A visit from the Ol' Prospector

This tale comes from a few folks, who when I was on the streets, often said I looked like an old prospector, when carrying my full load. That got me to crafting a character, sometimes acted out in the spooky season for a laugh, to tell some tales, about the past from this ghostly point of view. He's a ghost, just don't believe in them, so thinks he's still alive. You might see him, come the nights of All's Hallows Eve, wandering about calling for those mules of his, between running pans for gold, and cursing the witches as hexed his pan to only bring up nuggets of sweet and chocolate treats. 

Strange footsteps echoed in the building, as the youngsters wandered about in costume, one side a stomp, the other half drag, half limp. The scuff held tones of wind amid the drying leaves the town's trees, when the cold autumn winds dropped down the canyons. 

"Tarnation. Ornery. Where you nasty brayers gots off to this time?" Not more than a whisper, barely heard amid the aisles o' the big box store. Dogs whimpered, drawing back a bit, or barked wildly as the footsteps passed. Folks startled over the actions of animals that normally loved coming there. 

One long sigh, nearly buried by the noise o' modern forced air units, slithered down the aisles. 

"Dag-bummed mules, find that ol' bar in time to gets some nuggets, and they chooses nows to runs off. Oughta sell them boths to that there skinner, I oughtas." Customers jumped, as the whisper grew, and a mist gathered in the center aisle o' the store, forming a moving fog bank, drifting to the east. "Maybe the boys dones doubled back on me. Maybe. Nasty brayers, fer certain." 

Footsteps became louder, the whistling breathing of an old and bothered man now echoed between them, fog turning solid, yet still casting no shadow under the form that emerged from the swirling mass. 

"Dag-goned hayburners. Never let a man get a few good pans out o' that bar, they do. Gonna sell them, I swear me, I'm a gonna." The stomp came loud, as he turned up the wider aisle aimed at the easternmost door. "Get one day a year, ta comes back and find me some gold to buy my claim back, and they dones runs off, every years. Nuff to make a man cuss around ladies, it is."

Near the entrance, a cluster of costumed children, hands out to gather in sweets from the cashiers there jumped as a chill passed over them, when a louder yet stomp came. 

"You young'uns done seen any mules wanderin' by here?" A dusty, hunched o'er man snapped, tapping down his shovel on the concrete floor. The battered brown hat, front of the wide brim bent up, back down, and side wavy from years of use and abuse topped a mop of wild, graying hair, dim blue eyes and big nose framed by a white with hints of pepper beard, dusty dungarees and flannel shirt making him solid, above battered, tan work boots. 

Shaking his dusty head, he moaned. "Young'uns done looks like you seeing a ghost. Just me, the Ol' Prospector, tryin' to find my mules. Nasty brayers runs off all the time."

Looking them over, shocked and slight worried faces of parents behind them, he sighed. "Ain't no ghost, folks. Just an ol' man, cursed to pan the streams fer'ever and ever, seekin' nuffs nuggets and dust to buy back me claim, stolen away by some fancy tinhorn lawyer, come speakin' 'bouts laws and domains, not claims and ore." He laughed. "Not that it got him a penny o' flakes, save those fools gather in, thinkin' they found gold. Nope, that there gold bar be mine, and the stream hides the glitters from all but me."

He rapped his shovel, held more as a cane, and less as a tool, leaning over gently, a smile creasing his face. "But I bets you young'uns have seen ghosts before, just not knows it. Here in Fort Unions, there be ghosts o' all kinds. Long wandering conquistadors seekin' El Dorado's golden streets still, cowpunchers trailin' herds o' bunched strays they lost comin' this way, Niner's like me, seekin' the glory o' the motherlodes, even squatters and settlers, tryin' to get in one last harvest before the storms o' winter come. You just don't know what you see, when the foggy rains o' late October come to these benches." His grin grew, left eye twinkling with mischief's gleam. "Maybe even the phantom train, headed up the canyon and back from the smelters, haulin' ores down and supplies back up them there Cottonwood strewn canyons."

