The Small Man--MJ Horror Story!

I have always been fascinated by costume parties and masquerade balls. I have found a note of the mysterious when people congregate in one place, all dressed and appearing to be something or someone they are not. Of course, this friendly deception is done all for the sake of fun and amusement. But in this story, a young party-goer will find nothing fun or amusing when she encounters a strange and small man…

 

 

 

 

“The Small Man”

A Michael Jackson Horror Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
(Featuring Cameos by Marlon and Jermaine Jackson!)

 

 

Los Angeles, California
September, 1985

As a soft, classical piece--composed by of Mozart, but played by someone born in the twentieth century--spilled from the small radio affixed to the wall, a young woman sat before a lighted vanity, putting the final touches of make up to her face.
She was a stunning woman, with a fine brown complexion, slanted, dark, and deep set eyes, beneath pencil thin brows. Cascading over her smooth shoulders was long, thick black hair, that had been painstakingly curled and picked into place, almost as sort of a dark halo around the woman.
Her face, quite attractive when bare, now was made up in a becoming way: white and metallic silver shadow frosted her eyelids, off set by the black liner and mascara, a smattering of dark raspberry blush applied to hollows of the cheeks to make the bones stick out more, and leaning into the mirror for a closer look, she was painting her small, pouted mouth, with strokes of a bright red, glossy lipstick.
She was distracted from her own beauty by the meek and timid knocking.
“Camille? Camille, are you decent, Dear?”
Came the sweet, almost musical voice from the other side of the closed door.
A contented smile came to the woman’s face and she chuckled to herself as more knocks were placed.
For the last two years, Camille Dufrense had lived in the same condo with her boyfriend, Michael Jackson.
He could have rightly barged into the bathroom at will--Lord knows he footed all the bills--but he was a gentleman. He scarcely ever entered Camille’s private bath without knocking first.
“Come in, Darling…” She called and picking up a powder sponge was dabbing her nose with it.
A moment later, the door cracked and a lovely creature slipped inside.
Michael Jackson, a tall, fairly slim and gangly man, leaned against the doorframe, and reflected in the mirror behind Camille.
Michael was beautiful in his own right, with a skin tone that matched that of his girlfriend’s perfectly. His hair, jet black and arranged in short, glossy curls, a few falling into his eyes, bounced as he moved from side to side.
Even from where she sat, Camille could tell Michael was wearing his own cosmetics--kohl around the eyes and bright red blush on the cheeks.
He never left the house without it and even in bed she rarely saw his natural skin glow without his blush.
His taut, lithe body was hidden by a blue velvet robe.
Oddly enough, his feet and skinny legs were covered by hunter green tights.
“Camille, I was wondering if you’re almost done putting on your face…” He announced starting to stride over behind her. “We still have to get dressed and drive out to Beverly Hills to get to Marlon’s house.”
Again Camille smiled.
Michael’s older brother, Marlon, who was very fond of throwing parties for absolutely no conceivable reason, perhaps there was a bit of Gatsby in him, was giving a costume party at his estate that night--though Halloween was over a month away.
(And they had RSVP’d almost a month ago for the festivities.)
“Yes…” Camille turned and started to beam at Michael. “You know perfection takes time--”
She stopped abruptly, when she noticed that Michael was not returning the beam. Instead, he appeared to be frowning.
“What’s wrong?” She questioned, her small lips pushing out with misunderstanding. “Don’t you think I look pretty?”
Longs hands were shoved into the pockets of his robe and Michael groaned loudly,
“You look gorgeous, Camille, you always do, but…” He hesitated and his dark eyes met hers for a moment. “But, we’re going as Peter Pan and Wendy to the party, Baby.”
When her face showed she still didn’t understand her error, Michael elaborated.
“You’re done up like you’re going as Iman to a photo shoot. Wendy is supposed to be like, an adolescent or teenage girl. She wouldn’t be as made up as you are--”
“You mean you want me to take my make up off?” Camille, gasped aghast at the notion. “Do you realize it took me forty-five minutes to look like this?”
“Well--”
Rising up and placing hands on her hips, she continued,
“And I’m not a kid or teen, Mike! I’m twenty-five! It’s already enough I have to simper around Marlon’s party in a nightgown. Let me keep my face as it is! I‘m going to be at a party with all our friends--I can‘t go around with a bare face! It‘s….it‘s inhuman!”
Camille would have rather died than gone around their crowd looking pale and sallow with no color or accent to her face.
A cool, smug smile came to Michael’s pointed face as he looked down on the lovely and dismayed one scowling up at him.
“Even if I ask, you won’t take it off, will you?” He wondered, and stubbornly, Camille shook her head.
“Fine…” A long arm was draped around the woman and her forehead smooched lightly. “…I’ll take a ‘sexy’ Wendy with me to the party, then!”
Pretending to be angry, though she had won the battle, Camille continued to frown, as Michael continued pecking at her face, before his lips collided with hers, sweetly.
“I just hope no one tries to steal you away from me…pretty young thing like you…” Michael murmured between smooches.
Camille couldn’t stay angry, real angry, at him for long anyway. It was impossible to.
But if only she knew who would try to steal her away.

