You plan your life so it is safe, productive, and fulfilling. And then the unexpected happens.

You find yourself convicted of committing a very serious crime, which puts you behind bars for a long time. Each day is darker than the one before. You’re isolated and alone. However, if anybody will listen, you maintain your innocence. The outcome of your efforts becomes clear in . . .

But I Didn’t Do It

    Twelve years—twelve miserable years. Will the torment ever end? I can’t handle it anymore. I hate what they’re doing to me. I didn’t do anything to deserve this?

     I don’t know what to do. Nothing I’ve tried is right. Five attorneys have walked away. They told me they were unable to help. “It will soon be over,” they said. I want to scream at the top of my lungs—proclaim my innocence. But nobody wants to hear my side of the story.

     The warden and guards rarely speak to me. They treat me with disrespect—just push me around. One called me a “sorry soul,” who belongs in hell. How do I make them understand? I’m just a job to them. They clean my cell and make sure I’m fed. But they don’t care about me.

    Alone on death row, I live in a world of eerie silence. The quiet is overwhelming. I can hear the ants crawling on the floor beneath my bed. I’m tempted to reach down and play with them. Almost anything would be better than the nothingness that consumes me.

    Silence broken. The words that flow through my mind are driving me insane. I have no idea where they’re coming from. They’re noisy and irritating. And they’re getting louder. So much so, my head’s going to burst.

    “Yes, I can hear you,” I yell. “But who are you and what do you want?” Quiet—no answer. And then, a question . . . “Yes, I’ll do anything you want me to do. Just tell me what it is. Don’t drag this out any longer. Stop it! Please, stop it.”

    Silence. Absolute nothingness. “Where’d you go? Don’t leave me in darkness again. Speak to me. I told you I’d do anything and I meant it.

    “What? Did I hear you correctly? You want me to. . . . But I won’t. I can’t. Why? Because I didn’t do it? Yes, I did say I’d do anything. But not that.

    “No, I’m not a liar. But you’ve overstepped your bounds. Don’t I have some rights left?”

    Silence. The ants are coming again. They’re crawling up the side to the bed. No. No. I think they’re after me. “Did you put them up to this? Answer me.

    “You must have, for there’s nothing up here for them to want. But you say you didn’t. Then why are they still coming? Oh, God! I see one on the sheet. Get away from me, or I’ll . . .

    “It’s turning in the other direction. Going over the side of the bed. I can’t see it anymore. You did this to me, didn’t you? You don’t have to respond. I already know the answer.”

    My mind. My mind. I’m losing my mind. Twelve years—twelve miserable years. I didn’t do anything to deserve this?

    I hear somebody coming. “What are you saying? I should ignore them. But why? Maybe they’ll talk to me.

    “I shouldn’t speak to them. Why not? They could be my last chance for freedom. What? You say that’s impossible. I don’t want to hear that. You don’t know.”

    The footsteps. They’re coming closer. They’re placing a key in the lock. Oh, my God, I can’t stop trembling. My hands are ice cold. I’ve got cramps in my legs. But I’ve got to have courage. I have to let them know how I feel and that I’m innocent.

    “They won’t listen,” you say.

    “I thought you left. You don’t know they won’t. Why are you saying they don’t care? They’ve fed me and clothed me for twelve years—kept me alive. That’s caring, isn’t it?”

    I’ve got to pull myself together. The door is opening. Oh, my! It’s not them. . . . It’s a woman. And she’s beautiful. But where did she come from?

    “Yes, I want her. But I can’t have her? Why not? She’s not real,” you say.

    “How do you know? I can see her. No, she’s not a figment of my imagination.”

    “Hello, pretty lady.” Silence—no response. I said, “Hello.” Still no reply.

    Oh, my, she’s reaching out to me. “Donald, Donald Mason, take my hand.”

    But I can’t move. My legs are pinned to the bed. I can’t sit up. This isn’t right.

    “Please give me the freedom to do this. What? I don’t deserve to be free. But, you’re wrong.”

    Oh, my. Her auburn hair is blowing in the breeze. But what breeze? There are no windows in my cell. And she closed the door when she entered. Where is the wind coming from?

    She’s smiling and motioning for me to follow her. But I can’t. I’m paralyzed. “Don’t tease me. Please don’t. I can’t handle this. I want you.”

    Oh, my God! She’s taking her clothes off—exposing her breasts. I can’t control myself, but I still can’t move. “Don’t do this to me. This is pure torture.”