Seeing disbelief, he shook his head. Setting the shovel down, both hands on the handle as he leaned o'er it, peering at his audience. "Tellin' the plumb honest truth, there. You looks arounds, traces them ol' tracks still be there. Long grades that avoid the steeper climbs, mimicking the runs o' Tanner's Ditch and the canals o' you ancestors fer irrigatin's with. And on foggy, rainy, or snowy nights, you might just see the swirls o' the ol's steam engine's plume, as she runs those traces, seeking to finish that last run, one more time. Might even hear the faint scream o' her whistle, as she rounds the bends, finding other ghosts, or folks in these funny horseless carriages you race 'rounds in, missing out the things we saw as you speed on by." Laughing softly, he caught many an eye, those o' the kids that dared meet his gaze. Leaning back, he wavered as the shovel pointed to Fort Union Boulevard. "Yep, trains ran once, up along that road o'er there, 'fores branching aroun' Butler Hill, to rise up slower along the Big Cottonwood's run. Trains that served the mines o' both canyons, trains that were cursed by those they woke too early, the natives they drove off the land, and the settlers whose water they done fouled with tailin's and coal dust from the trains. Been many a year since those tracks was pulled out, by gandy-dancers long since ghosts themselves now, but those trains still run. Uphill slow, fightin' to reach the tops o' the canyons, and the mines along the way. Or racin' downhill, out o' control, engineers and firemen prayin' as they fight to keep their cars all on the tracks, not spilling the precious loads they carry. You watch, you'll see, young'uns. Those mines, the ghost ores still are dug, by the shades o' miners trapped under them mountains' bones fer'ever, and their ore still rides down them tracks, just not as you can tell, lest you see the fogs and snow swirling around, before, and inside them.

"Those trains, they were't lifeblood o' towns downs hereabouts. Jobs at the smelters, jobs in the railyards keepin' them trains runnin', jobs cutting the wood or diggin' coal to fire their boilers. Not a regular run, maybe twice, thrice at most a day, but still, they moved along, slow inside the canyon, buildin' up a fine head o' steam along these here flatter benches, racin' to Murray and Midvale, to deliver they loads o' rocks, and have folks pull out the precious from the worthless bits. Hints o' the rails marked durin' snowstorms as ice lines along Fort Union, showin' where those spirit iron horses still run, amid the snows, to deliver ghostly ore. Mark my words, you listen, out there tonight, you'll hear the huffin' and chuffin' as the pistons o' those ol' trains still run, tryin' to make it down to safety, a'fores an avalanche takes the tracks out again. See the cars rockin' in the air out above the freeway, in the places they dug down to make those lanes fer folks to roar along, faster than steam engines comin' back down the canyons. The flakes or raindrops will stick together, showin' you those ol' rail runners up there, or along the creek bed further up the canyons."

He leaned back, tipping the battered hat back, wiping his brow with his kerchief. "Yeppers, thems were the days, when the iron horse was king o' this valley, stopping sometimes to gather up a few cars o' sugar beets to haul to the processing houses, during the harvest. When the howling was not just the winds racin' down the canyons, but the release o' the steam, when boilers got to full pressure, and needed to bleed a bit. Days when men and women watched and waved as the trains passed, hopin' there'd be no leavin' o' the rails, prayin' the mountains were not hungry fer they kinsfolk and neighbors as worked they mines. When the land here still had farms, 'sides ol' Wheeler's place o'er yonder, as still bein' workeds." 

Hunching over his shovel, both hands again on the handle he sighed. "Nowadays, fancy folks dance the snows in winter, sled runners strapped to their feet where we dug out them ores fer the rich men back east. Investors who bought us out, forced us to work fer pennies, instead o' all the weath we'd finded. Been many a nights, under them mountains, since I last came down, ta find that place where the dust and nuggets gather up, down here beneath them purple mountain majesties. But one day a year, they let me out, to try and work that bar, and gather me up the funds to buy it back from them, to get me's claim back."

Cocking his head, he sighed. "Dag-bummed mules. Leave a man to wander 'bouts lookin' fer's them, when rightfuls, he should be runnin' pans fer flakes. Oughta sold them to that there teamster, back after the war 'tween the states. Rightful, I shoulda." He waves his free hand, turning to the back o' the store. "Tarnation! Ornery! Get your mangy hides back here boys! Found that sandbar, we need to run pans, a'fores we has to go back there." Limping along, left leg dragging the foot along, he moaned again. "Been a century since that avalanche took me, when I snuck out to pan the waters above Donut Falls. Need them mules to behave and stay put, long enough to buy my peace." As he walked away, his form became as misty as the trains he'd spoken of, before swirling apart into a blast of sawdust raised at the back of the store. 