Three Hours Later
Beverly Hills, California

“…There’s something strange, in the neighborhood…Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters! …”
Marlon Jackson’s grand and palatial estate, a soaring and sweeping, white Italianate structure, was a hotbed of activity that unseasonably warm Fall night.
All through the home, and spilling out into the expanse backyard, were over a hundred attendees, all wearing some form of costume, from a woman, dressed as a gorilla and carrying a Barbie doll--obviously King Kong carrying Fay Wray--to a man dressed as President John F. Kennedy--after the gunshot, with half his brain oozing out the large wound in back of his head.
Camille was having a pleasant time, dancing across the front foyer, packed with people, and sampling various appetizers as handed out by waitresses dresses as French maids. And from time to time, winking at the other males whose eye she happened to catch.
But she wasn’t going to flirt, she was intensely loyal and faithful to Michael.
Also he was nearby.
A few feet from her, Michael Jackson conversed with two of his siblings--he had eight others in all--Jermaine and Marlon.
Jermaine, who was notorious for changing partners like he changed drawers, had come as Casanova, a just characterization if there ever was one, dressed as an eighteenth century gentleman with a white powdered curly wig and heavily powdered face. For effect, every so often, he’d drop a pair of silky panties out of his pocket.
A pink and gold brocade suit and crisp white blouse covered his tall, chunky body.
(Already a scuffle had broken out between two of his girlfriends who happened to run into each other during the fete.)
The host of the party, Marlon Jackson, a man who always had a loud laugh coming out of his mouth, was a pirate.
A bit shorter and thicker of body than his siblings, Marlon was costumed, as a pirate.
He wore a ruffled, gold silk shirt, tucked into black spandex trousers, with patent leather knee-boots, all of which hugged his muscular frame. A gem-studded patch covered his left eye. A large, gold hoop dangled from his left ear and reflected the light, like his golden saber, hanging from his hip by a leather belt.
Jewel encrusted rings--all real--glittered as Marlon, talking about something in an animated fashion, was waving his hands around.
It was a good party, a good mood and Camille was prepared to party until the sun came up--as such shindigs did go on until the last patron stumbled on home in a drunken stupor.
As Camille paused, watching her boyfriend, now hooting boisterously with his brothers, she got the sudden feeling that she, herself, was being watched.
Tearing her gaze from her Suntanned Peter Pan, she began to look around to see just who was watching her.
Near her were several couples, but all were engaged in their own conversations, speaking and looking only at each other.
It took several moments, but Camille was able to locate the source of her creepy feeling.
A few yards away, leaning in the open doorway, leading off into the formal living room, a man stood.
He was a small White man, not really a midget, but much shorter than the general population milling about him. He had a strange, pale face, with large, wide and darting green eyes and short, dark hair, that was a bit tousled. He wore an ill-fitting light brown suit and held a fedora in one hand.
He amused Camille the moment she saw him, because he reminded her of some old film actor…she just couldn’t call his name.
Raising a hand she waved at him and he waved back.
What a strange, small man indeed.
“Caviar and crème cheese canapé, Ma’am?”
A voice questioned and mildly startled, Camille saw that a waitress had come up to her, balancing a large, silver platter in her hands.
“Yes, thank you.” Camille partook of a treat and as the woman moved on, looked to the door for the small man.
He was no longer visible.
Still curious as to the name of the actor he was portraying, she sauntered over to Michael, who remained clustered with his brothers by the winding, spiral staircase leading up to the second and third floors.
“…I’m glad I could make the party…” Jermaine was commenting, sipping from a flute of champagne. “…cause I’m taking off for Fiji tomorrow. Going on vacation….”
“HA!” Marlon screamed with laughter and gave Jermaine a playful push. “You ain’t fooling anybody man! Vacation my round black ass! We know you got a girl there--you got a girl everywhere! Don’t forget, you owe me for that Chinese urn your two battling babes broke earlier tonight!”
“Hey man,” Jermaine took another drink. “You knew you were doing wrong inviting Amanda and Shelly here in the first damn place! It’s your fault they got into it over me! I don’t owe you shi--”
“Can’t believe anybody would get into it over you.” Michael tossed his head, hair bouncing.
“You know what, Michael, fuc--”
“Hi, Boys.” Camille interrupted Jermaine, knowing that once he got wound up, it would be hours before his long-winded self would clam up. Or say something that caused Peter Pan to become a grown man knock the powder out Casanova’s wig.
“Hey, Baby!” Michael instantly had an arm around her and was tugging her close. “I hope you don’t feel abandoned, we were just shooting the breeze.”
“Man talk!” Marlon grunted and his plump lips were parting in a bright smile. Jermaine merely drank more.
“No, Honey…” Camille patted at Michael’s soft chest. “I wanted to ask you something--Who was that little guy we watched in that horror film the other night?”
A frown crossed Michael’s face as he pondered. “You mean that movie, “The Mad Hands”?”
“Yes…who was that funny looking guy in it?” Camille repeated, her own mind scrambling,
“I heard of that film.” Marlon interjected. “Y’all and your old ass movies--that actor is Peter Lorre.”
“That’s it! Peter Lorre!” Camille clapped her hands happily. “Who’s the guy that came dressed as Peter Lorre, he looks just like him!”
Taking an appetizer off a passing tray, Marlon popped into his mouth and shrugged,
“Hell, I don’t know; I invited half the people here and the other half, my wife invited. Might be someone she knows.”
“Where is Carol?” Camille inquired, ready to go find Marlon’s spouse, if she didn’t bump back into the small man herself.
“Um…” Marlon mumbled and rubbed at his chin. “Lord, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I popped the first bottle of bubbly, two hours ago. She’s somewhere--we kicked off the party in the rose garden out back, she might be there...”
“One of these days, you’re gonna lose that woman and not find her!” Michael cackled and scowling Marlon snapped,
“Aw, shut up and go find your damn shadow, Peter Pan!”
Kissing at Michael’s rouged cheek, Camille excused herself.
Making her way through the house, and dodging a partier who was vomiting in the kitchen trashcan, she made her way out to the backyard.
The party was even wilder outside, than in.
Several people were flopping around in the marble rimmed, liver-shaped pool, and a woman, completely nude--not Carol though--went running by whooping it up, four men, dressed as the Marx Brothers giving pursuit.
It then dawned on Camille that Carol could be anyone there, as she had neglected to ask Marlon just who or what his wife was dressed up as.
Was she a female pirate, or something else like a princess or a fairy or a fencer?
Starting around the pool, she began looking at every Black woman she passed, hoping to find Carol.
After squinting at a half-dozen women, and not discovering the elusive Mrs. Jackson, only a line of imitation Diana Rosses, Camille saw a welcomed sight.
Up ahead, and waving at her again, was the small man.
“Hey, wait!” Camille called and started towards him.
Much to her chagrin, the man turned and began pacing away.
There was no true rhyme or reason why Camille suddenly felt compelled to pursue this man.
She was not attracted to him in any way, as he was small, and quite ugly, and she had marvelous Michael whom she was more than pleased with.
But the small man piqued a rare interest in her, and she wanted to meet him.
That is, if she could catch him first.
She completely circled the pool trying to reach that strange creature and almost shrieked an obscenity when she lost track of him a second time.
This was starting to get ridiculous, now.
How could she lose such a distinctive looking person?
Resigning herself to the idea that she would never know who he was, and could not seem to locate Carol for help, Camille started back into the house to find Michael and spend the rest of the evening with him.
At least she knew where she had left her boyfriend.
Coming to where the spiral staircase met the foyer, she was dismayed to see Michael, Marlon and Jermaine were no longer there.
“Damn it all to hell!” Camille gasped to herself, pounding a fist into the palm of her hand.
Was she doomed to spend the entire party alone?
Passing the spiral stair, something just barely caught her attention.
Standing, about a dozen steps up and in the first curve of the staircase, was the small man.
This time, instead of waving, he appeared to be beckoning Camille. Wiggling a finger at her to come and join him.
Glancing around, and wanting to avoid a full-blown scandal, she saw that no one was watching her, and advanced up to the man.
Standing that closely to him, Camille was surprised to see that she stood a good foot taller than him.
“Hello.” She greeted him with a smile, and for the first time all night, he grinned, revealing tiny, weirdly crroked white teeth.
“Hello.” He had a light, brisk British accent.
“You’ve been a hard guy to catch all night…I must say, I do like your costume very much. It’s very simple. You make a great Peter Lorre--you look exactly like him.” Camille giggled.
“Costume…?” The small man echoed and was crumpling his hat in his hands. “You are very beautiful, Miss…”
Camille was quite used to being complimented, and took it as normally as discussing the weather when getting a bit of praise.
“Thank you, I’m Camille Dufrense, and you are?” She introduced herself.
“Timothy Alastair.” The man nodded, hat turning to a mess of felt in his hands. Was he that nervous to be speaking to Camille? Or was her beauty unnerving to him?
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you. Who invited you, Marlon or Carol?”
Timothy’s green eyes sparkled,
“Why, Carol did.”
“Oh, Carol did--and how do you know Carol, Timothy?” Camille was feeling at ease with this odd little guy and leaned against the banister carelessly.
“Carol and I work together.” Timothy replied, moving closer to her.
It was a simple benign statement, but one that struck Camille strangely.
Carol Jackson didn’t work.
She’d never needed to. She came from an old, well-moneyed Southern family, and had married into a well-moneyed West Coast one when she took vows with Marlon.
Carol was a woman who’s only work was to remain slim, pleasant and pretty for her man.
She didn’t need to work!
Camille gazed down at Timothy, who was so close to her it was becoming indecent. She could smell pipe tobacco on him plainly.
“Are you friends with Carol?” Timothy asked, a sleepy, half-lidded look coming to his eyes as he leaned yet closer to Camille.
“Yes…” Camille instantly aware of his sordid intentions, stiffened.
“Her husband’s brother is my boyfriend…if you’d please…”
Putting her hands up, Camille gripped Timothy’s tiny shoulders to push him away. He was too close for comfort, and Michael, once he got a few snifters into his thin body and system could be as fiery as a bull with red before its eyes if he saw someone on the make for his girl.
As she touched Timothy, she was keenly aware that he was cold.
Colder than any person she touched in her life.
Colder than anyone should have been on that balmy night, in a house spilling over with bouncing, dancing, drinking bodies.
She stared down into those green eyes, eyes that were sharply piercing her own brown ones. Eyes that seemed to be staring beyond her face, and were peering off into her soul.
Eyes with a gaze as cold as the body in which they were fixed.
And then everything went black.
Every, single, solitary light bulb illuminating Marlon Jackson’s home and property, all, at once, blew out.
Bathing everything within the iron gates surrounding it in sheer blackness.
“I’LL BE GODDAMNED!”
Came Marlon’s panicked cry a few rooms over, carrying above the din of surprised shrieks and intoxicated chuckles.
“A FUSE MUST HAVE BLOWN! CAROL! CAROL! CAROL ANN!”
Marlon’s voice passed under Camille as he went running through the mass, hunting his wife and the fuse box.
After a few moments of quite loud cursing between the host couple--Marlon had finally found his wife--the lights came back on and the pop music resumed blaring.
And Camille nearly came to leaping over the banister.
The small man was gone!
Timothy Alastair was gone.
Camille’s hands remained out, where she had been gripping his shoulders, but he was no longer under her grasp.
She held nothing but air.
Where was he? Where had he gone? The staircase was made of pure marble; anyone walking up or down made clear noise. He was gone and she had heard NOTHING! How was that even possible?
“Camille?”
Room spinning, the confused woman turned, and saw that Michael, dressed as that resplendent boy who refused to grow up, was mounting the stairs to her.
“Baby, are you alright?” He questioned coming and wrapping his arms around her, and went to peck her forehead.
“Camille!” He gasped, eyes growing large. “You’re trembling! What’s the matter? Were you afraid of the dark?”
Hugging her lover tightly, Camille hoarsely begged,
“Please…please take me home now! I want to go home now!”
Seeing just how stricken his girlfriend was, Michael nodded and took her hand. She cherished the loving warmth of his meat hook, after touching that cold small man.
“Oh…okay, Sweetie. We’ll go home. I’ll take you home.”
She just wanted to get out of there.
And put as much space between her and the small man as humanly possible.