    I’ll close my eyes. If she can’t be mine, she needs to go away. This isn’t fair. “What did I do to deserve this?

    “What do you mean, I should know? I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. And where have you been? You need to help me get out of this—to prove my innocence. “Huh, what do you mean, I’m not innocent? I did this to myself. What are you saying? I murdered her—my girlfriend. But I . . .”

    I opened my eyes and looked up. She was gone. I was in a strange room, strapped to a huge black chair. An awful looking man in uniform placed a mask over my face. I sat alone in silence. Then everything became dark—still. I smelled gas. My breathing became labored. I gasped for air. More darkness. Silence. My head fell to my chest and . . .

    The warden looked up at the clock on the wall and spoke, “Time of death—eight thirty-five a.m.”

    A week later, the headline in the Tribune read, “Innocence Project Exonerates Donald Mason in the Death of Patricia Sterling.”

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

In our daily lives, we look for ways to economize, such as purchasing two things for the price of one. We know what we’re getting and we welcome the opportunity.

However, in some situations, two for one may not always be what we expect. What if we believed one person had entered our life, only to find out it might be two. This could turn out to be quite confusing, as you will discover in . . .

It

     A brisk wind blew, as seventeen-year-old Angelique strolled down Garfield Avenue on her way to Market Street to catch the eleven-thirty bus to the sports arena. She pulled up the collar on her coat, as the wind rustled her now unruly red hair. Her mind, cluttered with many thoughts, focused on Monique, her sixteen-year-old sister. In many ways, they were similar, but, at the same time, quite different. As she turned onto Market, Angelique shouted . . .

     “Did you see ‘It’?”

     “See what?” Monique queried.

     “’It’, over there, behind the bush in front of the liquor store.”

     “Huh, I don’t see anything.”

     “Are you blind, Monique?”

     “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Angelique.”

     “Well, ‘It’ is gone now. So it doesn’t matter.”

     “What doesn’t matter?” Monique asked, now quite frustrated by her sister’s inability to make any sense.

     “’It’.”

     “It? What’s an it?”

     “I can’t explain. You had to see ‘It’.”

     “See what, Angelique?”

     “I already told you—‘It’.”

     “I’ve had it with you, Angelique. You’re driving me crazy.”

     “I can’t drive you when you’ve already arrived. Oh, my God, ‘It’ is back.”

     “What’s back?”

     “’It’ is back.”

     “Where?”

     “Over there, behind the red truck.”

     “Oh, the guy looking at his tire. Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

     “No, not him, ‘It’.”

     “It?”

     “Yes, don’t you see ‘It’?”

     “No, I don’t. And when I ask where or what it is, you’ll say it’s gone. So, my wonderful sister, I don’t care.”

     “Well, ‘It’ is gone. You missed ‘It’ once again.”

     “Guess I’ll have to be satisfied with not knowing. Anyway, here comes the bus.”

     Angelique, along with Monique and her questions about ‘It’ tucked away in her mind, boarded the bus, paid the fare, and shuffled down the aisle to the back and slumped into a seat in the third row from the rear.

     Monique was somewhat mystified by Angelique’s seat choice and grumbled, “Why’d we have to come all the way back here when the whole bus was empty?”

     Angelique shrugged her shoulders. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she blurted.

     “Try me,” Monique retorted.

     “All right. But remember you asked me to do this. ‘It’ thought this would be the best place to sit, under the circumstances.”

     “Circumstances? What circumstances?”

     “’It’ didn’t say.”

     “Is this thing in control of you,” Monique groaned.

     “Not exactly.”

     “Then, what?”

     “I don’t think I want to share ‘It’ with you. ‘It’ is mine, not yours.”

     “If that’s the way you want to be, then I don’t want anything to do with you,” Monique stated.

     At that moment the bus came to a stop. The door opened and passengers climbed aboard. Two guys in their late teens made their way to the rear of the bus. One started to take the seat directly in front of Angelique.

     Angelique cried out, “You can’t sit there!”

     “Why not?” the young man, dressed in an open collared, long-sleeved, plaid dress shirt and tan khakis, asked in a polite manner.

     “Because ‘It’ has taken it,” Angelique replied, in a snooty way.

     The young man looked around, first to his left and then his right. Then mocking Angelique, he bent down and searched under the seat. He stood up and stared straight at her and blurted, “The seat is empty, and it’s mine to take. And besides, if someone is joining you, they can sit next to you in your row.”