A final echo came, faint, but full of warning to the kids. "Don't go lookin' fer me gold, young'uns, you be cursed as me, to only seek it once a year, and have others stop you from findin' it. Tarnation! Ornery! You boys gets back here, ya hear me!" 

Preserved in Amber - The start, again abandoned to chase jobs and build the tales leading to it.

There is a strong debate here inside the Beltway as to how many seasons exist, and what their names are. Slush, Mosquitoes and the Well-Known-Byproduct-of-Cattle-Ranching are my three choices. The last is whenever the idiots are in session over on the Hill, regardless of any overlap with the other two.

The office was quiet, it being one of the rare dull periods during Slush that the smell from Capitol Hill managed to thin out thanks to the long holiday recess. Such moments let those with vacations take a few days for a nice cruise, trip to Lost Wages, the Theme-parks down in Florida or a sanitarium rubber room, depending upon our needs. Even the office secretary Jennifer was out this day. Our titular boss (face it, Jen sets the schedules and normally routes incoming calls, so she is the boss), Mother Eunice Bethany, my ex-partner and now boss, had one of the youngsters out on a field evaluation. Raises matter more here as we can't quit. Or be fired. I know, I try getting canned at least twice a week.

Which left only Cathay, my succubus possessed nun current partner, and myself to hold down the fort. As Lindsey Weismann was in town for a review of threshold limits and protocols that some oversight committee just revised. Blair was supposed to be in too, but he's a law to himself in North-Central region. Probably either poaching some other district or planning a fishing trip.

With everyone else out, I get to be in charge. This rarely happens despite my seniority. Probably due to the embarrassing incidents that occur when I have the helm. Like training sessions held over a cribbage board surrounded by pizzas, cookies and other contraband substances in this health conscious administration's reign. As usual, I was losing, with Cathay in the lead past the first corner on two hands. Despite spending more time idly folding "while you were out" into erotic origami sculptures to decorate Jen's desk with.

After about three more hands of crap, two of them nineteen hands, I was really sucking dust, still not much beyond the first corner as Cathay and Lindsey raced to the skunk line.

For those not familiar with the game, nineteen is an impossible hand so it doubles as zero. Twenty-nine is the best hand, and score is kept on a board with up to four lanes of one hundred-twenty holes, with "corners" every thirty holes and a single socket for one-twenty-one and the first person to make that or more wins the game. Most of my lunch money for the rest of the month lay in the quarter a hole and five bucks a game, doubling each corner back, between me and the gals. It would be PB and J's for me for awhile,  unless I raided one of my savings accounts or secret cash stashes.

When the phone rang, figuring it to be another losing ground hand, I tossed my cards onto the table face up. One other good thing about Beths being in the field, I could break my favorite chair out of her impound closet. This baby had rollers, so the glide across the tiles to Jen's switchboard just outside the office was swift, if filled with the scratch of bearings due for replacement decades ago. All the others in the office hated my baby. Until they discharged me though, I refused to sign it over, and took it home when I took one of my few days off, to prevent it being scrapped in my absence. I planned on using it until the boss came back to shove her back into that isolation cell called storage.

Jen's console is about the most modern thing in the whole division. Yet, its old enough to remember when the wheels on my rolling throne ran silently.

"CRAPP, this is Tanner." Most people hang up when I answer that way. It saves me the paperwork of their call. The environmentalists should give me a medal over the trees I have saved in the line of duty.

A familiar sigh at the other end, if a bit softer and weaker than normal warped my face into a grimace. "Troy, that is not a proper way to answer an official phone." The words were softer than since her return. Eunice Bethany worn out boded ill for my easy time. "Full division name, no acronyms." If she could lecture, I figured the flight roughed her up more than normal. Thermals in the Rocky Mountains peak about this time of year, when the monsoon surge can reach into Canada.

"Fine. Environmental Protection Agency, Cleanup, Remediation and Paranormal Protection Division, Remediation Specialist Tanner speaking. How may I divert your call?" Silence with no laugh at the last bit plummeted my guts below the floor. Bad news was coming.

"Round up any help you can find. Get out here." Beths was never a long-winded gal, but this was unusually terse for her.
"Sure thing. What reason do I tell folks for cancelling their days off?" Union rules required that. And here in CRAPP, the union was our only true benefit.

"Some kids summoned up a demon." That I knew, the initial incident report came from one of those civic minded folks who will tolerate all sorts of rudeness to file a report on a neighbor they dislike. Beths forgetting that she yanked it away meant worse yet. "We went to banish and cleanse the school gymnasium..." Her voice trailed off. She fought breaking down, and had lost.

