The Hayride.....by Yvonne Parizo

The Hayride

by

Yvonne Parizo

"Blast it all!"  I shoved my chair back, stood up, and strode to the window.  Looking out, I sighed.  3:00 am in the morning and I had written only 3 pages.  Writer's block.  I hate writer's block."  Outside for once the street was quiet.  All the houses around mine had their outside lights on.  "Lighting up the night to keep the evil ones away".  I chuckle.  "Not much has changed throughout history'.  Turning back around I stare at the laptop with disgust.  The only other sound in the house is of my dog, Booker, as he snores under the table.  Everyone was asleep, except me.

Booker raises his head and yawns when Bella trots in, whining as she looks at me and then at the door.  "Alright, puppies.  Let's go out".  I reach for my hoodie, slipping it on, and opening the door leading out to the deck and the backyard.  The pups dash out frolicking as they go.  I close the door behind me, closing in the warmth and light of the house.  The backyard was dark; although, the glow of the city made sure the darkness was never the deep gloom which penetrates a rural area.  Instead, shadows flitted here and there as the cold breeze rushed through the trees.  I sat down on the wooden swing, watching the pups as they romped around the yard and listened to the sounds of the night.

So many people are afraid of the dark and night.  Others think there isn't any noise, but those of us who spend time awake at night know the truth.  The night is alive with life and sounds.  This night is no different.  A dog barks in the distance.  A nightingale chirps nearby.  In the woods down the road an owl hoots as it hunts, and closer to me, two cats screech as they circle one another.  My pups stop their playing and race to the corner, staring out in the dark as they growl.  I never see what they sense, but I know they can tell when something is amiss.  I trust them to keep us safe.

The pups relax and go back to doing their business.  I watch them and close my eyes.  Just a couple of seconds. ...

Suddenly, a blast of cold air hits me, I open my eyes and am struck by the scenery around me.  The moon shines brightly and the bare branches of trees stretch out from the shadows as if reaching for me.  The land is covered with a light glaze of snow and my hoodie has changed into a bright blue down-filled vest.  A vest I had worn when I was young teenager.  I sit there spell bound by what I am seeing and trying to comprehend it.
"Hey!  Wake up"!  Someone nudges me and laughs.  I whip my head around realizing as I did that I had on my favorite snow hat.  My mouth drops open as I recognize the three f'aces of my closest friends next to me.  "We're suppose to be having fun and you go off into lala land!"  All three laugh as I stare at them and then take in where I am.  It's the hayride from way back when.  Around me are other kids from my past.  All of them still young, full of the life which hasn't been browbeaten out of them by the realities of  adulthood.  I turn back to my friends, still laughing and goofing off and I grin at them.  Up front one of the older teenage girls is screaming as her boyfriend stuffs hay down her coat.  The wagon we are riding on is filled with teenagers, hay, and pulled by a slow moving tractor.

It pulls us down a dirt road heading to an old barn which stands out black against the brightness of the moon and whiteness of the snow.  Slowly, it moves forward and in the wagon we tell stories, sing, and laugh.  A great night of Halloween fun! I join in, even though I know this can't be real.  "No way, I must be sleeping".  I think. But I can't explain the feel of the cold air on my face, the feel  and scent of the hay, the solidness of my friends and the others.  It's crazy, but it's almost as if I really am there, back in time,  40 years before.  I laugh, talk, and enjoy the time.  It had been a magical night.  Full of fun and laughter, yet, something feels eerie, and I find myself peering over my shoulder and looking for whatever it is which disturbs me.