One Week Later

“…which one of these do you think will go best with grey slacks and a white shirt?”
At the gentle inquiry, Camille looked up from the magazine she was flipping through.
Standing at the end of the couch on which she was draped on lazily, Michael stood, holding a belt in each hand.
One was about an inch thick and encrusted with pave crystals the other was much wider, and resembled a prize fighter’s belt, featuring several moldered starbursts, and was a gleaming silver plate.
Setting her magazine down, Camille replied,
“I like them both, but what’s the occasion?” She couldn’t recall them having an outing that afternoon.
“It’s not for me--it’s for Marlon.” Michael informed her. “Carol’s parents are in town and they’re having dinner at some place in the Hills. Anyway, he wanted to borrow one of my belts to offset the look.”
“Oh--the simpler one, if it’s for the ‘rents.” Camille snickered as the doorbell began to chime.
“Okay.” Michael nodded, tossing the larger belt onto an armchair and proceeding to the door, where he allowed Marlon in.
Marlon, already dressed for dinner, thought it was barely three in the afternoon, as he faced a long drive back into Beverly Hill from Los Angeles, breezed into the room in his loud and exuberant way.
“Hey Mike! Damn, that belt is perfect! Hi Camille!” He announced, taking the belt from Michael and waving.
“You came a long way for a belt.” Michael commented as Marlon stood in the front hallway, in front of the full-length mirror and began looping the belt around his slender waist.
“I know, but you always have the best junk just laying around. And besides, I don’t see the Parkers that often, since they live in New Orleans. I like to always make a good impression when I see them.”
Marlon explained, pulling a small comb from his pocket and ran it through his own thick black curls and picking at the thin mustache gracing his top lip.
“Yeah, I hear that. Seeing the in-laws would worry anyone.” Michael chuckled, as Marlon continued primping.
Camille, a silent spectator from the couch, opened her mouth and had spoken before she intended to,
“Who is Timothy Alastair?”
“Huh?” Both brothers distracted, hummed in unison.
She repeated the questioned.
“I’ve never heard that name before.” Michael blew off the inquiry and went to say something to Marlon, when Marlon, lock of hair still tangled in his comb, wandered from the mirror and over to the couch.
Looming over Camille, he stared at her, his light eyes full of strange glow Camille had never seen in them before.
“How on God’s green earth do you know the name Timothy Alastair?” He whispered, eyes growing larger.
“I met him at your party last week, he was the little guy I saw that was dressed as Peter Lorre.” She glanced at Michael, who seemed clueless, then back to Marlon.
“Why?”
Taking a seat beside her, Marlon still held his comb in his head.
“You met a man at MY party, and he said his name was Timothy Alastair?” His voice became even lighter in his incredulity.
“Yes, Marlon!” Camille insisted eyes blazing. “Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because…” Marlon finally got his comb free of his hair and tossed it on the wicker coffee table.
“Because, Timothy Alastair is the man that owned my house, before Carol and I bought it.”
“Oh…” Camille sighed. “You invited the former owner to your party. That was nice.”
“No it wasn’t.” Marlon shook his head and all his carefully tended hair flew.
“Timothy Alastair is dead.”
Camille went cold all over and was struck speechless.
“Marlon, what are you talking about?” Michael pushing his discarded belt aside, it falling to the floor, sat in the armchair.
Turning to gaze on his brother, Marlon said quietly,
“Just what I said, Timothy Alastair is dead…” Head lowering and starting to fiddle with his hands, Marlon started to explain.
“I never told anyone this, but when Carol and I bought that house, about ten years old, we got it cheap. Real cheap. Much cheaper than what it was worth. That house, when we bought it, was worth fifteen million dollars, but we purchased it for less than a million.”
Throwing his head back, Michael joked casually,
“You got that humungous place for one-fifteenth of it’s worth? What happened? Someone get murdered in there?”
The grin left Michael’s face when Marlon bobbed his head,
“Yes.”
Staring back down at his hands, Marlon continued solemnly,
“My house was originally built in 1931 for a wealthy playboy as his bachelor pad.” His eyes drifted to Camille,
“Timothy Alastair. He’d made his money on Wall Street and jumped ship shortly before the stock market crash in 1929. Anyway, Timothy played the field before sinking some of his money into a modeling agency. In 1934, according to the realtor, he fell in love with one of his employees, a model named Carole Sinclair…
Camille’s head buzzed at the fact. The small man said he had worked with Carol. Not Carol Jackson, but another Carole entirely!
“…They got married shortly after. But it seems Timothy refused to give up his playboy ways and had numerous affairs. In 1945, it reached a head. Timothy got one of his mistresses, a young woman, half his age, pregnant, and announced to Carole he wanted her gone. He wanted a divorce and wanted to marry and bring his younger woman into the house…”
Marlon sank back into the cushions of the couch.
“Well, Carole agreed to leave, and the divorce papers went in. Timothy married the second woman, I think her name was Jobyna, and they settled in. About three months after it all, Timothy and Jobyna were getting ready to leave on a delayed honeymoon. They were both in the front hall when the doorbell rang. Thinking nothing of it, Timothy went and flung the door open. And was immediately shot by Carole, who had come wielding a shot gun. Timothy died right there. Jobyna died a few feet away, trying to make a run up the stairs…she was six months along…Carole then went and phone the authorities. She spent the rest of her days doing a life sentence in prison…”
Michael, Marlon and Camille all sat quietly, the story sinking in.
Michael, still skeptical finally spoke,
“You mean to tell me…tell us…that Camille saw the ghost of a guy that got killed--over ten years before you were even born? Do you hear yourself?” He gasped shaking his head, his disbelief clear on his face.
“Michael!” Marlon fixed his gaze on his sibling. “I’ve seen a picture of Timothy Alastair. He was a man of short stature, and he did bear one hell of a resemblance to that Peter Lorre guy. And Camille did say she saw a Peter Lorre look-alike at my party. I don’t know anyone that small, neither does my Carol when I asked her about it.”
Marlon turned back to Camille and what he said next did nothing short of shock her.
“I’ve also seen Jobyna Alastair. Though it was unconventional at the time because people were backwards and pig-headed, Timothy, though he was White, married a Black woman. And if I squint hard enough at you, Camille, I can see Jobyna. Different decade, different make-up, different hairstyle, but the face is there.”
“Oh my God!” Michael, put his hands to his face
Camille, horrified stared off into space.
What had she seen in Marlon Jackson’s house?
Had she really encountered a ghost?
A ghost that was drawn to her because she resembled his second, murdered trophy wife?
A trophy wife he was riddled with bullets for?
Camille never did find out the answer.
Nor did she ever attend another party on Marlon Jackson’s property ever again.
If she again ever ran into Timothy Alastair, the small man, or the spirit thereof, who knows what might have happened to or become of her? 

I have always been fascinated by costume parties and masquerade balls. I have found a note of the mysterious when people congregate in one place, all dressed and appearing to be something or someone they are not. Of course, this friendly deception is done all for the sake of fun and amusement. But in this story, a young party-goer will find nothing fun or amusing when she encounters a strange and small man…

A Miscarriage of "Justice"

Disclaimer: This is a very, very angry blog. And as thus will be sprinkled with very liberal and excessive use of swear words and the term "nigger". If you are very uncomfortable with either of these, I advise you to please leave this blog post immediately. I am exercising my Freedom of Speech as an American. Thank you--Tiffeny B.

Monday, October 28, 2013, is a day that will thrive on infamy in the hearts and souls of every Michael Jackson fan, nay fanatic, dotting the earth. This is the day that Michael Jackson's murderer, Conrad Murray, a subhuman who masqueraded as a "caring" doctor, was released from prison following a laughable four-year sentence for his crimes against humanity.

Now, I am not any sort of legal counsel, nor have I studied law by any stretch of the mind other than watching episodes of Law and Order: SVU, but I am aware of this: If a person is responsible for the death of another person, they serve a far longer sentence in prison than just FOUR YEARS!

So, I am utterly lost at the damn moment. I don't understand how Conrad Murray, who was hired to take care of Michael Jackson, look after him, ensure his health, could walk off when Michael needed him THE MOST, and let the life drain from his thin body.
Now yes, I understand Michael was misusing a strong anesthetic to go to sleep. But Michael did not administer it to himself. He did not push the needle into his veins or pump the medicine through it.
Conrad Murray did this.
That goofy looking nigger was hired and paid a hefty sum of 5 MILLION dollars to only sit and watch Michael Jackson as he slept. Hell, I can think of a dozen fans right now who would forgo sleep, coffee and food just to sit at Michael's bedside and keep an eye on him. FOR FREE!!!!!

But no, this nigger had to choose then, as Michael was going to sleep, to get up and walk away, out the room, down the hall and chat up one of his whores on his phone. I sat through the Murray murder trial. He was NOT calling to his expectant baby mama--and he has a bigger litter than Jermaine Jackson--he was talking to no brain having little hookers/strippers/VD making machines.
Couldn't he have just texted her? Bitches like smiley faces!
And when he returned, Michael Jackson was dead.
Not gasping for air, not crying for help.
DEAD.
Gone, cold, blue, lifeless.
But I believe Michael Jackson left this world, knowing what was happening to him.
Coroner's reports states that Michael's eyes and mouth were OPEN, indicating that in the last moments of life, he most likely was looking for Murray, and perhaps, even weakly, called for HELP.
(Now of course, as his body was jostled post-mortem, his eyes and mouth could have opened, especially with the half-assed CPR being administered.)
Now the course of events following the discovery of Michael's body will forever be a thorn in my ass.
Conrad Murray was touted to be a "cardiac" doctor, and yet when he started doing compressions on Michael, I really think one of his young children could have done better.
CPR is supposed to be administered with the victim on a flat, sturdy surface.
This crazy, Planet of the Apes looking nigger was trying to do compressions on Michael while he was still in BED, on a soft mattress, and flopping around all over.
In the middle of this, he called for Prince, who, at the time, was only a 12-year-old little boy. If you call a little boy in and he sees his daddy dead, what do you expect him to do?
Start crying! Which is what he did. Michael's three children had a natural fit when they saw their father gone.

(Michael with his three children in happier times)

Everything Conrad Murray, that low, rat bastard did, seemed like the WRONG thing in all facets to me. He waited almost 45 minutes to call 911 and instead of screaming "MICHAEL JACKSON IS DYING!" like any normal person would, he simply referred to MJ as a "gentleman". Like yeah, Michael was a gentleman, but damn it, at anytime to wave his name around, this would be the appropriate time.
Then as the medics were loading the body away, with three children losing their minds in the room, Murray was trying to pack away, hide and dispose of propofol bottles. Trying to backtrack, eat shit , and cover his tracks.
Really bitch? Really?
Seriously? This nigger was hiding shit!
And then while the world was falling apart, not just for Michael's family, but for all the fans I know, Murray turned into the bitch a million people wanted to kill.

Not once did this son of a bitch actually own up to his own wrongdoings. I may have stopped salivating and wanting to taste his blood if he had stood up like a REAL MAN and said "I did wrong, Michael died on my watch, I'm sorry."
No, I'd have a better chance of French kissing Satan than that happening.
All through the trial, this son of a bitch, asshole, pussy ass bastard sat like he had done nothing wrong. Really, I kept hoping for Tito Jackson to climb over the barrier and lay him out.
I don't know why I specifically wanted Tito, just because he looks like he can throw a decent punch.
Fans here were besides themselves. Wide eyed, crying in disbelief, blood thirsty as I was.

Now I won't be nice, and I won't conceal my feelings. I want the man to die. It's an eye-for-an-eye type of situation. I want him to die. I don't care if it's a sudden dropping dead, a speeding bush knocking him over, or a vigilante armed with a Swiss Army knife, I feel this world would be better off without him in it.
All I can think of really, is the Saw film series.
It would be absolutely stunning to me if Murray suddenly woke up in a room and had to like chew his arm off or something to get away. And even after he amputated his own appendage, the room would blow up, or a pack of wolves come in and tear him apart like a gummy bear.
It most likely won't happen, but I would be pleased if it did happen.