"Beths." Cathay has been my partner for long enough to get jealous at that tone in my voice others rarely notice. Tendrils of smoke rose from my concern for "the ex-wife".

Sobs traveled the wires from a place three quarters of a continent away. My eyes closed. I did not want to know the answer to the questions I now had to ask. Speaking on my end would inform the others as I sought those answers though. Just to be safe, I put the call on speaker.

"Beths, where's Amber?" Lindsey's cards hit the crib board while the slice of pizza Cathay was making oral love to flew to the nearest trash can. Horns rose from my partner's forehead, amid crackling and darkening hair, forcing her wimple to rise, then fall to the ground behind her. Amber was one ex-partner Cathay could not be jealous of, the yongr kid she herself liked, and taken under her wing. As we all had.

No answer save soft crying noises. It was really bad. "Beths?"

Finally she found her voice. Faint, tired and broken still with her sorrow. "The demon took her."

Cathay rose from her reclined position, skin turning that deep crimson all demons have, as her powers manifested in anger. Lindsey merely turned white. They rarely lost folks out in LaLa Land, not like the other divisions.

Deep rasps broke the silence in the office, as our leader tried to gather herself for a moment. "Bring the troops, all you can catch."

Oh, I would bring them, and hell as well. She knew it. "On it, Beths. Panic Button and All Hands." Phrases the two of us joked about many years ago. They never got used, even when needed. Unless it was too late.

I thought she had lost it again, until her voice came, with that ring of authority and the strength from days gone by. "Troy, bring everything you have. Everything."

She wanted vengeance. But so did I. Sometimes the Lord understands you beating him to the punch. "Got it, breaking out the gun from your desk."

"No, bring everything. I mean it."

There was no curse strong enough in Hebrew, Armenian, Arabic, Russian, or English to express my shock. God have mercy on this demon. Mother Eunice Bethany just gave me permission to become an avenging angel, with no limits on my violence. For a peacenik like her, that was an about face of major proportions.

"Will do. ALL hands will come. Trust us. We'll get the kid back." Lindsey was already calling off the phone on my desk, summoning up the Western and Inter-mountain offices she worked most closely with. That was her turf, so she would have better luck cajoling them into moving.

There was one last thing I had to say. "Beths. I won't stop until we have Amber back. Okay?"
She was crying again. "God forgive me...."

Silence followed by disconnection's clicking noise. There is a fire axe above my desk on the wall. Two fast steps and it was in my hands, with a satisfying whistle before that wall became kindling. Amid the ruin, there was a cloth wrapped staff, covered in cobwebs and dust. More noise greeted my removing it from its abode. Beths told me to unleash all I had. This was not all, just the weapon of final choice, the one I saved for true emergencies.

While it felt good to have this item back, there was more needed. One such item was yet to be retrieved. Cathay was no longer crimson, but pink. What I held already was anathema to her kind. She could feel the power, even if she had no clue as to which relic I'd lain hands upon. She may be a nun, but the demon in her fears such things. For her, this was something far more scary than my guns.

Speaking of which, the axe went back with me to Beths' desk. The lower right hand drawer got eighty-sixed fast, freeing my peacemaker from its prison. And the rings of keys to my war lockers. Not that a lock would have kept me from any of them, they just kept me honest. Most times.

Cathay was making the East Coast and Southland calls, so I took the Midwest. Which contained the hardest call of them all. Amber was the Chicago District head's granddaughter. I took that one first, even as I saw my partner texting and calling at the same time to haul in the headquarters troops.

"EPA, Special Division, Region Five. How may I assist you?" Bubble-headed voice of some peroxide blonde. I gave her three months in the field. Tops.

"Get James Blair. This is Tanner in Washington."

"I'm sorry, Mister Blair is in an important meeting...." That adjusted my estimate downwards. I like to think I am a bit of a legend. Or infamous, at least.

"Ring him anyway." Abrupt interruptions tend not to frazzle new comers, she was no exception.

"Sir, there is a very important meeting today, and he left instructions not to be disturbed." She then made her deadly mistake. "You will have to wait."

I counted to five, which only made me think she might last a minute in the field before her partner fed her to some undead thing.

I took a new course to blow through her. "This is TROY Tanner, his ex-partner. I am in HEADQUARTERS, and am thinking of requesting you as my next partner."