The tractor and wagon pull to a stop in front of the barn and people in costume whisk us off and into the thick murky darkness of it.  I find myself being pulled and pushed along as hands press against me and lead me into the gloom.  Ahead of me screaming and yells fill the air, suddenly I feel myself sliding down and my hand lands into something wet, gushy, and round.  I yelp and pull my hand from that mess only to place my other hand into something cold, thin and stringy.  I yank back trying to stand and try to grab onto the shadow of my friend in front of me.  Instead, I grip a cold frozen hand and stare into the face of the unknown whose eyes shine with a spectral glow and the mouth shows the thread interwoven in the lips.  I freeze from terror as the thing grabs me, throws back it's head, and convulses with a grotesque laugh.  Suddenly, a bright light shines on me and I see that all the people I am with are covered in ragged clothing, different levels of decayed bodies, and the smell of death pervades everything around me.  My friends have disappeared and I am all alone with these gruesome and heinous demons who are surrounding me.  I gag at the smell of monsters as they shuffle closer to me.  I jerk myself away from the one holding me, extracting it's hand which still gripped me from it's arm.  I race toward where the light is shining from, all the while hearing the grotesque stumbling coming after me.

I run as fast as I can; pursuing the light as it fades and then brightens.  Finally, I am close enough to grab it, only to come back with a handful of air.  The light has gone, and darkness permeates around me.  I hear something moving in the night close by.  It comes closer.  Closer.  It's breathing is right next to me.  I curl up into a ball, my heart pumping from fear.  Suddenly it leaps.....

"Booker!  Damn, you scared me to death"!
Booker licks me all over and shakes his head at me.  Bella plops down next to me.  Her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth as she smiles her German Shepard smile.  I look at them both.  Shake my head at what just occurred.  Standing up I snap my fingers for them to come with me.  I open the door, and all three of us enter the house which is filled with warmth and a small light.  I turn back to the door, lock it, and pull the drapes across it.  I cross the room to the table, open the laptop, and smile as I begin tapping the keys furiously in order to get what had happened down....

A dream?  A memory? Or a universal shift?   I can still feel, smell, and hear the laughter.....

The Isle of Pines by Ambrose Bierce

The Isle of Pines

by Ambrose Bierce

---

For many years there lived near the town of Gallipolis, Ohio, an old man named Herman Deluse. Very little was known of his history, for he would neither speak of it himself nor suffer others. It was a common belief among his neighbors that he had been a pirate--if upon any better evidence than his collection of boarding pikes, cutlasses, and ancient flintlock pistols, no one knew. He lived entirely alone in a small house of four rooms, falling rapidly into decay and never repaired further than was required by the weather. It stood on a slight elevation in the midst of a large, stony field overgrown with brambles, and cultivated in patches and only in the most primitive way. It was his only visible property, but could hardly have yielded him a living, simple and few as were his wants. He seemed always to have ready money, and paid cash for all his purchases at the village stores roundabout, seldom buying more than two or three times at the same place until after the lapse of a considerable time. He got no commendation, however, for this equitable distribution of his patronage; people were disposed to regard it as an ineffectual attempt to conceal his possession of so much money. That he had great hoards of ill-gotten gold buried somewhere about his tumble-down dwelling was not reasonably to be doubted by any honest soul conversant with the facts of local tradition and gifted with a sense of the fitness of things.

On the 9th of November, 1867, the old man died; at least his dead body was discovered on the 10th, and physicians testified that death had occurred about twenty-four hours previously--precisely how, they were unable to say; for the post-mortem examination showed every organ to be absolutely healthy, with no indication of disorder or violence. According to them, death must have taken place about noonday, yet the body was found in bed. The verdict of the coroner's jury was that he "came to his death by a visitation of God." The body was buried and the public administrator took charge of the estate.

A rigorous search disclosed nothing more than was already known about the dead man, and much patient excavation here and there about the premises by thoughtful and thrifty neighbors went unrewarded. The administrator locked up the house against the time when the property, real and personal, should be sold by law with a view to defraying, partly, the expenses of the sale.

