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Carmen.

She picked up the knife and grinned. She said, “Finally!”
and cut Fran's head off in one go. She picked it up and tossed it
into the burning UFO.

I stood up, weeping. “I can't
believe it,” I said, shaking my head. “It's you. It's
really
you
. You're
alive!”

I walked over to hug her. Last I remember, she was looking at me all
weird.

I wanted to kiss her. Tell her how
sorry I was for all of the confusion – explain that Fran put a
curse on me. It was all her fault. She was dead. The wicked witch was
dead
. Now we could
live happily ever after. I saw us together – married, tons of
children. We'd grow old together. Die together, in love.

“Baby!” I said, “I missed you!”

I ran to her.

CARMEN

The sky blew up. Can you believe it? Another sign! I ran after that
fireball....God was helping me find Fran and Phil – leading the
way. I was blessed! I found them outside that burning UFO. They were
hugging and kissing and rubbing and pinching each other. I ran up to
them. Phil saw me and jumped back – LAUGHING at me –
laughing and pointing. Before Fran could figure out what he was going
on about, I threw my spear through her back.

She turned around...
giggling
.

The sky flashed with lightning and a bolt struck the ground, leaving
behind a huge butcher's knife. I picked it up.

“Finally!”

I cut Fran's head off, but it still laughed!

I threw it into the fire, into the UFO wreckage.

Phil was standing there, crying, hands over his mouth. He shook his
fists at me, punched the air, gave a real fit, reminded me of a
spoiled baby. “You killed my lover!” He ran toward me,
screaming, “I'm gonna kill you!”

I yanked the spear out of Fran's body and ran it into Phil and lifted
him off his feet and threw him into the fire – spear included
(I didn't need it anymore). He danced around in there, cooking,
giggling...kissing Fran's head. Then he just stood there, stiff and
dead. I fell to my knees.

“It's all over,” I said. “I am at peace.”

I walked into town, looking for some clothes.

Some ruffians tried to give me static, but I shoved some spears in
them. That seemed to shut them up real good. I found some clothing
store called Horse's. I threw a rock at the window and climbed in and
took this nice, red dress.

Cops showed up and wrestled me to the ground and threw me in jail.
They asked me so many questions, I got a nose bleed. I kept
responding to them, but they didn't like what they were hearing –
said I was acting retarded, that I was crazy, talking gibberish.

Next thing I knew, I was in the nut house. Each morning, they'd put
me in a bathtub of cold water and give me shock therapy. My doctor
would always drag me into his office and ask what my name was and
where I was from; and then he'd show me a few inkblots and demand I
tell him what I saw. I was always honest, just like how I was with
those cops, but everything I said just angered him. He always shook
his head and said into a phone, “All gibberish. Someone call an
exorcist.”

He said I wasn't making any sense.

So it was off to the tub with me.

On and on this went: Shock treatment, same questions, inkblots,
confusion, sadness, repeat....

One day, they shocked me and all the lights in the place blew out. I
yelled at one of the doctors that there was an angry, murderous clown
waiting to kill him at his house, but this doctor just slapped me,
not believing me, told me to shut up. An hour later, he was on the
news, stabbed to death in his home by a disgruntled clown.

I didn't get anymore shock treatments after that whole thing.

Nah.

After that, they just kept me in my room. Stuck tubes up my nose and
drove wires through my scalp.

Strrrrange world.

I remember being in bed and hearing music. My nurse was playing
guitar. I asked what song she was playing.

“Ah!” she said. “Fernando Sor. 'Study in B minor,
Opus 35, No. 22'. Do you like it?”

“It's beautiful,” I said. “When I get out of
here...I'm going to learn it.”

Months later, my doctor comes into my padded cell and starts kissing
me and touching me. I let him. I missed being liked that way. Made me
feel all fuzzy inside. It was nice. Some days, he even made me
dinner. He'd sneak me out and take me to his place and make love to
me. He'd promise me nice things – how he was going to steal me
away one day and make things all better.