     “But that seat is taken, too. My sister is sitting there.”

     “Huh?” The young man looked dumbfounded. His eyes perused the area and saw just Angelique sitting behind the seat he intended to occupy. “Is she in the bathroom?” he asked.

     “What? No. She’s sitting right beside me.”

     “Are you some kind of nut job? There’s nobody sitting next to you.”

     “What are you talking about? Are you kidding me?”

     Not wanting to get more involved with this girl, he grabbed the arm of the other young man, who had stood in silence next to him through this ordeal, and began to drag him down the aisle. “Let’s sit up front. That girl’s a lunatic,” he said loud enough for Angelique to hear.

     Angelique ranted, “Good riddance, idiot boy. I don’t want you near me and my sister.”

     The young man, tempted to give her the finger, ignored her. He and his friend moved quickly to the front of the bus and sat down.

     This whole episode took just a few minutes. With all passengers now seated, the bus driver closed the doors and continued on his way.

     Angelique shook her head. “Can you believe what happened, Monique?”

     Resurfacing, Monique exclaimed, “What a creep. I’m so proud of how you dealt with the situation. He was very immature. And I can’t believe he treated me as if I didn’t exist. He had no manners at all.”

     “Boys. They never do grow up, do they, Monique?”

     “You’re so right. It’s a shame they don’t realize how badly they behave. We, on the other hand, act like grownups. We have it all together.”

     “We sure do. And I’m so glad we have each other. We don’t always agree, but, in most cases, we are on the same page.”

     “Yes, we are. Sometimes it’s hard to tell us apart, Angelique.”

     “After all is said and done, we are sisters, Monique—joined at the hip and always in each other’s thoughts.”

     The girls began to chuckle. ‘It’ was no longer an issue. ‘It’ had disappeared into the depths of their mind—lost for now, and maybe forever.     

     Then the bus driver announced they had arrived at the sports arena. Angelique gathered up her stuff and chanted, “Monique, this is the concert we’ve been waiting for. The ‘Great Sensations’ are the best.”

     “Well, I hope so. They were your choice, not mine, Angelique.”

     As Angelique reached the front of the bus, the driver called to her, “Young lady, you gave me enough money for two tickets when you got on the bus. You moved to the rear so fast, I didn’t have a chance to give you your change. So, I owe you four dollars.”

     “Why thank you for letting my sister ride free,” Angelique murmured, as she took the money.

     “Sister? What sister?” the driver asked.

     “Oh, don’t worry about it.” Angelique said with her nose in the air, as she descended the steps. “Come Monique, let’s go have a sensational time at the concert and I’ll buy the drinks.”

     As her feet hit the sidewalk, she looked back at the bus driver and smiled. Then she danced off down the block toward the arena, leaving him in total dismay. 

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Fatigue has a way of playing tricks with your mind. What you experience may not be what it seems.

However, when the truth of the situation unfolds, what has occurred starts to make sense. But . . .

Would You Believe Me, If I Told You What Happened?

     My workday didn’t end until after 7:00 p.m. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I cleared my desk, grabbed my brief case, and dragged my fatigued body to my car. I slid into the driver’s seat and began the drive home.

     After a hellish twenty-six minutes, in which I had trouble keeping my eyes open, I pulled into the garage. Exiting the car, I headed through the covered walkway to the house.

     Entering through the front door, Bruno, our huge Saint Bernard, greeted me by jumping up and placing his paws on my shoulders. He then planted a slobbery kiss across my mouth and cheek. My balance compromised, I grabbed for the coat rack hanging on the wall in the hallway, while trying to push Bruno off me. I regained my composure, threw my coat over a hook on the rack, and called to my wife and kids, but got no response.

     I looked at the large mahogany grandfather clock sitting like a stately grandmaster against the wall across from the coat rack. It displayed the time, eight o’clock, and began to chime.

     I heard loud talking coming from the kitchen, so I dragged my tired body toward the commotion that must have prevented my family from hearing me call to them. Entering the room, I kissed my wife, Sheila, and hugged the kids, who had eaten a late dinner after soccer practice. Then, without a word, I turned and left the room.

     I ambled down the hall to our bedroom and changed out of my suit and tie into my gray sweats, threw some water on my face, and returned to the kitchen. Grabbing a bowl of chicken noodle soup from the pot on the stove, I plodded toward the living room, placed the soup on a coaster on the coffee table, and collapsed onto our large, plush sectional couch.

