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Poetry
Prose |
The Worm Turns By Rich Logsdon
"Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed-in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye...." (I Corinthians 15: 51) I. For seven nights in early December, Dara dreamed the same dream: wearing a pink dress, she sat in a blue canoe, floating atop dirty water, singing gospel hymns in an angelic voice. Paddling, peering through murky water, she saw the black lettering of submerged street signs; the lettering was always in an occult alphabet. In the dream, seeking her own two story wooden house, she called out to her father, in whose presence she'd be safe. At the dream's end, as the sky turned red, Dara found herself staring into open eyes of a very young dead woman, the bluish gray corpse two feet under. As Dara awoke, she felt smothered and fought to free herself from sticky sludge. On the seventh morning, a Monday, she sat at the kitchen table, buttering toast and drinking black coffee. It was 7:15. Exhausted and alone, she fought the dream, pushing the dead girl's image from her memory. As the clock ticked loudly from another room, she looked out the window at the plum tree that had died from frost bite in her back yard last winter. She had bought the tree two years ago. Relieved, she noticed the sun resting on the horizon, light pushing away darkness. Tall, slender, and beautiful at twenty-five, Dara had long dark brown hair. Her round face was childlike, and her brown eyes generally danced with a joy that the dreams had stolen. Raised Pentecostal in Wyoming, Dara and her alcoholic mother had fled her father three years ago and moved to Las Vegas, where Dara worked as a waitress at Denny's and attended community college. While she missed him, Dara was glad that her father, an Elder at Streams of Living Water Church back home, no longer looked over her shoulder, breathing fires of judgment. Wiping butter from her mouth, she arose from the table. It was time to go. Brown coffee mug in hand, she walked into the small cluttered living room to pick up her books on the TV. It was finals week, and indifferently she realized she would miss her philosophy exam if she didn't hurry. After taking one last sip of coffee, she set her cup on the television, and shaking the dream from her mind, walked to the front door, locked it gently behind her so as not to wake her mother, and headed across the front yard to her primer-gray Chevrolet parked in front of her house. II. It was 9:45. Knowing she had failed her exam, Dara stood outside classroom 2408 waiting for Ron, who was taking his final in International Business Relations. An entrepreneurial sort who dabbled in the stock market, drugs, voodoo and pornography, Ron had been Dara's boyfriend for two years. A young pale man with a hideously glowing smile, he had promised her that, once he got "free and clear," he would marry her in one of the chapels on the Strip and whisk her away to New Zealand. Leaning against the pale green wall of the hallway, Dara allowed the dream to invade her mind, felt herself sitting in the canoe moving over murky waters. Because the image of the drowned woman haunted her, she had not studied the night before, hadn't had sex in a week, and had forgotten her friends. Standing, she felt herself perspiring. Trying to shove the dream from her mind, she thought: God Almighty, what am I going to do about these dreams? To whom can I turn? The question asked, she heard thunder outside and prayed she wouldn't get caught in a storm on the freeway. Then, almost magically, she envisioned the one person who would likely have an answer: Preacher Ray, the aging black pastor of the Holy God of Fire Church on Bruce Street. She remembered her first meeting with the man. Two months after moving to Vegas, Dara had complained of severe stomach pains, which the doctor attributed to stress over leaving her father. Reluctantly, her mother had gone with her to the old back street church (located in one of the darker areas of the city) where Dara had met Preacher Ray, and as he had greeted her and her mother after service and placed his big, callused hand on her shoulder, Dara felt as if she had been touched by God. She had felt the same thing only once before, when she had been baptized under the weeping willow tree in a river that ran through the hills twenty miles north of Laramie. As she now stood in the college hallway, Dara felt a burst of energy as she remembered the tiny church: people of all colors and classes sang their hearts out, their hands raised in worship to the Lord of Hosts. Christmas service last year in the little Bruce Street church had been wonderful and brought to mind a painting she had once done as a child of a golden choir of angels. Dreaming of this Christmas service, voices singing in her memory, Dara heard a still small voice encouraging her to see Pastor Ray. An urging of the Spirit, as her father used to say. "So what do I do about Ron?" she asked aloud, moving away from the wall. Opening her eyes, she realized that other students were staring at her and recognized one black heavy-set woman from anthropology class, whose final was tomorrow. The woman stood two feet away. Dara shrugged, laughed, and said, "Hearing voices again, I guess." "I guess," remarked the woman, rolling her eyes. As the woman nervously smiled and walked on, Dara knew she had to find Pastor Ray before noon. The command was as clear as a church bell. For rn instant, she thought of going into the classroom and telling Ron that she had to leave; instead, realizing her boyfriend would strongly disapprove, she walked down the hall, took the stairs to the first floor, exited the building through the large glass door, and ran for her car in the far row of the parking lot. III. Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into an empty parking lot, her car's engine dying as its tires bumped the curb. The church's front door was open, and the manger scene in the front yard reminded her of Christmases in Wyoming. Desperate, Dara stumbled from her car, hurried past Joseph and Mary leaning over the baby Jesus and toward the church entrance. Suddenly, she hesitated. Is this right? she asked herself. Lightheaded, she thought of turning around and getting back into her car when she felt her heart insisting that she stay. It was as if someone was standing behind her, pushing her forward. Standing now in the church doorway, looking down the white hall covered with pictures of Christ, she saw an office to her right. The door was open, papers rustling inside, and she called out, "Pastor Ray? You in there? Pastor?" As she waited, the rustling stopped. Then a deep voice spoke: "Come in, sister. Been a while since I saw you and your mother." Dara was stunned that anyone in this city would remember her at all. Heart beating rapidly, she moved to just outside the office. There he was. Seated behind an oaken desk, window shades pulled but the corner lamp on, was the familiar tall black man with thick graying hair. Though his eyes were closed, she sensed he was examining her soul. Recalling the command to fear God, she also remembered that the preacher was blind. "You remember me?" she asked, his voice quivering. "It's been nearly three years. Must be an awful small congregation." Dara noticed that a huge print of DaVinci's Last Supper hung on the wall behind the pastor. "Not small," said the preacher, "just intimate. Lord binds all his children to Him, and I try to remember everyone He sends." He cleared his throat and smiled. "'Though I do admit it's getting tougher as I get older." Touched by the soft voice, Dara forced herself to relax and sat in the wooden chair in front of the desk. "Dara, isn't it?" he asked. "Yes, that's it," she answered. Her mouth and throat were dry, and she glanced at the large brown leather Bible on the desk in front of her.. "Something is upsetting you greatly," he said. "Yes," she replied, sensing temporary release. "Some dreams. I've been having them for a week." The Preacher nodded, placing one large hand on the Bible. Breathing in hard and shallow gasps, Dara continued. "Funny thing. I was standing in hall at the college a little while ago, asking myself what to do about these dreams. It was like a light came on, and I saw your face." After Dara described the dream, the preacher leaned slightly back in his wooden chair, never taking his hand from the Bible, and looked up at the ceiling. She wondered if he were praying and asked, almost fearing the response, "So, what does the dream mean?" The Preacher paused, and Dara heard and felt a moist wind blowing in through the door. Thunder rumbled overhead and seemed to shake the building. "Maybe nothing," Preacher Ray ventured. The lamp in the corner cast a glow around the preacher. Inwardly, Dara trembled, fought to relax, and for reasons she could not fully comprehend thought of fleeing. "Maybe not," said Dara, hesitantly. "Only in the Bible, aren't dreams one way God speaks to people?" I cannot leave now, she told herself, thinking in the same instant that she had to get out of the church. Pastor Ray nodded, then began. "Dara, I think the waters represent tribulation. You're being tested and you lost your way. Can't clearly read the signs. You're paddling for direction. That's what this preacher thinks." He paused, and Dara could feel his thoughts prying into her soul. Squirming in her chair, feeling light headed, Dara studied the old man, and when he said nothing, just sat straight, she cautiously asked: "And what about the body at the end of the dream?" The preacher hesitated, and as he did, Dara got the sense of the earth suddenly stopping on its axis. The wind chilled her. From somewhere down the hall, a clock ticked loudly. "Ah, yes," he finally said, "the body in the water-well, that has to be you, doesn't it?" "Me? Me?" she asked in protest. The earth spun from its axis. "You. Yes," came the answer. Dara froze and felt herself disintegrating into the invisible darkness that always seemed to surround her these days. She realized that all along she had known the identify of the body. The preacher continued, gentle but urgent: "Child, please, please, stay away from the trouble. Don't go near it. This night, you may be tested. " The preacher stopped. What is going on here? Dara wondered. What in the hell is going on? Heart pounding, Dara sensed that her life depended upon doing what the preacher said-- and she knew her heart would resist the man's words as it had resisted her father. Preacher continued: "You need to break away from whoever leads you wrong. He's like the Devil." He stopped, the message hanging over her. "So, little angel," he added softly, "be careful." These words, thought Dara, are what my father would say; they're what he always said. Growing up, she'd heard the message a hundred times and, as a teenager, had gotten tired of it. She thought about her past four months with Ron: the parties, the drugs, the night clubs. She thought about her soul's torment over these temptations, which she loved as her own flesh and knew she could not overcome them. And she knew too that she had no intention of following the advice of an old man who acted as if he spoke for God. As the girl from Wyoming studied the wizened face of the preacher, who sat with eyes closed and hands folded on the desk, she suddenly recalled