I don't think anything too bad can happen to Murray. Nothing is too bad to me. Honestly. I may be evil and branded as a cold heart, unfeeling bitch, but in regards to Murray, I wear that title proudly.
I don't think that roach is fit to live, fit to walk the Earth, fit to be around other decent, normal God-fearing people.
He took this from the world:


He took Michael Jackson from the world. A man who only wanted to love and be loved. A man who wanted to bring sweet music and gifted dancing to the world. An man who gave to charities liberally. Who wanted to help the less fortunate. A man who poured his heart out to the world and wanted only to hug and kiss every person in it.


Michael Jackson was a man who poured millions of his money into the creation of The Neverland Valley Ranch. All for the purpose of helping sick and impoverished children to have a day of happiness. Free candy, cookies, cartoons and rides. The hugs and kisses they needed. The piece of childhood they could cherish. As a child all my  life I wanted to go there, even as an adult, I still wanted to go, run and shoot water pistols at Michael.
But this man had to die? Because he only loved and wore his heart on his sleeve?

This is why I want karma and God to cut Murray for loop. Nothing good can possibly come to this man. Nothing good at all, when you're so ignorant, such a sociopath, that you cannot recognize and own up to your own shortcomings and wrong doings. Nothing good can come to somebody who deep down to the core IS NOT GOOD. Murray is a rotten louse, who deserves to be in jail until time ceases to pass, and have a nice, big rough trick name Tiny make him his wife.
I am bitter. I am angry. I am cold.

This is a lovely jacket. It should still be hanging in Michael's closet. Not on his small cold body in the Glendale Forest Lawn cemetery.
Michael won't get to walk Paris down the aisle to give her away, or be the Best Man when his sons marry. He won't get to hold and kiss his first grandchild. That was stolen from him.
And I hope to God on all things Holy, he haunts Murray every waking day of his natural life.
Karma is a bitch and I want that bitch to get Murray.

I'm through.

Ratchet People--Clothing Edition...

Hey Y'all,
It's that time again! As I get deeper and deeper into this "Ratchet People" phenomenon, the more I want to scrub my eyeballs with Clorox. It is completely foreign to me:
1) How these people put these "outfits" together and
2) Allow photos of themselves in said outfits to be passed around the internet in a public forum.
I knew that the Ratchet look was loud and flamboyant, but LAWDY, I never imagined it was like this. And where do I be to MISS THIS SHIT:


She looks like a Rold Gold Pretzel gone Bad in that mess. I suppose it needed the wholes, because leaving it all in one piece would have just been SILLY.

Why the hell is this woman wearing her grandchild's swimsuit?

She must be a Ghetto Girl Scout--Made her whole outfit from bits of twine. I like how everyone else is just so calm. I'd be laying in the street laughing my ass off.


This should be against the law...compressing your poor boobs like that. It reminds me of those old playdoh molds where you squeezed it through and made strings...


SAME DIFF.

GUESS WHO'S NOT VOTING FOR MITT ROMNEY!!!!!!! Yay, Harriet Tubman!

What the actual FUCK is this? Is it a man? A woman? Trying to pass themselves off as Mary J. Blige?


I know this bastard isn't stripping! Someone call Shady Pines, they're missing an inmate--I mean, patient. And why is there a thatch of blonde pubic hair glued to the top of his head?

WTF is Ashanti doing? I know she got money, so why is she threading old pieces of panty hose together with foil? I don't even think I'd use that in the bedroom. Have my man scared if I breathe too hard, I might fillet my damn self. Ratchet ain't just for the poor, they have rich offenders too.

I am actually sitting and waiting for this crazy train to go flying off a mountainside. All of this is a rampant, searing cry for HELP and no one is fucking listening. Mark my words, this will end with a long stay in rehab or WORSE. I mean all those clothes probably cost more than my car, all to look like a crackhead whore. I know heroin chic is coming back, but damn, folks wanna look like Kate Moss, not...whatever that's supposed to be.


Strippers....senior edition....DAMN. I can't unsee what has been seen. And WHY does she look like she has a BLACK EYE! Probably got into a fight over the last pill in the Geritol bottle.


I didn't know Patrick Starr had a wife! That's amazing!

Ratchet starts young, y'all. It's real....And I'd sooner hang myself than do that to my child.
And on that note I end this blog post. Gotta scrub my eyes.

PART TWO OF RATCHET CLOTHING, COMING SOON!

What Kind of Foolishness is This???

Hey Y'all,

Over the course of my life, I've dealt with a lot of hard situations. I lost a great deal of my childhood and teen years taking care of a diabetic, ailing mother, who unfortunately passed away five years ago in April of 2008. at the present time, I have end-stage renal failure and take dialysis three times a week until a transplant can be located for me. At the same time, I am caring for my father, who is an 86-year-old World War Two veteran who suffers from Parkinson's Disease, which is a neurological disorder. And prior to all this I was bullied severely in school.
Now I said all that to say this. I literally thought I had seen and heard everything in this life. But it's remarkable how some people just manage to surprise you.
I believe that anyone scrolling through my blog could easily state that "Wow, Tiffeny sure likes Michael Jackson."
Yes, Michael has been a stronghold in my life since 1995 and if it wasn't for him, I most likely wouldn't be here. Time and again I've heard naysayers claim that I love Michael too much, that I'm obsessed with him, I need new interests and I need therapy. That sort of thing goes in one ear and out the other regularly. What caught me off-guard the other day was the claim that I hated Michael Jackson.
And strangely enough, the declaration came from a "fellow" fan.


Oddly enough, THIS is what caused the fallout.

I am Co-President of the MARLON Jackson fan club with my friend Lulu, and every so often I make little comic strips like the one above, just to make people laugh and have a good time when visiting the club.
Now the strip above which shows Marlon--to the right--in his "Don't Go" music video, compared to his little brother Michael five years later in his "In the Closet" video.
For the most part, this garnered chuckles and laughs and a pile of likes on Facebook.
One idiot took it the wrong way.
I have no fucking clue what is wrong with this woman what is going on in her head, or if that space should be put up for rent, since it is apparently going unused. But she got all bent out of shape at the comparison being made.
And then, on an "Outer Limits" tip, she started saying that Marlon stole the bassline from Michael's song "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" from "Thriller", for his song, "Body" on the "Victory" album.
Okay, first of all, nobody was even talking about those damn songs to start up with.
Secondly, Michael and Marlon are BROTHERS. Isn't it kind of normal for brothers to borrow from each other? All the time, I've seen Marlon and Michael wearing each other's clothing. So why can't one SAMPLE the other's music line. And it's not like Marlon stole it, I'm sure the conversation passed between them and Michael gave him an okay. If not, there would have been a lawsuit for PLAIGARISM. (I know a lot of stuff OTHER than just Michael!)
This particular fool thought I was making Michael Jackson look bad and so the hater accusation came into play.
And this isn't the first time this same woman has done this. She, I guess, wants me to kiss Michael's lily white, chicken cutlet ass ALL THE TIME.
But here's the thing. That particular comic was posted in the MARLON club, not the MICHAEL club. So yes, if the namesake is involved, I will try to make him look good. I am also a part of a JERMAINE club. if I posted comics to his club, he will be made to look good.
I don't try to make an ass out of Michael. I simply put little funny situations here and there with him.
like this for instance:


Now this comic went up in the same folder as the other one. No one accused me of having racist over tones by mentioning someone being Black with watermelon and fried chicken though.
No, everyone laughed at this.
And then tell me this isn't completely balls-out loony:
We got into a fight about my use of a SMILEY.
I joked and said something along the lines of I don't know how many MJ fans would be angry to know MJ ripped off his look from Marlon.
And I used a smiley similar to this:
A smiley with a CLOSED mouth.
This crazy person said it was a "serious" smiley. HOW THE LIVING HELL IS THAT SERIOUS? IT'S A GODDAMNED YELLOW CIRCLE WITH A SMILE!
I was instead told to use THIS, because apparently, TEETH make all the difference in the world.

I have never in my life seen lunacy like this. Now I've come across what I call a few loose-cannon fans, but we're all cool with each other. Hell, one of my best friends is a loose-cannon. She still wants to kick Joe Jackson's ass for hanging his foot in Michael's all those years ago.

To me, in my mind, Michael Jackson fans were a rare breed of people who were special in that they could see the beauty and wonder and artistry that is Michael Jackson.  And frankly, I thought we automatically banded together to present a united front to the world in our loyalty to the man with the glove. At least that's what the hell I've been doing with myself for the last EIGHTEEN years.

Now, I don't know this woman personally, and I don't know her story--nor do I give a fuck in hell about that story--but I can glean this much.
She only appears to have a problem with ME and my talents that I seem to display. I work for the Marlon club, and as my friend Lulu told me of different voids--no comics with him, no fan fiction stories with him--I filled that void with my writing and comedic talents.
Was it really so terrible for me to take my focus off Michael and put them on his brother? Does she not realize that the same blood pumping through Marlon's veins is the same that pumped through Michael's? And hell, I tease all of the Jackson men. Jermaine for his unmovable hair, and love of spandex with a round body, Tito, who I always tease about eating something, Jackie who insists on making hilarious faces in concert. I leave out Randy because there aren't many photos of him...
I'm sorry, was Michael not human? Really, of all the worse things said about MJ, him being called a pedophile, him bleaching his skin in an effort to be "White"...a harmless JOKE I made about a music video is what starts the hailstorm? REALLY?
I understand loyalty and devotion, I'm the first fan in line to do that, but I am not such a brainless snob that I don't see humor when it plays a factor.
I've never seen this woman. She could be jealous of me for my intelligence, or even my appearance, as I know I am pretty and have over a dozen pageant crowns and trophies to prove that point.

And who is that sliding off my tit--Michael!
Who is that on the wall behind me--Michael! But allegedly, I hate him. I must really be devoted to the lie, then, you dumbass bitch!

I don't understand foolishness like this. Picking fights for no goddamned reason other being bored. Here's an idea--GET A HOBBY! Collect stamps, built model trains or something, damn, get off my back. Because I know I am a good and loyal fan to Michael Jackson and I have people who know me personally who can back that claim up with flying colors.
IF YOU DON'T KNOW ME, SHUT THE FUCK UP, PLEASE.