     As I settled in, Sheila and the kids joined me to watch the end of our favorite reality show, Amazon Survivor.  After downing my dinner, I did my best to stay awake until the show ended. It concluded at 9:00 p.m. and Sheila hustled the kids off to bed.

     “Good night, Daddy,” Nicholas, my eight-year-old, sung out.

     Olivia, my subdued six-year-old, whispered, “Nighty night, Daddy.” 

     Before I could respond, they headed to their bedrooms. Sheila leaned over and kissed me gently on the cheek and whispered, “Try not to fall asleep on the couch, as you always do. Instead of staying up, why don’t you come to bed now? You look bushed.”

     With my eyes half closed, I muttered, “It’s too early. I need time to unwind.”  

     “You can unwind in bed, you know.” Not waiting for a response, she turned and left the room.

     Moving to the chaise lounge portion of the couch, a comfortable section built for two, I stretched out my bone-tired torso on its soft velvet pillows. I reached for the remote, fumbled with it to find the “Guide” button and flipped through the selections until I located the Sci Fi Channel. Pressing “Information,” I read aloud, “Lucas Kieron and Sonia Tyrone in Disaster in a Small Town.” I pressed “OK” and settled in.

     This “highbrow” movie made me wish I’d selected another channel. However, too tired to make the effort to find something else to watch, I stared at the screen and tried hard to stay focused on the story. However, just as I realized this wouldn’t occur, my cell phone rang. Jumping up off the chaise, I grabbed it from the end table, hit “ON,” and sputtered, “Hello.” 

     “Hi, Julian, this is Mason. I wanted to get back to you to discuss the tax question you asked me about yesterday.”

     “Yes, Mason. Thank you for calling.”

     Mason is my accountant and though I know we began to talk, I can’t remember what was said or even if we completed our conversation. And I don’t recall hanging up the phone or how I got back on the chaise lounge. But I reclined there with my eyes drooping.

     I had difficulty concentrating on the TV and the gore and devastation of a town in the midst of a tremendous earthquake, with people struggling to extricate themselves from the rubble. With my legs resting on the bed of the chaise, I endeavored to pay attention to the program, but fought a losing battle. I drifted into a semi-conscious state, not quite asleep, but not awake. 

     Then strange things started happening. I attempted to roll to my left and then my right, but had trouble doing so. I tried to bend my legs in an effort to get up, but they seemed to be pinned to the chaise. Lying on my back, with my eyes almost closed, I scanned the room, but could see only faint shadows, as the only light in the room came from the darkened picture of earthquake debris on the TV screen. 

     I felt a stabbing pain in my left thigh. I reached down to rub it and touched strange objects all around me.  As I endeavored to maneuver my stricken body, I realized something large held my legs within its grasp. I began to wiggle to free them, but to no avail. The more I struggled, the more it seemed things tumbled down onto my defenseless frame. The pain from the weight on my legs became greater and I tried to shout out in anguish, “Oh Lord, what on earth is happening?” But nothing came out of my mouth, as I fought for a breath of air.

     I attempted to locate my cell phone, but couldn’t find it. I remembered I was talking on it with Mason. However, at some time during the conversation everything seemed to go dark and then I felt trapped. But I had no idea how all this occurred.

     Maybe the phone was still on, so I gasped, “Mason,” but got no response. I tried again to move the huge object draped across my legs, however, it wouldn’t budge.

     Thinking I heard noises coming from outside the window, I attempted to yell, “Help me, I’m trapped in here.” But only a whisper came out and nobody responded. I began to panic and stammered, “Please, p . . . lease help me, I can’t move.” Again, no response.

     Could my mind be playing tricks on me? Did I imagine the voices coming from outside my window? Is this all a dream?

     My thoughts returned to the thunderous crash and subsequent falling debris. Did we have an earthquake? I didn’t feel any shaking. There was no warning. Everything just collapsed. Maybe this didn’t happen here, but just in the movie.

     But then why can’t I move my legs? I tried once more. However, nothing happened. It felt as though a herd of elephants had taken refuge on top of them.

     Why had I been placed in this perilous situation? Would anybody come looking for me? Maybe Mason would? But if we got disconnected, why hadn’t he called me back? Was he all right?

     Alone, frightened, and powerless to save myself, I feared I’d lost the battle with this silent and unforgiving foe. But I couldn’t give up. And what about my wife and kids? Were they all right?

     I attempted to retain whatever sanity I had left. Something is watching me, I thought. Mysteriously my voice returned, and I screamed in defiance, “I know you’re out there.”     