“We can live in New York,” he'd always say. “Would
you like that?”

He said I was talented, and that I could make us a lot of money. We'd
live like royalty!

But no, I wouldn't be in that mental place for long. A miracle
happened. Yes, another one. I told you, I was being looked after. God
got me out of there. He sent down one of his finest! That Pope waved
around a document and ordered my freedom, pushed around a few
doctors, made things happen.

I have a job now.

That Pope needed me. He said I was taking over someone's position,
you understand....Said the other woman died of old age. Said she was
120! Worked for him for over fifty years. Amazing....

I can see things from faraway. My
doctor calls it
remote viewing
.
If the Pope needs to know something about someone, he gives me
something to draw on, and I show him where said person is, and what
they're doing. It's good being useful. I feel loved.

My doctor is with me, too. He
watches over me. Makes sure I get my medication. He bought me a
classical guitar, and I've been playing it ever since. It relaxes me.
Makes me sane. I have to remember to thank that nurse for telling me
about that song. It's all I ever play. It's my medicine. Sometimes
the Pope parks the van out by a stream and I sit and play for
everyone. They all enjoy it. They all smile and clap. It's
wonderful....And I don't need anything else. Just that song. I don't
need anyone else. Just that song. I am in
love
with it.

“Fernando Sor. 'Study in B minor, Opus 35, No. 22'.”

The End

Ghost City

IS
IT A GHOST PORTAL?

By
Sister Janice Raterraw

(Reprinted
with permission from The Hawaii Trumpet; issue 3.)

A
mysterious portal opened in the clouds over Honolulu recently. Many
witnesses are claiming to see ghosts flying out from it. Highly
respected, intellectual individuals, such as Father Wham Smith, owner
of Kimo Church in Makaha, said the following:

Guests
wanting to see the portal must call two months in advance to be on
the waiting list. Please, no flash photography and no babies. The
constant crying appears to aggravate the ghosts. And remember: “No
shoes, no shirt, no
entry
.”

(Remainder
of article eaten and unreadable.)

CHAPTER
ONE

CURRENTLY
AT GHOST CITY

….A
nd then I held my breath
and shoved my fist into
the woman's stomach and gripped
intestine.
When I gave it a good
yank, all her mess came out in glittering shades of red this and red
that. I shut my mouth and eyes...warm splatter all over my face. A
terrible thought struck me:
If a cannibal's blood got into
my face-holes, will I wake up one day craving human flesh...like this
girl...like all those people...like a cannibal?
Eating
human meat?
The idea
was sickening.

The white woman grabbed my neck and squeezed, so I pulled out more
guts. My hands had a hard time yanking. Very difficult. Like holding
on to greased rope. I think the cannibal woman was British. She kept
yelling, “I'll eat ya! Yes! You better kill me! Ahhh!”
She was yelling through the pain. Then her eyes rolled back white,
and she fell on me and pinned me to the grass. Again with the warmth
– this time all over my belly, some liquid running down into my
pants and around my back.

When she fell, her forehead CONKED against mine and left a big bump.
Her mouth was over my mouth, and I could smell her stink, dead-meat
breath. Jesus, her tongue touched mine. I was surprised; I wasn't
turned on. If I may be honest, I felt guilty.

I was lonely.

I needed
company
.

After that fight, I tried
not
killing. I tried making new friends.

One time, I was walking through downtown, and a little boy – I
don't know, age 15 – jumped off a bus and tackled me to the
ground. I pressed my feet on his belly and kicked out and sent him
flying – crashing – through a store window. He ran back
out and jabbed his finger at me. He was weeping. Glass was all up in
his face.

“Gimme back my knife!” he begged.

I looked down and saw his blade's handle sticking out from my
shoulder. I pulled it out and made a deal with him. I would give his
knife back, but only if he agreed to sit down and chat with me about
religion and movies and books and current events. But he had to be
real about it – no
fake interest
in what I had to say.
The boy cocked his head and looked at me weird. He said, “You
crazy or sumtin'?” I took offense and threw the knife at him,
thinking that he'd grab it and run off. But naw.