The night of November 20 was boisterous. A furious gale stormed across the country, scourging it with desolating drifts of sleet. Great trees were torn from the earth and hurled across the roads. So wild a night had never been known in all that region, but toward morning the storm had blown itself out of breath and day dawned bright and clear. At about eight o'clock that morning the Rev. Henry Galbraith, a well-known and highly esteemed Lutheran minister, arrived on foot at his house, a mile and a half from the Deluse place. Mr. Galbraith had been for a month in Cincinnati. He had come up the river in a steamboat, and landing at Gallipolis the previous evening had immediately obtained a horse and buggy and set out for home. The violence of the storm had delayed him over night, and in the morning the fallen trees had compelled him to abandon his conveyance and continue his journey afoot.

"But where did you pass the night?" inquired his wife, after he had briefly related his adventure.

"With old Deluse at the 'Isle of Pines,'" {1} was the laughing reply; "and a glum enough time I had of it. He made no objection to my remaining, but not a word could I get out of him."

Fortunately for the interests of truth there was present at this conversation Mr. Robert Mosely Maren, a lawyer and litterateur of Columbus, the same who wrote the delightful "Mellowcraft Papers." Noting, but apparently not sharing, the astonishment caused by Mr. Galbraith's answer this ready-witted person checked by a gesture the exclamations that would naturally have followed, and tranquilly inquired: "How came you to go in there?"

This is Mr. Maren's version of Mr. Galbraith's reply:

"I saw a light moving about the house, and being nearly blinded by the sleet, and half frozen besides, drove in at the gate and put up my horse in the old rail stable, where it is now. I then rapped at the door, and getting no invitation went in without one. The room was dark, but having matches I found a candle and lit it. I tried to enter the adjoining room, but the door was fast, and although I heard the old man's heavy footsteps in there he made no response to my calls. There was no fire on the hearth, so I made one and laying [sic] down before it with my overcoat under my head, prepared myself for sleep. Pretty soon the door that I had tried silently opened and the old man came in, carrying a candle. I spoke to him pleasantly, apologizing for my intrusion, but he took no notice of me. He seemed to be searching for something, though his eyes were unmoved in their sockets. I wonder if he ever walks in his sleep. He took a circuit a part of the way round the room, and went out the same way he had come in. Twice more before I slept he came back into the room, acting precisely the same way, and departing as at first. In the intervals I heard him tramping all over the house, his footsteps distinctly audible in the pauses of the storm. When I woke in the morning he had already gone out."

Mr. Maren attempted some further questioning, but was unable longer to restrain the family's tongues; the story of Deluse's death and burial came out, greatly to the good minister's astonishment.

"The explanation of your adventure is very simple," said Mr. Maren. "I don't believe old Deluse walks in his sleep--not in his present one; but you evidently dream in yours."

And to this view of the matter Mr. Galbraith was compelled reluctantly to assent.

Nevertheless, a late hour of the next night found these two gentlemen, accompanied by a son of the minister, in the road in front of the old Deluse house. There was a light inside; it appeared now at one window and now at another. The three men advanced to the door. Just as they reached it there came from the interior a confusion of the most appalling sounds--the clash of weapons, steel against steel, sharp explosions as of firearms, shrieks of women, groans and the curses of men in combat! The investigators stood a moment, irresolute, frightened. Then Mr. Galbraith tried the door. It was fast. But the minister was a man of courage, a man, moreover, of Herculean strength. He retired a pace or two and rushed against the door, striking it with his right shoulder and bursting it from the frame with a loud crash. In a moment the three were inside. Darkness and silence! The only sound was the beating of their hearts.