an incident that had seemed to bind her to Ron. Several weeks before, she had been with Ron in a Chinese restaurant when a group of men had strode into the dining room and dragged Ron through the back door and into the back parking lot. She had followed, screaming for them to leave her boyfriend alone. Sobbing, Dara had watched as the men had bloodied Ron, forced him to the pavement where they had kicked him in the head, back, and stomach. They may have beaten him to death if three patrol cars had not arrived. She knew that the men had been after Ron for a long time; yet, she now wondered if, in visiting the preacher, she was betraying a boyfriend who already had one foot in Hell. Confusion, her father would have told her, is of the Devil. Quaking, Dara forced herself to stand "You may be right, Pastor," she said. But Ray had told her more than she wanted to hear and she desired to separate herself from the him as quickly as possible. Slowly backing out the office door, wondering why she had come, Dara whispered, "Thank you, Pastor." "Dara," Ray said, rising, "you need to stay. We should pray..." But Dara was gone, running across the brown lawn and past the manger scene. After she sped out of the parking lot, she pushed the car up to seventy and turned on her favorite rock station. She hoped Ron would be waiting for her at her house. IV. That evening, after she had told Ron about her meeting with the preacher, the worm turned. Dressed for an evening of fun, Dara and Ron were to meet some "associates" at a Mexican restaurant in the industrial part of town. It was cold, and wearing a revealing short black dress, Dara shivered as she stepped out of the car and headed to the restaurant's entrance with Ron. She wished she had worn a coat. "This is Saul's place," Ron said, referring to the leader of the group, "and Saul is the main man now." "Who's Saul?" she asked. "You'll see," Ron responded, opening the door to the restaurant for Dara. As she and Ron headed for a table in the back, Ron assured her that these people were friends; yet when she saw them huddled at a table, air blue with cigarette smoke, Dara remembered that two members of the group, husky men with long red hair and beards, had been among those who had beaten Ron. Too, though she had never met him, she recognized Saul, a small, bespectacled man with thinning slicked-back black hair, thin sideburns and mustache, and a blazing red sweater. Her blood turned to ice as Saul looked up, smacked his lips, and greeted her: "How are you, sweet, beautiful plum?" Frigid, Dara answered, "Fine. Just fine." Be silent, something inside her screamed. Be silent and get away.. After sitting down on a chair one of the men offered her, Dara said nothing for the duration of the evening and let Ron do the talking. Saul gave her the creeps and reminded her of something out of a horror show, but she wasn't about to leave. Anyway, she had learned that it was better not to interrupt Ron during business. IV. After the meal, outside the restaurant and in the car, Ron said that they needed to drive to the lake. "Gotta meet these fuckers at Lake Mead," he said tensely, glancing at her and grinning. "These guys?" she asked, referring to the group they had just eaten with. "Some. Plus others," Ron said, looking through the back window and backing out of a parking spot. "Ron, babe, these aren't your friends," Dara replied, shivering from the cold that came right through the car's metal. "A couple of those guys nearly killed you a few weeks back." Ron hit the brakes hard just before the street. "Yeah," he snapped, setting his jaw and peering through the dirty windshield. "But things change when you're doing business. Business is fuckin' business, Dara." Angrily, his smile gone, Ron gunned the car and shot out into traffic, barely missing a station wagon containing a startled mother and frightened children. "Jesus, Ron," she said, her teeth chattering, "let it go. I say we don't go to the lake. And, by the way, turn on the fucking heater." Feeling everything was spinning out of control, she looked out her window at the bright lights of the Strip, focused temporarily on Stupak's tower rising more than 2000 feet in the air, consoling herself with the thought that New Year's on the Strip was going to be a blast this year. She wondered why airplanes coming in for a landing never hit the tower. "And I say it's none of your fucking business what I do," Ron said, pounding his fist on the dash. "That was then, babe. It's over." Always startled by these outbursts, Dara dropped the issue. In Ron's company, she had learned that going along for the ride always seemed easier. V. Two hours later, they reached the beach on the north side of Lake Mead. As Ron's car pulled off the two lane road and next to a white van in the small parking lot, Dara's heart nearly jumped out of her body. The van, an old battered GMC, had a blue canoe painted on its side panel. In the picture, seated in the canoe was a young woman, dressed in pink, who reminded Dara of herself. It was also the young woman from the dream. When Dara and Ron climbed out of the car, the doors to the van opened, and eight men piled out, Saul among them. Trembling almost uncontrollably, chilled to her eternal soul, Dara noticed Saul moved close to the ground, slightly hunched, his eyes and face darting left and right like a lizard's. The wind blew at gale force, and waves crashed on the shore a stone's throw away. Feeling almost lifted out of herself, she tried to look at Ron, who stood ten feet away, and found that she had difficulty turning her head. Forcing herself to turn, sand from the small beach stinging her eyes, she saw Ron facing men carrying