     A shrill voice responded, “You bet I am, Julian. Shut off the damn TV. I have an early morning appointment and I can’t get to sleep. That stupid sci-fi movie is going to wake the kids up, too. Come to bed, now!” 

     Sheila’s high-pitched, piercing voice startled Bruno, who had fallen into a peaceful sleep, draped across my legs, now quite frozen stiff. He rose and shook himself so hard the whole room seemed to vibrate. With my legs now free, I removed the large plastic dog bone that jabbed into my left thigh and struggled to get up off the couch.

     Then the lights went on and I saw stuffed dog toys all around me. As I gazed across the room, the menacing stare of my enraged wife cut through me. She held a dog toy in her hand and was about to hurl it in my direction. Before she could release it, I looked into her eyes and whimpered, “I’m coming dear.”

     “I sure hope so,” she said, shaking her head. She dropped the toy, turned, and left the room. I slid off the couch and shut off the TV and overhead light. Then, being the obedient husband she wanted me to be, with my head bent to my chest, I followed her down the hallway to our bedroom.

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

When you reach the point in your young life where you become attracted to that special person, it can be quite exciting. But it also can be confusing.

That first “date” may not end up being all you dreamed it would be. You feel like a young man, but you may be . . .

Still In A Little Boy’s World

     “I’m late,” I yelled to my mother as I raced out of the house. “I need to meet the girl of my dreams. She told me she’d be at the corner of Third and Elm at two o’clock. I’ve got to be on time.”

     “Be careful when you cross the street, Jimmy,” Mom shouted. “That’s a busy intersection.”

     “Okay. But I’ve got to get going,” I screamed, as I slammed the door behind me. But would she recognize me? Did she even know my name? I don’t know if I told her. I don’t know her well. Just saw her on the playground a few times. But she did say she’d be there.

     I hurried down the driveway, picked up my leaf-covered bike I’d left on the side under the oak tree last night, mounted it, and peddled with the power and fury of a madman. Arriving at the scene of what I pictured as the greatest day of my life, I tumbled off my bike that fell with a thud to the ground. I tried to calm down, but to no avail. My anxiety level made me sweat like a running faucet.

     Breathing hard, I turned and stared. My heart pounded with excitement and my eyes bulged out of my head. My face became flushed. I wiped the sweat from my brow and attempted to adjust my baseball cap I soon discovered I wasn’t wearing. I shivered as the hot autumn afternoon sun beat down on me.

     My world had turned upside down. I couldn’t think straight. Every part of my body sagged in mystifying ways. I needed to take control of the situation. 

     I gathered my wits about me and managed to straighten my sagging torso. I sucked in my stomach and made a vain attempt to puff out my chest.

     Then I noticed my baseball cap on the ground. I picked it up and positioned it on my head with the bill bent down over my face. “I’ll be her mystery man,” I stated with conviction.

     This was it. My chance might never come again. I had to get it right. I’m a man, so I must act like one.

     With my head held high and my shoulders squared off like a soldier at attention, I marched forward with great confidence. I moved with the grace of a young buck ready to make his presence known to a herd of doe in a beautiful green field. Engrossed in the pursuit of love, I didn’t watch where I was going. I stumbled and fell over my bright green bike that lay in the path where I’d dropped it and landed head first in a patch of soft grass, bruising only my ego. 

     Regaining my composure, I stood up and brushed myself off. I took out my comb from the back pocket of my pants and combed my hat, now quite crushed from the past ordeal.

     Nothing was working out the way I had planned. I summoned courage from within. I’d die if . . . “Oh my, this can’t be happening to me,” I moaned in frustration.

     I gazed in the direction of my future happiness. Why has everything gone wrong? What can I do now to make this happen the way I want it to?

     My ears perked up. I heard girlish giggles just ahead of me. Now was my chance.

     I approached with enthusiasm. My heart pounded in my chest. And then I saw her— the “love of my life” standing before me. With all the strength I could muster, I gasped, “Hello.” 

     She giggled. Her eyes surveyed the area and then focused on me.

     “Oh my, she’s looking at me,” I whispered to myself. She had a beautiful smile. Her golden hair, surrounded by a bright sunlit sky, glowed. Her big blue eyes made me melt. Perspiration poured from every pore of my body. 

     I took a deep breath and muttered, “My name is . . .” Oh, no! My mind went blank.

