eyes fastened on the clean-shaven face of the judge, who was saying such weighty things. They, were shaking and trembling, moved by fear and curiosity, and by the eager and insatiable desire for the horrible, which haunts the soul of every woman. One of them, paler than the others, said during a pause:

“It’s terrible. It verges on the supernatural. The truth will never be known.”

The judge turned to her:

“True, madame, it is likely that the actual facts will never be discovered. As for the word ’supernatural’ which you have just used, it has nothing to do with the matter. We are in the presence of a very cleverly conceived and executed crime, so well enshrouded in mystery that we cannot disentangle it from the involved circumstances which surround it. But once I had to take charge of an affair in which the uncanny seemed to play a part. In fact, the case became so confused that it had to be given up.”

Several women exclaimed at once:

“Oh! Tell us about it!”

M. Bermutier smiled in a dignified manner, as a judge should, and went on:

“Do not think, however, that I, for one minute, ascribed anything in the case to supernatural influences. I believe only in normal causes. But if, instead of using the word ’supernatural’ to express what we do not understand, we were simply to make use of the word ‘inexplicable,’ it would be much better. At any rate, in the affair of which I am about to tell you, it is especially the surrounding, preliminary circumstances which impressed me. Here are the facts:

I was, at that time, a judge at Ajaccio, a little white city on the edge of a bay which is surrounded by high mountains.

The majority of the cases which came up before me concerned vendettas. There are some that are superb, dramatic, ferocious, heroic. We find there the most beautiful causes for revenge of which one could dream, enmities hundreds of years old, quieted for a time but never extinguished; abominable stratagems, murders becoming massacres and almost deeds of glory. For two years I heard of nothing but the price of blood, of this terrible Corsican prejudice which compels revenge for insults meted out to the offending person and all his descendants and relatives. I had seen old men, children, cousins murdered; my head was full of these stories.

One day I learned that an Englishman had just hired a little villa at the end of the bay for several years. He had brought with him a French servant, whom he had engaged on the way at Marseilles.

Soon this peculiar person, living alone, only going out to hunt and fish, aroused a widespread interest. He never spoke to any one, never went to the town, and every morning he would practice for an hour or so with his revolver and rifle.

Legends were built up around him. It was said that he was some high personage, fleeing from his fatherland for political reasons; then it was affirmed that he was in hiding after having committed some abominable crime. Some particularly horrible circumstances were even mentioned.

In my judicial position I thought it necessary to get some information about this man, but it was impossible to learn anything. He called himself Sir John Rowell.

I therefore had to be satisfied with watching him as closely as I could, but I could see nothing suspicious about his actions.

However, as rumors about him were growing and becoming more widespread, I decided to try to see this stranger myself, and I began to hunt regularly in the neighborhood of his grounds.

For a long time I watched without finding an opportunity. At last it came to me in the shape of a partridge which I shot and killed right in front of the Englishman. My dog fetched it for me, but, taking the bird, I went at once to Sir John Rowell and, begging his pardon, asked him to accept it.

He was a big man, with red hair and beard, very tall, very broad, a kind of calm and polite Hercules. He had nothing of the so-called British stiffness, and in a broad English accent he thanked me warmly for my attention. At the end of a month we had had five or six conversations.



One night, at last, as I was passing before his door, I saw him in the garden, seated astride a chair, smoking his pipe. I bowed and he invited me to come in and have a glass of beer. I needed no urging.

He received me with the most punctilious English courtesy, sang the praises of France and of Corsica, and declared that he was quite in love with this country.

Then, with great caution and under the guise of a vivid interest, I asked him a few questions about his life and his plans. He answered without embarrassment, telling me that he had travelled a great deal in Africa, in the Indies, in America. He added, laughing:

‘I have had many adventures.’

Then I turned the conversation on hunting, and he gave me the most curious details on hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and even the gorilla.

I said:

“Are all these animals dangerous?”

He smiled:

“Oh, no! Man is the worst.”

And he laughed a good broad laugh, the wholesome laugh of a contented Englishman.

“I have also frequently been man-hunting.”

Then he began to talk about weapons, and he invited me to come in and see different makes of guns.

His parlor was draped in black, black silk embroidered in gold. Big yellow flowers, as brilliant as fire, were worked on the dark material.

He said: “It is a Japanese material.”