Have a nice day and get a life!
 Happy smiley with the TEETH!

Ratchet People

Hey Y'all!

Now I know, a few posts back, I made mention of how I longed for things like the feminine mystique, and a time when women really did pay attention to their looks and tried to be as alluring and as attractive as possible. (And I kind of partially blamed the Women's Lib movement for this sociological breakdown.)
Now while it did bother me to see women not trying to look pretty, I just thought that it was something that could be attributed to a hectic lifestyle--kids, a sick family member, long job hours--or just being outright lazy. (I am lazy, just not about my looks.)
But recently, a whole new phenomenon that I was completely unaware of, has been brought to my attention. And not only does it seem to be affect women, it had spread to men, children, and also people of all races--although it does primarily appear in the African-American community on the lower rungs.
Ratchet People.
(I do believe this is an Ebonics term, I believe the proper word is WRETCHED.)
And basically what it is, to me from what I have seen via the ratchetmess.tumblr.com website is that it includes people of lower incomes--although Kim Kardashian counts as a rich one--who are quite flamboyant and ignorant when it comes matters of dress, behavior and social etiquette. I am going to be as nice as humanly possible, because all of the offenders ARE God's children and HE loves them even if I can't stand them. I will provide examples and explain what I find to be wrong. Now these are my own opinions and everyone is welcome to draw his or her own conclusion.
(And then since I am black, I will provide a nice Black person alternative. And don't hold your breath, it will NOT be the Obamas.)


Synthetic Hair.

Now, I am not opposed to women who wear synthetic hair or false hairpieces. I wear them myself, but goddamn it, I wear colors that appear in nature. My NATURAL hair color is BLACK and I rarely deviate from it. If your head looks like the Fruit Loops Toucan and a box of Starbursts mated, then we have a dire problem. (Don't get me started on the contact lenses that match her tee-shirt!)


Is she Smurfette's Mother?



Men are also fucking up. I thought it was a chick until I saw the "Prince" goatee. What is this man doing. This is someone's son/sideshow attraction!


Pregnant Females.

To me, there is nothing wrong with an adult woman being pregnant. It happens. People hook up and it does happen. But there is such a thing as MATERNITY wear. I'm not sure how much crack and malt liquor was involved to get THAT woman pregnant, but she could at least TRY to find a tee that covers the belly. And YES, that is a cigarette in the woman's hand. Lord, I hope CPS is around to take the child away when it comes, I worry for it.


This is a crying ass shame. I remember a time when being a high school mother was a thing to be ashamed of and hide. Now with the advent of crap like MTVs Teen Mom, these little fast tramps thinks its cool. I can't wait to see what happens when that infant passes through the birth canal. Girls used to avoid this "mistake" I know I did because my mother once told me,
"Tiffeny, if you get pregnant before you graduate, I will kick you in the stomach and send the baby out your damn back."
I didn't get knocked up, and only kissed ONE boy in senior year. I will one day pass that threat to my own child. Babies having babies always bothers me. And I knew about 10 girls who had babies in high school.


STOP THE MADNESS! Looks like bubblegum!


Dr. King is spinning in his grave over this bastard!


Make Up

If anyone is an advocate for make up, and how it can improve people's appearance, it's me. But there is a right and WRONG way to wear make up.


This is an actual picture of ME. I am wearing make up, but you can still see ME and I have only accentuated what God put there, not masking it or distorting it wildly.

This would actually be okay, if it weren't for the rope-like hair. I actually like the dramatic eye make up. The hair frightens me, and all I wonder is, HOW DOES SHE LIE DOWN TO SLEEP AT NIGHT? (she's on a city bus there.)

The 80s are over, we lost. Take that off with some cold cream and start over. She looks like Joan Cusack in "Working Girl"

It's not 1988 anymore!


WHY THE HELL ANYONE WANNA BE NICKI MINAJ JANKY ASS I DON'T KNOW!


Really? Was this her first time putting on shadow or what? CHRIST! And her earrings look like bubble wrap!

Scary thing is, I don't know if this is a MAN or a WOMAN...


I keep telling myself this is someone's son and THEY love him.

And people called Michael Jackson strange for wearing make up to hide his Vitiligo freckles. WTF?


Plus Sized People.

I formerly weighed at my "fattest", 260 pounds. I am a comfortable, curvy 165 now. And one thing I notice constantly is how larger women in the ratchet community dress their bodies. Damn it. Just because it comes in your size, you don't have a gun on you wear it. There is nothing wrong with being larger, I have larger friends, but I have never looked at any of them and wondered "What the hell is she wearing?"


That ain't sexy, and I'd tell her that to her face, because if I ran, I'm SURE she would NOT be able to catch me.


If your belly needs it's own bra...


Walmart is a scary place....

I have that exact same t-shirt, but I you know, wear it with PANTS!

No decent woman should ever have low self esteem, with women like THIS walking around.

I WILL COVER THIS TOPIC FURTHER IN A SECOND BLOG POST. I AM DONE RIGHT NOW AND WANT TO GO THROW UP. THIS IS PITIFUL! LORD MY PEOPLE, MY PEOPLE.

The Incident Near Thaddeus Hall

It’s sensational how inspiration can strike when I least expect it. The entire story that follows was all inspired by a nightmare I had a few days ago. In the dream I saw everything play out right before my very eyes, and with a few, minor tweaks here and there, I think you’ll leave this story with a chill down your spine and the lights on as you go to bed tonight…much like the boys in the story…

 

 

“The Incident Near Thaddeus Hall”

A Michael and Marlon Jackson Horror Story By:

MJsLoveSlave

 

Fernsby, England
Spring, 1970

The small, rural village of Fernsby, situated about one hundred and fifty miles north of metropolitan London was the type of place that had barely changed in the six centuries since it’s formation.

Over the years, yes, the buildings had transformed from small, thatched roofed huts, to more modern, brick and wooden structures, but that same, ease of life, walk-don’t-run sort of mentality hung over the village, numbering about seven hundred.

Ideally, Fernsby was the type of place one would not want to rush through…it was a town as picturesque as any landscape painting. Lush, rolling green hills, wildflowers in every shade of the rainbow pushing forth from the fertile grown and turning their multicolored petals towards the warm sun. on the outer edge of town, lambs, hens, turkeys, geese and cows grazed peacefully, none knowing that one day they would decorate a dinner table as the centerpiece.

The center and heartbeat of Fernsby, as it had been since the year 1802, was Thaddeus Hall, a prestigious all-boys academy that had been turning some of the most prominent and well-educated young men into English society for over a hundred years.

And two of the boys attending this school were brothers Michael and Marlon Jackson, ages twelve and thirteen, respectively.

Any one even caring to give the twosome a passing glance noticed immediately that the two boys, for all their sweet temperedness, charisma and joking charm, were quite different from all of their counterparts at Thaddeus Hall.

Of the two hundred or so young boys at the school, the Jackson brothers were the only ones not born of British blood.

Michael and Marlon, were the sons of Joseph Walter Jackson, an African-American millionaire, who had made his wealthy through shrewd Wall Street investments and his wife Katherine, a lovely homemaker noted for her tea parties.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Jackson stressed the importance of a good education, especially to Black boys who would grow into Black men, and held it above all else.

Mr. Jackson had sought for years to have his children study abroad, learning how to immerse themselves and acclimate to a different culture entirely, a skill that would be quite valuable as he expected his boys to follow his footsteps on Wall Street.

And the reputed Thaddeus Hall was all that the boys’ father had dreamt of and more for the international connections it could potentially offer his sons.

(The Jacksons’ two sisters, Janet and Latoya were also abroad in England, in the neighboring village of Nottingham, attending the Rosewood Academy for Girls.)

Though Michael and Marlon were the only Black children attending Thaddeus Hall, there was no sense of backlash as would have most likely befallen them had they enrolled in an all-White American prep school, instead.

Michael and Marlon fit in quite well and were well-liked by all those they encounter.

That bright, flower-perfumed Friday morning was no different for the boys.

Michael and Marlon, on the steps of their dormitory, Rancifer House, were pacing back and forth, Michael on the second, wide brick laid step, and Marlon four steps up.

Both boys were still slightly uncomfortable in the “warm-weather” variant of the Thaddeus Hall uniform: a dark grey blazer over a white oxford shirt, a hunter green and grey striped tie, grey shorts, green knee socks--Marlon always seemed to forget his cocoa butter and thus his knees were forever ashy--and sensible black shoes.

Over thick, perfectly picked afros, Michael’s a stark black, Marlon’s tinged a deep natural auburn, were the green caps with the schools crest emblazoned on it.

It was the same thing every blessed school morning.

Michael and Marlon would rise, as did the other students and take breakfast in a wave of matching green quilted robes, and then rush off to wash and dress in an effort to make it to class on time.

And Marlon and Michael would have made it, if there wasn’t one little obstacle in their way:

Oliver Culler, IV.

Oliver, known as Ollie to all, descended from a long like of Cullen men who had patronized Thaddeus Hall since it’s inception. And for all the elite and moneyed blood pumping through his veins, young Ollie was always as tardy as any child could be.

Much to the distress of his closest friends, it was always a photo finish to get them to class on time.

“What the devil do you think is keeping him today?” Marlon groaned, holding a hand over his light, golden hued eyes and staring at the clock affixed to the face of the main building, showing the time as ten minutes to eight.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Michael shrugged, removing his cap and scratching at his head, dark eyes closing in glee as his nails raked his scalp. “You know Ollie, he gets sidetracked so easily.”

Ollie was the kind of boy who could start to brush his teeth and somehow end up laid across his bed, elbow-deep in a comic book, without a care in the world.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to be sent to Headmaster Higgins again for being tardy, Mike.” Marlon replied, balling his fists and shoving them into his pockets.

The last thing either of them wanted was to have to stand clapping erasers after school, again!