Mr. Maren had provided himself with matches and a candle. With some difficulty, begotten of his excitement, he made a light, and they proceeded to explore the place, passing from room to room. Everything was in orderly arrangement, as it had been left by the sheriff; nothing had been disturbed. A light coating of dust was everywhere. A back door was partly open, as if by neglect, and their first thought was that the authors of the awful revelry might have escaped. The door was opened, and the light of the candle shone through upon the ground. The expiring effort of the previous night's storm had been a light fall of snow; there were no footprints; the white surface was unbroken. They closed the door and entered the last room of the four that the house contained--that farthest from the road, in an angle of the building. Here the candle in Mr. Maren's hand was suddenly extinguished as by a draught of air. Almost immediately followed the sound of a heavy fall. When the candle had been hastily relighted young Mr. Galbraith was seen prostrate on the floor at a little distance from the others. He was dead. In one hand the body grasped a heavy sack of coins, which later examination showed to be all of old Spanish mintage. Directly over the body as it lay, a board had been torn from its fastenings in the wall, and from the cavity so disclosed it was evident that the bag had been taken.

Another inquest was held: another post-mortem examination failed to reveal a probable cause of death. Another verdict of "the visitation of God" left all at liberty to form their own conclusions. Mr. Maren contended that the young man died of excitement.

http://americanliterature.com/author/ambrose-bierce/short-story/the-isle-of-pines

www.youtube.com480 × 360

A Trapper's Ghastly Vengeance collected and edited by Charles M. Skinner

The State of New York is filled with stories associated with the Native Americans of the region, the early Dutch settlers, English colonization, and  the Revolutionary War.  This is just a sample of the folk tales and myths which surround the Empire State and it's violent and mystical past....

Myths and Legends of our Own Land, by Charles M. Skinner, [1896], at sacred-texts.com

---

A TRAPPER'S GHASTLY VENGEANCE

About a mile back from the Hudson, at Coxsackie, stood the cabin of Nick Wolsey, who, in the last century, was known to the river settlements as a hunter and trapper of correct aim, shrewdness, endurance, and taciturn habit. For many years he lived in this cabin alone, except for the company of his dog; but while visiting a camp of Indians in the wilderness he was struck with the engaging manner of one of the girls of the tribe; he repeated the visit; he found cause to go to the camp frequently; he made presents to the father of the maid, and at length won her consent to be his wife. The simple marriage ceremony of the tribe was performed, and Wolsey led Minamee to his home; but the wedding was interrupted in an almost tragic manner, for a surly fellow who had loved the girl, yet who never had found courage to declare himself, was wrought to such a jealous fury at the discovery of Wolsey's good fortune that he sprang at him with a knife, and would have despatched him on the spot had not the white man's faithful hound leaped at his throat and borne him to the ground.
Wolsey disarmed the fellow and kicked and cuffed him to the edge of the wood, while the whole company shouted with laughter at this ignominious punishment, and approved it. A year or more passed. Wolsey and his Indian wife were happy in their free and simple life; happy, too, in their little babe. Wolsey was seldom absent from his cabin for any considerable length of time, and usually returned to it before the night set in. One evening he noticed that the grass and twigs were bent near his house by some passing foot that, with the keen eye of the woodman, he saw was not his wife's.
"Some hunter," he said, "saw the house when he passed here, and as, belike, he never saw one before, he stopped to look in." For the trail led to his window, and diverged thence to the forest again. A few days later, as he was returning, he came on the footprints that were freshly made, and a shadow crossed his face. On nearing the door he stumbled on the body of his dog, lying rigid on the ground. "How did this happen, Minamee?" he cried, as he flung open the door. The wife answered, in a low voice, "O Hush! you'll wake the child."
Nick Wolsey entered the cabin and stood as one turned to marble. Minamee, his wife, sat on the gold hearth, her face and hands cut and blackened, her dress torn, her eyes glassy, a meaningless smile on her lips. In her arms she pressed the body of her infant, its dress soaked with blood, and the head of the little creature lay on the floor beside her. She crooned softly over the cold clay as if hushing it to sleep, and when Wolsey at length found words, she only whispered, "Hush! you will wake him." The night went heavily on; day dawned, and the crooning became lower and lower; still, through all that day the bereft woman rocked to and fro upon the floor, and the agonized husband hung about her, trying in vain to give comfort, to bind her wounds, to get some explanation of the mystery that confronted him. The second night set in, and it was evident that it would be the last for Minamee. Her strength failed until she allowed herself to be placed on a couch of skins, while the body of her child was gently lifted from her arms. Then, for a few brief minutes, her reason was restored, and she found words to tell her husband how the Indian whose murderous attack he had thwarted at the wedding had come to the cabin, shot the dog that had rushed out to defend the place, beat the woman back from the door, tore the baby from its bed, slashed its head off with a knife, and, flinging the little body into her lap, departed with the words, "This is my revenge. I am satisfied." Before the sun was in the east again Minamee was with her baby.
Wolsey sat for hours in the ruin of his happiness, his breathing alone proving that he was alive, and when at last he arose and went out of the house, there were neither tears nor outcry; he saddled his horse and rode off to the westward. At nightfall he came to the Indian village where he had won his wife, and relating to the assembled tribe what had happened, he demanded that the murderer be given up to him. His demand was readily granted, whereupon the white man advanced on the cowering wretch, who had confidently expected the protection of his people, and with the quick fling and jerk of a raw-hide rope bound his arms to his side. Then casting a noose about his neck and tying the end of it to his saddle-bow, he set off for the Hudson. All that night he rode, the Indian walking and running at the horse's heels, and next day he reached his cabin. Tying his prisoner to a tree, the trapper cut a quantity of young willows, from which he fashioned a large cradle-like receptacle; in this he placed the culprit, face upward, and tied so stoutly that he could not move a finger; then going into his house, he emerged with the body of Minamee, and laid it, face downward, on the wretch, who could not repress a groan of horror as the awful burden sank on his breast. Wolsey bound together the living and the dead, and with a swing of his powerful arms he flung them on his horse's back, securing them there with so many turns of rope that nothing could displace them. Now he began to lash his horse until the poor beast trembled with anger and pain, when, flinging off the halter, he gave it a final lash, and the animal plunged, foaming and snorting, into the wilderness. When it had vanished and the hoof-beats were no longer heard, Nick Wolsey took his rifle on his arm and left his home forever. And tradition says that the horse never stopped in its mad career, but that on still nights it can be heard sweeping through the woods along the Hudson and along the Mohawk like a whirlwind, and that as the sound goes by a smothered voice breaks out in cursing, in appeal, then in harsh and dreadful laughter.