But in the middle of the widest panel a strange thing attracted my attention. A black object stood out against a square of red velvet. I went up to it; it was a hand, a human hand. Not the clean white hand of a skeleton, but a dried black hand, with yellow nails, the muscles exposed and traces of old blood on the bones, which were cut off as clean as though it had been chopped off with an axe, near the middle of the forearm.

Around the wrist, an enormous iron chain, riveted and soldered to this unclean member, fastened it to the wall by a ring, strong enough to hold an elephant in leash.

I asked:”‘What is that?’”

The Englishman answered quietly:



“‘That is my best enemy. It comes from America, too. The bones were severed by a sword and the skin cut off with a sharp stone and dried in the sun for a week.’”

I touched these human remains, which must have belonged to a giant. The uncommonly long fingers were attached by enormous tendons which still had pieces of skin hanging to them in places. This hand was terrible to see; it made one think of some savage vengeance.

I said: “This man must have been very strong.”

The Englishman answered quietly: “‘Yes, but I was stronger than he. I put on this chain to hold him.”

I thought that he was joking. I said: “This chain is useless now, the hand won’t run away.”

Sir John Rowell answered seriously: “It always wants to go away. This chain is needed.”

I glanced at him quickly, questioning his face, and I asked myself: “Is he an insane man or a practical joker?”

But his face remained inscrutable, calm and friendly. I turned to other subjects, and admired his rifles.

However, I noticed that he kept three loaded revolvers in the room, as though constantly in fear of some attack. I paid him several calls. Then I did not go any more. People had become used to his presence; everybody had lost interest in him. A whole year rolled by. One morning, toward the end of November, my servant awoke me and announced that Sir John Rowell had been murdered during the night.

Half an hour later I entered the Englishman’s house, together with the police commissioner and the captain of the gendarmes. The servant, bewildered and in despair, was crying before the door. At first I suspected this man, but he was innocent.

The guilty party could never be found.

On entering Sir John’s parlor, I noticed the body, stretched out on its back, in the middle of the room.

His vest was torn, the sleeve of his jacket had been pulled off, everything pointed to, a violent struggle.

The Englishman had been strangled! His face was black, swollen and frightful, and seemed to express a terrible fear. He held something between his teeth, and his neck, pierced by five or six holes which looked as though they had been made by some iron instrument, was covered with blood.



A physician joined us. He examined the finger marks on the neck for a long time and then made this strange announcement:”It looks as though he had been strangled by a skeleton.”

A cold chill seemed to run down my back, and I looked over to where I had formerly seen the terrible hand. It was no longer there. The chain was hanging down, broken.

I bent over the dead man and, in his contracted mouth, I found one of the fingers of this vanished hand, cut–or rather sawed off by the teeth down to the second knuckle.

Then the investigation began. Nothing could be discovered. No door, window or piece of furniture had been forced. The two watch dogs had not been aroused from their sleep.

Here, in a few words, is the testimony of the servant:

“For a month his master had seemed excited. He had received many letters, which he would immediately burn. Often, in a fit of passion which approached madness, he had taken a switch and struck wildly at this dried hand riveted to the wall, and which had disappeared, no one knows how, at the very hour of the crime. He would go to bed very late and carefully lock himself in. He always kept weapons within reach. Often at night he would talk loudly, as though he were quarrelling with some one.”

“That night, somehow, he had made no noise, and it was only on going to open the windows that the servant had found Sir John murdered. He suspected no one.”

I communicated what I knew of the dead man to the judges and public officials. Throughout the whole island a minute investigation was carried on. Nothing could be found out.

One night, about three months after the crime, I had a terrible nightmare. I seemed to see the horrible hand running over my curtains and walls like an immense scorpion or spider. Three times I awoke, three times I went to sleep again; three times I saw the hideous object galloping round my room and moving its fingers like legs.

The following day the hand was brought me, found in the cemetery, on the grave of Sir John Rowell, who had been buried there because we had been unable to find his family. The first finger was missing.

“Ladies, there is my story. I know nothing more.”

The women, deeply stirred, were pale and trembling. One of them exclaimed:

“But that is neither a climax nor an explanation! We will be unable to sleep unless you give us your opinion of what had occurred.”

The judge smiled severely:

“Oh! Ladies, I shall certainly spoil your terrible dreams. I simply believe that the legitimate owner of the hand was not dead, that he came to get it with his remaining one. But I don’t know how. It was a kind of vendetta.”

One of the women murmured: “No, it can’t be that.”

And the judge, still smiling, said: “Didn’t I tell you that my explanation would not satisfy you?”