“Well what you wanna do?” Michael wondered, fiddling with the buttons on his blazer.

“This!” Marlon exclaimed, before leaping off the steps onto the sidewalk.

Cupping his hands around a thick-lipped mouth, he bellowed,

“Ollie! Hey Ollie! What’s the holdup, man! If you don’t come here now, you’ll be walking to class alone!”

Above them, on the third floor, a window opened.

And out of it, hung half of a pudgy body, topped by a bright white, freckle laden face and a shock of even brighter red curls.

“Hold your horses, mate! I’m coming! I’m coming!” Ollie declared, agitated and disappeared from the window.

Moments later, the rather large boy huffed his way out onto the front steps, holding a couple of notebooks and textbooks under one arm.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve Marlon Jackson!” He grunted coming down the steps and bending over to catch his breath. “You know I have to trot down two staircases, while you and Mike live on the first floor!”

“So?” Michael chortled and patted his friend’s extended belly. “It’s not like you couldn’t use the exercise!”

Rolling large, green eyes at his friends, Ollie fell in step with the Jacksons, the three destined for the other side of campus for their classroom.

“Did…did you fellas finish the math assignment?” Ollie wondered, once his lungs had calmed to where he could breathe normally.

“Yeah…” Marlon cast a sneaky glance. “Did you finish that essay on Queen Victoria?”

“Uh-huh!” Ollie bobbed his head and automatically, assignments were appearing and being exchanged.

“One of these days, you’re gonna get caught pulling that stunt.” Michael warned coolly, secure in the fact that both his math homework and essay had been done by his own hand.

“Not if you keep your trap shut.” Marlon simpered the three of them coming to the center courtyard.

“Hang on a minute guys…” Michael, mind off of the cheating going on under his wide nose, was wandering off of the cobblestone walk and into the grass where a multitude of flowers were shining with morning dew.

“Gotta get some flowers...”

As he stopped and began plucking some of the brightest pink buds, Ollie questioned, a knowing note in his accented voice,
“Might those flowers be for the lovely Miss Gastrell?”

It was no secret that Michael Jackson was cuckoo, bonkers out of his mind in what he thought was love with their teacher and never failed to bring her a bouquet of flowers--when the weather permitted--each morning before class started.

There was no better feeling than to see his blooms displayed on the left corner of her desk in a small, lead crystal vase for all to see.

Michael incredulous, slim behind in the air, snapped back,

“Naw, I’m picking these for Queen Elizabeth and Princess Margaret Rose!” 

Marlon, hands on his hips, tossed his head with arrogance and teased,

“You give that woman so many flowers, Mike, she can open up her own florist shop!”

As Marlon and Ollie cackled, Michael red-cheeked with embarrassment, with about a dozen flowers in his hand, picked his way back over to them.

A scowl crossed his babyishly handsome face, and he murmured,

“Well, pretty ladies need pretty flowers.”

“Yeah! From kinky-headed little boys who are about fifteen years too young for them!” Marlon hooted, giving his brother a playful punch to the arm and Ollie dropped his books he was laughing so hard.

Dark eyes narrowing, his shame mottled with anger plain on his face, Michael grumbled,

“Let’s get to class, huh?”

A few, jog filled minutes later, the three boys emerged on the east end of campus, at the five story, classroom filled building that had just a touch of the medieval in its red bricked architecture.

Once inside the building that smelled heavily of old books and yellow chalk, it was to the third floor and down two corridors before they found their way into Miss Gastrell’s classroom.

While Marlon and Ollie rushed to their seats in the second row, Michael’s seat was left vacant between them.

Michael, instead, was ambling over to the woman who stood, back turned, writing the date on the board in a fine script.

Flaming all over, breaking out spontaneously in goose pimples, and feeling a flutter in his chest, Michael stared up at his teacher, eyes growing as though it were the first time he had ever set them on it.

“Good morning, Miss Gastrell” Came his weakened and nearly girlish greeting past trembling lips.

At the mention of her name, his teacher set down her chalk and turned to him.

Miss Gastrell, only twenty-seven years old, was a tall, and slim creature, with a complexion like that of fresh milk. Her hair was a contrasted it, dark brown with natural golden highlights, it was parted down the middle and heightened, making her thin face appear longer. Deep, wide green eyes, without a touch of hazel, unlike Ollie’s, and framed by thick, black lashes fluttered as she looked down at her pupil.

The chic, hunter green dress, a few shades deeper than the school uniform, made her eyes a shade of emerald that was causing the adolescent boy to swoon on his feet.

“Good morning, Michael.” Her voice, accented, high pitched and mild, was something like that of the British royalty. Slightly affected, elitist and on other people could have read as inwardly snobbish. On Miss Gastrell, to the ears of Michael Jackson, denoted the gates of Heaven opening and harps playing.

Sheepishly, the flowers were thrust out and delicate hands, manicured in a light pink that reflected the coloring of her pouted lips, Miss Gastrell took the flowers.

“Oh Michael, how very pretty. Thank you. Such a lovely bouquet.” She commented and just as she did each morning, she walked over to that small crystal vase, placing them in the awaiting cool water and arranged them to look their most attractive before returning to the boy.

“Thank you.” Taking his little brown face in her small, tender white hands, those sweet, pale painted lips pecked Michael’s scorching cheek. 

“You may take your seat.”

Michael, huge, goofy grin on plastered on his face, turned and was stumbling towards his desk, causing several of the other boys to snicker at him.

“Look at that fool!”

“I bet you ten pounds he’s gonna ask her to marry him before the term is over!”

“Way to go, Mike!”

“He’s gonna be Mr. Gastrell!”

“Hahahahahaha!”

“When’s the honeymoon, Michael?”

“Boys! Boys! Boys!” Miss Gastrell, was waving her hands. “I must have order and silence if you intend to learn today!”

Michael, deaf to the teasing and jeering as it died down, sank into his seat, eyes on his love as she began scribbling on the board.

“Today we will begin examining England’s role in the Second World War and how, with the help of the American and Canadian Armed Forced defeated Adolf Hitler and National Socialists, that‘s the Nazis for those who are unfamliliar…”

(Author’s Note: My father served in the Second World War, and I am quite knowledgeable on the subject, thought my father fought in Germany, rather than in England for the US Army.)

Even thought Miss Gastrell was speaking of one of the worst manmade disasters to befall the country in recent history, Michael Jackson heard none of it and was instead envisioning his teacher perched on a balcony, reciting Juliet’s speech to his Romeo…

Marlon and Ollie, knowing that faraway, come find me expression, exchanged glances and muffled their laughter.

* * *

“… come on, what all did she cover? Tell me!” Michael pleaded that afternoon, bringing his ham and cheese sandwich to his mouth and biting it.

While most of the Thaddeus Hall boys took their lunches in the large formal dining hall, Michael, Marlon and Ollie took their meals to go, to spend the two hour break, walking around the village and goofing off.

Smacking loudly on his cheddar and pickle sandwich, bottom lip stained with mustard, Marlon waved his meal at his brother and advised,

“If you’d sit and take notes like me and Ollie do, instead of pretending Miss Gastrell is in the nude, you’d know what happened in class, silly!”

“I do NOT pretend Miss Gastrell is nude!” Michael, horrified at such a notion, nearly choked on his sandwich.

Miss Gastrell was far too kind and saintly to Michael to be thought of in such a déclassé manner.

Spinning around and walking backwards on the dirt road, Michael looked to Ollie, lagging a few feet behind them, biting into his third bacon on toast sandwich.

“Ollie, can I copy your notes, since Marlon doesn’t want to help his own flesh and blood!”

“I don’t care…” Ollie was much too involved with his meal to care either way.

“Thank you!” Turning back to Marlon, licking at his finger tips, Michael pointed to the rotund Ollie,

“He doesn’t mind helping me! He’s a real pal--a true friend!”

“Aw kiss my royal jewels.” Marlon growled, removing his cap and bowing deeply as they passed an elderly peasant woman on the road.

“Take a flying leap off the Tower of London!” Michael shot back, opening a bag of crisps (potato chips) and nibbling one.

“You know you were drooling over Miss G.” Marlon nudged Michael in the gut and helped himself to a crisp smacking on it loudly. “If it wasn’t for me and Ollie, you’d have failed the term long ago and Dad would have taken a transatlantic flight to hang his foot in your ass!”

Looking into the brightly grinning face of his brother, Michael’s head dropped, knowing he was right. Painfully, sorely right.

Michael was constantly distracted by his instructor’s haunting, pale, and prim beauty. He should have failed out and if it weren’t for the help of his brother and friend, he would have.

Ollie, mouth greasy, bacon hanging from it, called,

“Hey, we got about fifteen minutes you blokes!”

“Okay, you bloke! Cheerio and all that rubbish!” Marlon called back, squinting at the clock on the tower in the distance and feigning a poor cockney accent.

Laughing joyously, Marlon went to elbow Michael again to share the laugh.

Marlon Jackson got an elbow full of air again.

“Mike?” He questioned, and spun in a circle.

He spotted his sibling off on the other side of the road, standing at a low, weather beaten stone wall.

“Mike?” Marlon jogged over to his brother’s side. “Hey, don’t you hear me talking to you?”

Michael, seemingly captivated, looked to his brother as Ollie joined them, polishing off the last of his sandwich.

“Marlon, look…” His voice sounded like an echo he was so awed lifting a long hand, pointed.

A few yards beyond the old wall, a small chapel stood, surrounded on all sides by a sizable cemetery, which wasn’t an unusual sight in England.

“Yeah, it’s a church.” Marlon shrugged, the significance lost on him and Ollie. 

“Don’t see all the flowers you pothead?” Michael threw his head back and whined.

Surely, all around the church and dotting the crumbling cemetery were what had to be hundred of fully bloomed, huge, white English roses.

“I’ve never seen such pretty flowers, I…I have to pick some for Miss Gastrell.”