crowbars, baseball bats, and rope. The men talked angrily, yet in the wind Dara could not make out what they were saying. An occult tongue, she thought for no apparent reason. The scene began to play itself out, almost in slow motion, as she knew it would. Her mouth and jaw numb, wrapped in freezing wind, she watched as three men stepped forward through against the wind and seized Ron, took turns striking him with their fists. Bearing him to the ground in a flurry of fists and feet, they used rope to tie his hands and legs. Dara could only watch as Ron's bloodied, bound body wriggled on the ground, as Ron wept and pleaded for mercy. She watched sick at heart as one, then another of the eight men approached Ron with weapons, striking his head and body again and again in dull deadly thuds. Wondering if she were dreaming, she saw Ron's skull cave in and asked herself how the disfigured and bloodied face grafted to this head could belong to the man she had waited for this morning in the halls of the community college, the hideously smiling man who had promised to marry her. Finally, the beating stopped. Death, she knew, had arrived as the wind banged around her. Please, dear God, Dara thought as the men paused over the body. Please, sweet Jesus, she silently pleaded, get me out of this. Crazily, Dara wondered why she wasn't still sitting in Preacher Ray's office. Then Saul turned and said, "Good evening, delicious plum." The wind abated. She felt as if she had been shot with electricity, and panic became warm energy flowing into her feet, legs, arms, and neck. Dara knew what to do. Turning, she sprinted down the beach, running like a cheetah. She ran and ran, the wind picking up and seeming to carry her, certain she had left the men, her eyes fixed on a point of light somewhere out in the desert just beyond the lake, when she heard the steady advance of footsteps behind her. Praying for another surge of energy, she could hear the man breathing, inches from her, it seemed. As she felt her arms seized by large hard hands and her body picked up off the ground, she kicked and screamed. . Pain ripped through her as her attacker tightened his grip. "Got a present for you," the deep voice said into her ear. She felt herself thrown onto the cold sand, her ankles grabbed, and then weeping she was being dragged on her back across the sand of the beach and into the cold December lake. Seeking strength to free herself, she forced another scream, emitted a weak shriek as she was pulled into shallow water. The huge hand suddenly on her face easily forced her head-first under water. Fighting for breath, she inhaled cold murky water. Choking, gasping, striking out with legs and arms, she fought desperately for breath, felt the ice chill of the lake quickly rob her body of its power of movement, and then saw through water the face of a bearded man with short-cropped hair. The face seemed to ignite her, and again she struggled, slowly losing strength as she heard and saw the man mouth the words "Merry Christmas, sweet plum," and Dara knew that the moment of her own death had arrived. Jesus, I am going to die, she thought, but she felt no terror, only a deadening calm. The rest was easy. Almost as if she had been commanded to do so, Dara relinquished life as chilling water poured through her nose and mouth, into her lungs and stomach. Pain from the icy water filled her, and she became pain. Seeking her own thought , she wished she had never left Laramie, wanted her father with her at that instant, and then sensed death descending upon her like a warm cloak. Jesus, help me and God forgive me, she pleaded as, in a flickering, she felt herself held downward. My watery grave, and where is God? she absurdly asked herself, and then, just as suddenly, Dara knew that her soul was being torn from her body and that she was being raised out of her body. Up she floated, free from her attacker, and she felt like singing. This cannot be, she thought as she rose. Surely, this cannot be happening. Feeling incredibly light, weightless, Dara somehow hung suspended just feet over the men, looked out over the lake, and watched her killer hold her own now certainly dead body under water. Curiously, she could not feel the wind, only a tangible peaceful joy that surged through her like the movement of a classical symphony. Oh, my dear sweet God, she thought. At that instant, slowly ascending, she seemed to see Preacher Ray in this small church kneeling before a cross, and Dara felt herself lifted toward Heaven by gentle wings of prayer. Floating, night's darkness slowly giving way to endless light, she saw below her the men growing smaller. They were gathered on the shore, saying something in a language she did not understand, but she didn't care about that. Wrapped in light, she noticed Saul in the middle, pointing and yelling instructions at her killer, and saw in the distance, next to the van, the broken corpse of the man who had promised, once he got free and clear, to marry her and take her away to a place where no one could ever harm them again. Immediately, she knew she would never see Ron again. Looking above her, her vision pulled upward, Dara saw that she was consumed by a glorious blaze. Oh, my God, she said to herself over and over. This must be the sun, and I am rising with it, she thought. Seeing the golden glowing city in the distance, Dara heard all around her the singing of Heavenly hosts, felt her arm gripped by the hand that would never let her go, and knew she was safely home. |
Rich Logsdon (no bio available) |
| Edited By Jim Chandler & Haze McElhenny Site Design & Cover Graphics By UrbanDecay.Org |
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