http://www.sacred-texts.com/ame/lol/lol016.htm
www.amazon.ca1500 × 1500Search by image

The Lottery by Shirley Jackson.....synopsis

One of the most disturbing short stories I have ever read....

The Lottery

by Shirley Jackson

---

Shirley Jackson's short story The Lottery was published in 1948 and is not in the public domain.

Accordingly, we are prohibited from presenting the full text here in our short story collection, but we can present summary of the story, along with by some study questions, commentary and explanations.

---

It is important to have some historical context to understand this story and the negative reaction that it generated when it was published in the June 26, 1948 issue of The New Yorker. The setting for the story, a gathering in a small rural village, wasn't a fictional creation in America this story was published in the summer of 1948. The setting was emblematic of "small town America." It was customary at that time, for rural community leaders to organize summertime gatherings to draw people together in town centers to socialize, and to frequent and support some of the town's business establishments. It was thought to be good for the businesses and good for the community. These gatherings were usually organized by the city council and featured lotteries with modest cash-prizes to help lure people into their vehicles for the long drive to town. So the scene was instantly recognizable to readers -- especially rural readers -- when the story was published, and they did not like the way that this particular story developed and concluded. Many interpreted the story to be an attack on the values of rural communities. As a result the story engendered a great deal of anger and criticism. Here is the summary, which will be followed by additional commentary.

---

On a warm summer day, villagers gather in a town square to participate in a lottery. The village is small with about 300 residents and they are in an excited but anxious mood. We learn that this is an annual event and that some surrounding towns are thinking about abandoning the lottery. Mrs. (Tess) Hutchinson makes an undramatic entrace and chats briefly with Mrs. Delacroix, her friend.