     She gave me the weirdest look and then laughed in a way that stabbed me in the heart. “Oh, my God, I’m going to die,” I murmured.

     Dumbfounded, I couldn’t utter a word to make the situation better. I stood in silent disbelief at what had occurred, as she again rocked my world.

     “Grow up, little boy,” she said with a snicker in her voice. “My name is Zoey. Maybe, you’ll remember yours, when you become a man,” she proclaimed, with such force, I almost peed my pants. And than she turned away from me and swaggered out of my life.  

     As I watched the girl of my dreams dance off down the street, my head fell and my heart stopped beating. At twelve years old, I would die alone in sheer agony. She did it. She killed me. Never again will I make a fool of myself. Not me. Resolved to be a bachelor forever, I crawled back into my own world.

Copyright © 2009 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

As we age, we wish for a long life. If we remain healthy in body and mind, we wouldn’t mind living forever.

A friend of mine did reach 90 this year. And so, I thought I’d provide her with assistance in how to handle reaching this goal in the document . . .

Becoming “90”

Instructions On How To Proceed

This document certifies you have indeed reached the golden age of 90. Ninety may be broken down in many ways depending upon how young you wish to feel and/or act. 

You may choose to accept 90 as ten 9s. In this way you will regress back to a time where most childish behavior was acceptable. Run, jump, and play as if there is no tomorrow. And since you are 90, if you choose this option, there very well may be no tomorrow.

If the first option fails to excite you, you may choose to break 90 down as six 15s. You have begun to feel like a young woman. You have the hots for anything in pants. You are 15, but trying to look 21. You have convinced your mother to buy you a push-up bra. The turmoil and uncertainty of this stage makes 90 look good.

If the second alternative does not turn you on, you may accept 90 as five 18s. Not yet legal in all ways, you are very much a young lady in bloom. Although not able to buy a drink, you are flying high on youth. Your whole life is ahead of you. Now is the time to decide on college, to think about the work you will toil at for more than 45 years, to make a plan to handle the mounds of dirty diapers you will change, and to envision the man of your dreams with whom you will grow old.  Ninety is looking better and better all the time. 

If the third choice is not one you prefer, you can choose to live 90 as three 30s. With poetic talent in abundance, you can become a poet standing on a street corner in San Francisco reciting poetry late at night to an audience of onlookers shaking their heads. Or wearing your cowboy hat, you can sit atop a bronc at the rodeo, chanting cowboy poetry, while hoping not to fall off your steed. Trying to excel in these arenas may cause you to realize reading poetry at 90 at the library to a bunch of mostly old folks is the right thing to do.

If three 30s do not quite do it, then why not accept 90 as two 45s. You are now an adult in every sense of the word, working 60 hours a week chasing the American dream. You have two or three teenage kids and a husband who makes your kids look mature. Your MasterCard is off the charts and you have mortgaged the house for the second time. “Ain’t life grand?” All this ecstasy makes being 90 quite attractive.     

Accepting any of the above options enables you to live that stage of your life over ten times if you choose 9, six times if you choose 15, five times if you choose 18, three times if you choose 30, and twice if you choose 45. If all this sounds exhausting, maybe living at 90 just once will become irresistible. Have a very Happy Birthday! Party hardy, but do not overdo it. Remember you are 90 and want to get up in the morning.

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Was Halloween ever a scary time for you? Did you want to dress up in a costume and go door-to-door trick-or-treating?

When it was over, how did you feel? Was it different? . . .

The Morning After Halloween

At ten years old, Halloween night left me in fear.

Witches and goblins still plagued my mind,

And, with ghosts, hung from the ceiling of my room.

In the dawn of morning, creepy sounds filled my ear.

Was it still Halloween night? I could not say.

Or was my mind playing tricks on me?

I tried closing my eyes to make the demons disappear.

But opening them again, they appeared in the light of day.

This should not be happening to me.

Something was wrong.

The evil spirits should have drifted away.

They should not be here for me to see.

I pulled the blanket up over my head.

I prayed these monsters would leave me alone.

Then I heard a knock on my bedroom door.

Having no choice, I left the safety of my bed.

Opening the door, I saw my twelve-year-old brother, Kyle.

He had a weird look upon his face.

“Hello, Jeremy,” he said in a way that made me shake.

“How is your day going?” he said with a smile.

“Uh, all right I guess, but it has just begun.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you, if you let me.”

“From what?” I asked, not knowing what he meant.

“The witches, ghosts, and goblins, I hung from your ceiling just for fun.”

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.