He just stood there like a cat in headlights, and the knife hit his
forehead.

He went down, wiggling like a fish...froze with his hands clawed in
the air...and, well...just stayed that way. I assumed he was dead.

I was horrified...saddened. To make myself feel better, I dragged him
to Kaka'ako Park and dug a shallow grave on one of those green hills
overlooking the ocean and dead ships. That park – all the
tourists used to go there to take their wedding pictures. I looked at
my aching hands, then said a little prayer.

“Oh yay, oh yay,” I went. “Please God, accept this
poor, murdered soul into your flock and/or herd. Let this young, dead
boy ride on the back of your holy lion. Father...please forgive me
for killing one of your
own
. Damn. I'm sorry. He tried to eat
me out! I am ashamed...so shamed. Please forgive and forget. Master,
please! Stop damning me! I don't wanna go to Hell – that hot,
hot place!”

And then I cried a little.

Or maybe it was raining.

Ah! That old guilt again. Always with the guilt. NO MORE KILLING.
These people were innocent! People were going crazy and turning into
cannibals, but it wasn't their fault. They were just hungry.
Food
.
People do strange things when they're hungry –
desperate
things.
I was lucky. Before the ghost portal came, I always
had tons of Spam to fill me up. I was all set from day one. Canned
food at its finest.

After I said my words of peace – after I blessed that boy and
kicked away the roaches that were already all over his grave –
I made promises, goals: 1) No more killing people, and 2) Try to make
friends. Just keep trying until someone gives in...until someone a
little more sane than the rest can hold a reasonable conversation.
Heck, I'd even talk about politics.

And then I go and yank out that
woman's insides and
kill
her.

And now here we are.

Me dragging her to Kaka'ako...burying another one of my fellow
humans...another sad soul. Another sad, sad soul that was just mad
with hunger; that's all. Otherwise, good people, I was sure of it.
Loneliness. Guilt. I could feel God looking down on me, ashamed; and
I could feel Mr. Satan looking up, approving.

“Your room is ready, Dr. Boss,” Satan was saying.
“Anytime you're ready. Anytime you're ready.”

A stronger part of me demanded I shut up with all the guilt-talk.

You're a survivor,
it said.
You're just doing what you have
to do to make it in Hawaii – to live, dammit, so cut out all
this BS about guilt. You HAVE to kill. You HAVE to protect yourself.
These aren't people anymore. These are damn cannibals! Get it through
your head. Not people.
Cannibals
.

But I'm lonely. I need companionship. I need a woman. Please, God, I
want a lover.

You'll get over it. In time...you'll get used to being alone.
Besides, you wanna be friends with someone who eats people?

No.

Who gobbles up cats? Dogs?

No.

Who eats DEAD BODIES? Are you weird???

Of course not. I don't wanna kiss a girl that just ate a dead body.
It disgusts me.

Well, then...stop talking to yourself and head on home. A mighty
Spam feast awaits ye.

I had to leave my condo. Those cannibals were everywhere. They were
breaking into places and messing things up. My condo was no
exception. When I got home, the place was trashed. It was like
someone irresponsible threw a drunkard's party. The stink of urine
hung in the air, chairs stuck out from walls, spit filled the kitchen
sink, and a half-eaten arm was in the toilet. It reached up with a
clawed hand. I flushed, but that didn't get rid of it. Those
irritating cannibals....they took all my clothes, but they didn't
find my precious canned foods.

I stuffed them all in a backpack and went out for my new place, and I
knew exactly where to go.

Back in the world, before the island went haywire with ghosts, I was
paid to get rid of some zombies in Kalihi. The guy said I could stay
over his place until I finished my job, and there would be a lot of
zombies to kill, because he lived behind a cemetery. I said, “For
all this money you're giving me, I'll hold you down and give you the
ol' up-down.” He said that wasn't necessary. I was just joking,
of course.