The night before Mr. Summers, a town leader who officiates the lottery, had made paper slips listing all the families with the help of Mr. Graves (subtle name choice?). The slips were stored overnight in a safe at the coal company.

The villagers start to gather at 10 a.m. so that they may finish in time for lunch. Children busy themselves collecting stones -- one of those odd details that will later emerge loaded with meaning -- until the proceedings get underway and they are called together by their parents.

Mr. Summers works down the list of families, summoning the head man of each household. A male sixteen years or older comes forward and draws a slip of paper. When every family has a slip of paper, Mr. Summers has everyone look at the slip and we discover that Bill Hutchinson has drawn the one slip with a black spot. It's his family that has been chosen. Mrs. Hutchinson begins to protest. With tension mounting it becomes clear that "winning" this lottery isn't going to be what we expected, and that the "winner" isn't going to walk away with a pile of cash.

Once a family is chosen, the second round begins. In this round, each family member, no matter how old or young, must draw a slip of paper. It is Tess Hutchinson who draws the slip with the black circle. While Mrs. Hutchinson protests the unfairness of the situation, each of the villagers picks up a stone -- "And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles" -- and closes in on her. The story ends with Mrs. Hutchinson being stoned to death while protesting, "It isn't fair, it isn't right." The story concludes with six of the most famous words in short story history, "And then they were upon her."

---

When the story was released it engendered a very strong negative reaction and backlash that manifested itself in subscribtion cancellations for The New Yorker and large amounts of what could be described as "hate mail" for both the magazine and the author. Shirley Jackson and the editors atThe New Yorker were both surprised by the reaction. Even Jackson's mother was critical of the work. Here is an excerpt from Jackson herself:

 'It had simply never occurred to me that these millions and millions of people might be so far from being uplifted that they would sit down and write me letters I was downright scared to open; of the three-hundred-odd letters that I received that summer I can count only thirteen that spoke kindly to me, and they were mostly from friends. Even my mother scolded me: "Dad and I did not care at all for your story in The New Yorker," she wrote sternly; "it does seem, dear, that this gloomy kind of story is what all you young people think about these days. Why don't you write something to cheer people up?"'

One literary critic described the story as "a chilling tale of conformity gone mad." Yes, that's a nice sound-bite to release in a classroom discussion, a book club gathering or a short story seminar but I honestly doubt that the letters received by Jackson in 1948 cursed her for writing a tale of 'conformity gone mad.' I do suspect that some people picked up and reacted strongly to the idea that Jackson might be suggesting that underneath the idyllic image of rural communities peopled by wholesome citizens, that there might be a sinister force waiting to be unleashed. The people in those communities certainly didn't see themselves that way. I suspect that some folks made simpler inferences about the story that they still found offensive; that the stones represented harmful gossip and insults, that these gatherings were a place where unfounded rumors could be born by chance and inflict real damage on those targeted; as gathering by gathering, a new "target" might become subject to slander earned or unearned.

Jackson kept her intended meaning to herself, believing that it would emerge more clearly with the passage of time. But considering that she was genuinely surprised by the reaction, it seems logical to conclude that she intended to make a commentary on general human nature rather than a specific criticism of rural American communities in the mid-20th century.

Personally, I think the questions of permission and participation make for a great discussion or essay about this particular short story. As small as the gathering is, it is an official event and an act of governance. The American writer and intellectual Henry David Thoreau suggested that you have a moral responsibility for your government; that when the government does something wrong -- say, handing out "free" small-pox infected blankets to Native American Indian tribes -- that it's not right to simply blame the government, because by extension that government belongs to you and acts on your behalf. So the blame belongs to you as well. That is part of the foundation for many of the ideas he advocates in On Civil Disobedience.