Tossing what was left of his ham and cheese on the ground, Michael was lifting a skinny leg to cross the wall.

Just as he was to drop on the other side of it, something caught his arm and was tugging him back.

It was Marlon.

“What do you think you’re doing Mike? Ollie just said we have fifteen minutes to get back to school! You know it’ll take us that long to walk back!”

“But the flowers!” Michael struggled against Marlon as he was dragged back to the road, in the distance, Ollie was scampering away.

“But nothing, I ain’t clapping erasers because of YOU! Come on!” Holding Michael by the hand tightly, Marlon was doing a full sprint, Michael staggering and stumbling most of the way.

It was quite a while before Michael Jackson could claim a moment to himself again..

Following classes, there were three hours of mandatory study period, before dinner promptly at six p.m. He’d have skipped it to go pick the roses, if it hadn’t been Friday and he simply couldn’t miss his favorite meal: Roast mutton with roasted parsnips and mashed potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. It’d have been criminally insane to miss that feast.

He then wasted another two hours in the general area of the dormitory with a few dozen other boys, sitting and watching as Marlon played poker with some of the upperclassmen, effectively winning the equivalent of thirty-five American dollars in British currency.

Now, the time for bed was swiftly approaching, and all that was on Michael’s fevered mind was those flowers.

How Miss Gastrell would adore them, and how she’d kiss him and proudly show them off on her desk. How lovely the white would pop against the dark wood and beige painted walls of the classroom.

How they would compliment Miss Gastrell’s colorless complexion.

Sitting on his bed, he watched as Ollie and Marlon, in their pajamas, reclined on Marlon’s bed, sharing a comic book.

Michael still wearing his uniform rose and began pacing, an antsy feeling taking him.

Stopping at the foot of Marlon’s bed, where the two other boys laid in peaceful laziness, he declared,

“I want to go get some of those roses.”

Marlon’s head remained down, reading and ignoring his flighty brother, but Ollie’s came up and twisted with annoyance.

“Land sake’s Mike, why do you have to get them tonight? You’re not even going to see Miss Gastrell tomorrow! Can’t they wait until after we come back from seeing Beneath the Planet of the Apes at the cinema tomorrow?” He questioned and Marlon, head still down, chimed in,

“The flowers and Miss Gastrell will still be here tomorrow, I’m sure!”

Michael, feeling silly, nodded and sighed,

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

And began to undress, his mind for once off his love interest and instead on Sci-fi and a race of intelligent monkey men.

He did want to see that film badly.

And the next day was going to be one that would far exceed any geek’s perception of weird and strange.

* * *

“Man, I swear to God! Beneath the Planet of the Apes was even better than Planet of the Apes! Woo!” Marlon Jackson cried excitedly as he, Ollie and Michael came bouncing out of the old movie house, mixed with a stream of other patrons.

“They should have given Charlton Heston a bigger part.” Ollie complained as the trio fell in step on the dirt road.

“Who cares about Charlton Heston?” Marlon demanded, unable to believe that was all his chum could think about. “He got to part the Red Sea in that other movie! I liked this, the fighting was awesome!”

Michael, mind on the white roses since his eyes had popped open that morning, moved ahead of the bickering two, speed walking, destined for the church.

He planned to pick as many of those blessed things as he could carry and present them to Miss Gastrell on the way to church in the morning.

“I wish there was a race of intelligent monkey men…” Ollie was bragging, swaggering, bountiful belly bouncing, beside Marlon. “I’d go fight them off, yes I would!”

“Really now?” Marlon doubled over and clapped. “Because you screamed like a girl every time you saw Dr. Zaius!”

“Aw, shut up!” Ollie grimaced, as the church came into view, the air fragrantly thick with the roses’ aroma.

Michael Jackson made a bee-line and was crossing over the wall, hiking his shorts up to the point they looked like grey brief to ease his climbing.

Ollie seeing the church and graves, wondered worried,

“Are you sure this is alright Mike? I mean picking the flowers--this is holy ground.”

“Don’t go turning into a saint now!” Michael whined letting his shorts fall back where they belong. “I’m only going to pick about a dozen roses. You really think they’ll be missed with all these growing like weeds! I‘m not gonna tear the place down brick by brick!”

“Well, I ain’t scared, unless a priest comes after me with a ruler.” Marlon, poking his little chest out announced and pulling up his uniform shorts started to cross over the wall.

“Cold bricks! Cold bricks!” He cried as his boy bits touched the wall.

The brothers stared expectantly at Ollie, who, not wanting to be left behind and scorned for it the rest of the term, climbed clumsily over the wall, before falling in the dirt on the other side.

“Bloody Hell!” He was left to be helped up by Marlon, as Michael enchanted by the flowers went to work, starting to examine and pluck only the best and biggest blooms for Miss Gastrell.

Marlon and Ollie occupied themselves by sitting on the wooden steps on the side of the church and bragging about the different ways they’d kill the Ape Men.

They quickly rambled through different types of firearms and swords, before growing bored and impatient as most red-blooded, lusty boys did.

“Mike, you gonna take all damn day?” Marlon demanded, forgetting he was in a sacred place and cursing. Ollie, crossed himself just the same.

Michael, about only five flowers in his hand, retorted, “You don’t have to stick around. I’m capable of picking a dozen or so flowers myself!”

At that revelation, Marlon slapped Ollie’s shoulder and huffed,

“Let’s get the hell outta here, Man!”

Ollie standing started to cross himself again and squinting, questioned,

“Hey, isn’t that Miss Gastrell there?”

At the mention his love was somewhere close by, Michael ran up onto the steps and looked.

Sure enough, a few yards away, standing over a grave was Miss Gastrell.

At least she looked like their teacher, dressed in a navy blue dress, and dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Strangely though, her hair was quite different.

Instead of flowing and brown, it was bobbed short and a light, sheer strawberry blonde.

“That can’t be her!” Michael stated his disbelief. “Her hair doesn’t look like that!”

“Why not?” Marlon, had a hand on his hip. “Latoya had her tips frosted last week, and Mother flipped. Women change their hair all the time.”

“My Mummy does.” Ollie agreed. “Half the time, Father doesn’t know what he’ll come home to.”

“Hey, look.” Michael interrupted them and was pointing.

Two children, appearing close in age to themselves had appeared near Miss Gastrell’s side.

A tall, thin boy with white platinum blonde hair, wearing a uniform similar to their own, and a girl just as tall as the boy, wearing a jumper, also deep green over a white blouse. Long, curly brown hair was held back with a large green bow.

The children, their faces showing their sadness from even that distance, held hands with Miss Gastrell.

“That guy’s wearing a Thaddeus Hall uniform, but I swear to God and Jesus, I’ve never seen him before!” Ollie was scratching at his head, confused.

“Neither have I.” The Jacksons concurred, with Michael adding, “That girl can’t be from Rosewood Academy. All the uniforms there are burgundy and white--not green! I wonder who they are?”

“They can’t be Miss Gastrell isn’t married and I know she doesn’t have kids!” Marlon’s cap was squished in his hand as he contemplated the matter. “Well maybe they’re her niece and nephew or something. I think she mentioned she had an older brother--”

BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As the ground rocked beneath them, the three boys screamed and were thrown onto the ground in a tangled heap of arms, legs and ashy knees.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ollie shrieked as another BOOM, much closer caused the earth to tremor violently again.

“Did something explode?” Michael cried as Marlon tried to get up only to fall again.

“I don’t know!”

Suddenly, as whistles in the air preceded another BOOM, Miss Gaskell was there.

She was shoving the boy and girl with her up the steps and telling them to go into the church.

Those tender white hands Michael knew so well, were pulling him, his brother and Ollie to their feet, and pulling them in tow to the church.

There was a look of pure fear on that pale face, the eyes widened worriedly, mouth tightened.

“Come along. Hurry. Hurry now--do you want to be killed?” She demanded as she flung the doors to the church open and was hustling them inside.

The flowers Michael has so carefully selected and plucked, laid on the walk, a mashed mess of broken stems and torn, bruised petals.

“Killed?” The boys gasped hoarsely..

What was this? What was going on? What was happening?

“Quickly now, get under a pew, each one of you now, go!” Miss Gastrell instructed quietly and urgently, shutting the doors, before lying on her belly underneath a pew herself.

“I…I don’t want to die…I don’t wanna get blown up…please God…” The little girl, tears streaming from large, piercing aquamarine eyes.

Scooting over to the child,, Miss Gastrell tried to shush her.

The three boys laid speechless, unable to comprehend what was going on? Was a neighboring nation attacking?

As it suddenly became silent, the teacher was heard clearly whispering,

“You won’t die, Daisy. Put that thought out your mind. You’ll live a long full life and tell your own children and grandchildren about how you escaped the bombs in a church with your favorite aunt…” At the mention of bombs, the three boys gasped and Marlon sweating, demanded,

“Bombs? Who’s throwing bombs at us?”

And the inquiry, the blonde boy, who had been lying dormant near the altar, sat up and sneered,

“Have you gone daft? You know who’s throwing the bombs at us--those dirty Nazis! They killed my father in London--”

“Oh hush, Liam!” Miss Gastrell advised sharply hugging Daisy as she sobbed harder, “Can’t you see you’re upsetting your sister!”

A BOOM farther away sounded.

“Nazis?” The three boys gasped, eyes huge and starting to well with frightened, misunderstand tears. “What Nazis? There aren’t any Nazis! This is 1970! The war is over!”

A closer boom rocked the building, overturning unlit candles on the altar and priest‘s podium, and Liam stuttered,

“You must be mad! It’s not 1970, you imbeciles! It’s 1943!”Nineteen forty-three? How was that possible? How on God’s Green Earth was that possible? It was impossible. It was nineteen seventy! It was April of nineteen seventy!”

“Nineteen forty-three!” Michael and Marlon cling to each other and Ollie’s jaw hangs as Liam cries,

“Aunt Lydia who are these fools! They don’t know what year it is or what’s happening!”