In The Lottery, I see questions regarding the use of force: would you voluntarily participate in an annual lottery like this? Yet the people come every year. Why? I also see questions about permission and consent. Are people willing to tolerate the possibility of bad things happening in their community as long as the odds of it happening to them are low and the cost of speaking out and protesting against it might be high? What are we willing to trade off or compromise in order to be part of a community? How do these questions relate to modern American culture and politics where some people -- an increasing number -- believe that some individual liberty should be sacrificed for the good of the community while others believe that individual liberty and the freedom to make personal choices is the highest consideration. That can be a difficult question for some, and they wish to answer it with compromise: "Of course *some* individual liberty must be sacrificed." This story may be useful for removing the middle ground and raising guiding principals to the surface for consideration.

---

For those of you that have landed on this page looking for the secret to winning the lottery, I have a few thoughts . . .

First, good luck to you. I hope you win.

Second, there is no magic formula and the odds of winning are extremely low. So balance your participation modestly, never spend more than you can afford. Enjoy dreaming about what you will do if you win.

Lastly, keep in mind, that no matter how often you play and lose, your worst loss is better than Tess Hutchinson's win!

http://americanliterature.com/author/shirley-jackson/short-story/the-lottery

www.brighthubeducation.com309 × 475Search by image

Democracy by Langston Hughes

Democracy

by Langston Hughes

Democracy will not come
Today, this year
Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.

I have as much right 
As the other fellow has
To stand
On my two feet 
And own the land.

I tire so of hearing people say, 
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.

Freedom
Is a strong seed
Planted
In a great need.

I live here, too.
I want freedom
Just as you. 


http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/democracy/

The Fast Eater.........

Traditions are followed by just about everyone.  However, there are times when we must understand why we do these traditions.  This is a Buddhist parable which reflects on whether what we are doing is right or wrong.  Just saying "we've always done this" is not an answer.  We need to understand why we do things and then decide if it is what WE wish to do....

The Fast Eater

The day after their marriage, a newlywed couple was eating a meal together—and for no apparent reason, the husband was wolfing down his food like there was no tomorrow.

One day, his wife said to him, “My beloved husband, no one is going to steal your food. Why don’t you slow down and enjoy it?”

The husband snappily replied, “That’ts my secret. I can’t tell you.”

Upon hearing this, the wife became even more curious about her husband’s bizarre eating habits, and asked once again in an affectionate tone. Finally, the husband replied, “I eat like this because my family has eaten quickly for as long as we can trace back our history. I’tm just following our custom.”

Many people act like this man. Rather than considering whether what they’re doing is right or wrong, they simply say, “This is how our group has done things for as long back as we can remember, and that is why we do it now,” and they persist in these actions without modifying them, all the way until their death.

http://www.rodneyohebsion.com/buddhist-folktales-parables.htm

Something Wicked This Way Comes.....The Real Poem by Ray Bradbury

Something Wicked This Way Comes

The Real Poem, by Ray Bradbury.....

Crystal water turns to dark
Where ere it's presence leaves it's mark
And boiling currents pound like drums
When something wicked this way comes...

A presence dark invades the fair
And gives the horses ample scare
Chaos rains and panic fills the air
When something wicked this way comes...

Ill winds mark it's fearsome flight,
And autumn branches creak with fright.
The landscape turns to ashen crumbs,
When something wicked this way comes...

Flowers bloom as black as night
Removing color from your sight
Nightmarish vines block your way
Thorns reach out to catch their prey

And by the pricking of your thumbs
Realize that their poison numbs
From frightful blooms, rank odors seep
Bats & beasties fly & creep

'Cross this evil land, ill winds blow
Despite the darkness, mushrooms glow
All will rot & decompose
For something wicked this way grows... 

http://www.authorsden.com/categories/poetry_top.asp?catid=33&id=141019

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Something-wicked-this-way-comes-325554641 Something wicked this way comes

by MacroMagnificent

Photography / Abstract & Surreal / Surreal©2012-2014 MacroMagnificent