“I don’t want to die! Aunt Lydia, please! Please God!” Daisy pleaded, hear hysteria, eyes huge, and hugging her aunt, her tears never stopped flowing.

“Hush child, please…hush…they’ll miss us. They will…” Miss Gastrell assured the girl, kissing her cheek and holding her.

“Marlon…” Michael gripped his brother’s icy hand in his. “What’s going on, what’s happening?”

Marlon, just as shaken as his sibling, murmured,

““Maybe its part of a lesson…Miss Gastrell was teaching about the war that week…”

“One bloody heck of a lesson!” Ollie simpered as the building rattles again from a particularly loud BOOM. Were the booms getting closer?

“Who throws real bombs?”

Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!

“Jesus Christ, they’re shooting at US!” Ollie squealed like a stuck pig.

Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!

All six, under the sacred roof of the church dove to the floor and covered their heads as machine gunfire broke out and blew out the stained glass on the south side of the church.

Covering their mouths, Michael, Marlon and Ollie screamed like girls for dear life.

“It’s the Nazis! It’s the Nazis! I know it is! We’re going to die! Oh my God! I’m only eleven!” Daisy sobbed in a heap on the floor. “Now I’ll never get to marry James Stewart!”

“You don’t even know James Stewart, Daisy!” Liam declared

Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!

Michael now wound up and fully believing he was somehow transported over twenty years back in time to World War Two, turned wide eyes to Marlon, who was unconsciously crying himself.
“Marlon…are, are we going to die?”
Marlon shook his head violently, determined not to give into the ruse,
“No! She’s taking the long way around, but this is some kind of lesson!” Ollie hearing this inquired deeply,
“If it is, then where’s the rest of our classmates? Why is it just us? There’s fifteen boys in our class! Why just us?”
Marlon had no answer for that. He could only press himself into the polished wood floor as more of that Rat-a-tat-tat!, rang out, bullets pinging and ricocheting off the bricks and wooden beams.
“I don’t know what kind of lesson this is…” Ollie blubbered crawling over to his friends and hugging them under the pew. “But it’s going TOO FAR!”
Once more, there was sheer, deafening silence, as it seemed both the gunfire and bomb droppings had been halted.

“Is it over Aunt Lydia? Is it--”

Daisy’s mouth was covered with a delicate hand to quiet her.
A few feet beyond them, Liam cowered on the floor, hands clutching his platinum blond locks.
Somewhere a lone bird tweeted.
No one spoke, eyes sweeping back and forth, each wordlessly begging the other, was it indeed over.
Was whatever this was…had it passed them over?
Maybe it was finally over--
The doors to the church sprang open and through them came something only the Jacksons and Oliver Cullen, IV had read about in their history books!
Three Nazi officers, each in a dark grey uniform, with polished black jackboots, gleaming silver-plated swastikas gleaming all over their jackets.
Long, double barreled rifles were up and poised to be shot.
“Aunt Lydia!” Liam, with tears on his red and inflamed cheeks ran to the open arms of Miss Gastrell who hugged them tightly.
One of the Nazis, noticing the other three boys beneath the pew aimed for them.
“Don’t shoot us! Don’t kill us! No! I ain’t even English! I’m Black! I’m a Negro! Holy God!”
Marlon, Michael and Ollie all sputtered, their own brief lives flashing before their tear-stained, soggy eyes.
Across the room Miss Gastrell put up a trembling hand.
“Please, spare the children! Kill me! Shoot me! Not them! They’re babies!”
Her words and tears seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the Nazi in front who never took his gun off of her.
Lips curling over yellowed teeth, he spoke, unfeelingly in his native tongue,

 

“Erschießen. Tötet sie alle. Die schmutzig Müll.”

(Translation: Shoot them. Kill them all. The dirty, filthy trash. )

“NOOOOO! MISS GASTRELL! NOOOOOO!”
The fearsome boys could only cover their eyes and shriek as gunfire filled the small church house.
Dozens upon dozens of bullets riddled the bodies of Miss Gastrell and her niece and nephew, and both were clearly dead, before their lifeless bodies slumped onto the blood spattered floor.
The boys in a state of shock stared, Michael hit the hardest as most of the bullets had passed through what had once been Miss Gastrell’s unspoiled face, now a bloody, unrecognizable stump.
His heart unable to take the treacherous sight, Michael’s own body went limp as consciousness began to leave him.
The last thing he remembered hearing, was Marlon and Ollie screaming to God for help and more of that gunfire.
He also heard Marlon crying that he loved him.

Michael Jackson awoke with a start, his small body drenched from tip to toe in sweat.
Desperately, he fondled himself all over, expecting to feel nothing but bullet holes all over himself.
There wasn’t a mark on him, have for the scar left behind on the back of his hand, that was caused by a fish hook, during a mishap on a fishing trip in the summer of 1968.
For the first time, Michael took note of his surroundings. He was no longer in the church at the scene of a heinous multiple murder.
Instead, he was in what looked like a simple, country room, with pink and white rose covered wallpaper, that boasted a small table and simple arm chair near a window where the curtains were drawn.
Looking over, Michael noticed he was in a large bed, with frilly pink bedding, and nestled beside him were Ollie and Marlon, sweating, but sleeping peacefully.
“Hey! HEY! Wake up! Marlon! Ollie!” He shook them hard and eventually they came around.
“Am I dead? Am I in Heaven? Are Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield and my pet goldfish Shiny here?” Ollie wondered drowsily, before his eyes snapped open.
“Mike! Marlon! You’re alive! I’m alive! By Golly, Sweet Jesus!” He cried and was hugging them fiercely.
“Oh Mike…” Marlon embraced his brother and for the first time since Michael could remember, his brother kissed his cheek.
“Marlon!” Michael was so overjoyed, tears were in his eyes.
“Where the devil are we?” Ollie wondered, scratching at his disheveled red head. “This doesn’t look much like a Nazi prison, unless Hitler is fruiter than I ever figured!”
“So, you sleepyheads are finally awake!” A cheerful voice announced and jaw dropped all around.
Coming through the open door of the room, a tray with three steaming bowls balanced on it, was Miss Gastrell.
She wasn’t dead! She hadn’t been killed in some alternate universe, by Nazi officers!
There she was, just as beautiful as ever, in a red dress, her hair once more long dark, and flowing.
“You’re alive!” Michael gasped, hands to his face as she went over to the table and set the bowls down.
“Come eat some soup boys, it‘s curried parsnip. And yes, I’m alive, though when I found you three, you were slipping away from it.” Miss Gastrell replied as the boys slipped from the bed and each took a seat around the small table, starting to spoon the hot, spicy and fresh food into their mouths.
“How did you find us?” Ollie wondered slurping loudly.
“Yeah?” Michael and Marlon wanted to know how they had gotten from that horrific scene to now, and what appeared to be their teacher’s house.
“Well…” Miss Gastrell sighed and placed hands on her hips,
“I was in the cemetery of the church on Old Mill Passage, paying my respects, when I heard this God-awful screeching and caterwauling and crying coming from the church. So I ran to see what was the matter: imagine my shock upon finding you three passed out cold in there. I then ran and called Dr. Lindsay, fearing you were ill with something. He said you didn’t appear to be ill, but had suffered some sort of a severe shock that knocked you out. I offered to have you brought here--it’s closer than the school.”
Her eyes took each boy in turn,
“What DID you boys see that caused you to faint?”
Not wanting to relieve such a strange and odd episode, Marlon instead wondered,
“Who were you paying respects to in the cemetery, Miss Gastrell?”
What their teacher said next, knocked the kinks out the Jacksons’ hair and made Ollie’s curls go pin straight.
“I was visiting my mother’s grave. Believe it or not, my mother was murdered in the very same chapel I found you boys.”
Gulping audibly, Michael pushed,
“Was it the Nazis?”
A look of complete surprise came to his teacher’s face and she replied sadly,
“Why yes…it was the Nazis who killed her, Michael.”
Going over and sitting on the edge of the mussed bed, she begin to relay a story that none of them would soon forget,
“It was on a day much like this one, that my mother, Lydia, lost her life.”
The boys exchanged incredulous and bewildered glances.
“It was the spring of 1944, I was only a few months old at the time, barely six months. My mother had her hands full. My father was off in Japan serving with the Royal British Navy, and in addition to a newborn baby, she had my older cousins, Liam and Daisy who came to live with us after both their parents were killed in a hospital bombing in London. They had been a doctor and a nurse…”
At the mention of Daisy and Liam, spoons fell with clanks into china bowls.
“My mother had taken my cousins to lay flowers on their parents grave--they’re buried in the same cemetery--when nearby, bombs began falling. That came as a complete surprise to not just them but everyone in town. No one had thought the fighting would go past London, there had been bombings and fighting there for so long…”
Miss Gastrell sniffed and tossed her hair off her shoulder.
“Mother, and Daisy and Liam took refuge in the church, I guess under the belief that they wouldn’t be hurt in a sacred place….but it didn’t help. The…the Nazis found them…and…and shot them.”
Looking from the boys, partially to hide the fact she was crying, she added,
“If mother hadn’t left me in the care of a neighbor before going to the cemetery, it’s a certainty I would have been killed myself. Just a baby, a little infant.”
She then said something that didn’t fail to stun Michael, Marlon and Ollie to their very cores.
“Everyone says I’m the spitting image of Mother. The only difference is Mother was a redhead, and my hair came out dark like Papa’s…”
She continued speaking, but none of the three at the table heard her.
The boys had been through something, experienced an event that would last with them until they drew their last breaths on Earth.
They had seen something, a terrible event to their favorite teacher…and could never tell her about it, lest they open a fresh and already aching wound.
That warm, brisk spring day, they had witnessed, first hand the slaying of Miss Gastrell’s own mother. They had seen it, felt it, heard it, nay, even smelled it.
And it was tattooed to their memories.
Forever.