Losing three partners in one week gives you a reputation that even new hires and draftees hear about during orientation.

She'd heard of me, alright. The stammer of fear was there now. "I'm so so.. so.. sorry...sir. He... He .. is in a mee mee meeting with the Eff... efff..."

Oh, Hell. "Break in, tell Sowa and Blair I'm on the horn. Better still, just slide the phone into the room and yell that, then run. That is the office SOP, right?"

"I I I can't. Its an im im important meh meh meeting." If her partner was wise, she'd be shot before they left the office.

"Girl, Mother Eunice Bethany is in trouble. Tell them that. Then duck and cover."

That name got a bell rung. She had to be very new to remember who was in charge that fast. "Yes sir. But Mister Blair said..."

"Girl, you cannot be fired from CRAPP. Its a life sentence. Just break in, and pray I don't file your transfer paperwork." It was cruel, but I had to educate her fast this time. Normally, I break that news to them gently, over a beer and lunch, with a psychiatrist on standby.

Took only two minutes, most of which was either her screwing up her courage or James Blair tearing her a new one. Then the old man's gravel voice rumbled from the earpiece. "You better be dead, dying, or will be soon."

"Cancel the vacation planning. All hands to Boise. Beths took Amber on an Eval trip, it went south. Big time. Amber is MIA and I think Beths is tore up pretty bad." Knowing James, getting the news over fast was best.

"My granddaughter is missing?" Stunned softness, with the slam of a chair in the background. Alec Sowa is our FBI liaison agent. And Amber's fiancee. That bit set him off, and he was normally a cool customer. Unless he had a demon gnawing on his leg.

"Demon they went after took her, that's all I know. I'm fast tracking the response in from here. Grab your pickups, all the ammo you can and bust your butts getting to Boise. All Hands, per Beths." The mention of the pickup got his mind going again.

"You remember the last time we took my pickup out? All that paperwork?"

"Good times. Worth every tree we killed." Technically, James is both my senior and not under my command. I gave him the order anyway. "Get the other Midwest offices rolling west. Spin up that medical crew we have in Denver, I'm not sure how bad Beths is..."

Nice thing about Blair, once he moves, you can fire and forget him. "Well, there goes our fishing trip. Alec call Denver and Boise, I need info, now." Ignoring me was his way of signing off. "I know, I really wanted to get that Volkswagen eating catfish too. Now shut up, and lets get Amber back."

God help him if Beths recovered and found out he was poaching on the New Orleans office's cases again. I hung up. James sounded more upset over the fishing trip lost, but I knew him better than that. The old man would come ready to hunt bears, if needed to get Amber back.

Beth's notes were on the desk, so I took a look over them, and faxed them to James. As each sheet came out, Jen's hand grabbed it to fax to other offices. I never noticed when she showed, but she is a kind of psychic. She had to be that or psycho to deal with our crew and the jobs we get. Amber was her friend as well, and as the leader of the fashionista squad, her, Amber and Cathay, the gal would feel the need to be here for her friend. Those ladies aimed to have us be the sharpest dressed offices in all of government. I just wished they would let me be about jeans and flannel shirts. I like my comfort.

About that moment, Jim Young wandered in. He was our last boss, and another of my former partners. Some days, I think that the brass uses surviving me as the test to see who gets to be boss. At least for the last decade or so. Before that, things were more obscure.

Dangers Rise Up - A poem of the streets

Dangers rise up
as the cold builds
and Winter reaches out claws
to rip up sup
as we wander.

Currently, we wonder
who is our stalker
and rumors talk of one
who likes stabbing backs
with real knives.

I don't venture
west of Third West
myself now that my allergies
rage up so easily
so it's hearsay.

Or is it?
Been warning folks lately
about the new, darker element
that walks the streets
of Salt Lake.

Now, at night
I do worry some
about those guys I know
who have gone back
to the shelter.

And those campers
who brave that area
at about the same time
as these crimes occurred
at Coffee Line.

Eyes narrowed warily
I survey those about
seeking some clue, but fail
to see where threats
may be waiting.

Oh, I see
some that cause concern
but none match what happened
or am I blinded
by my misconceptions.

So I walk
with a different gait.
Hiding the bum knee's pain
to make the target
look less inviting...
and warn friends
to beware.
7November2013 - Dyfedd Rex

The Addicts - A Poem of the Streets

Mistaking their DT's
for chilly morning shivers,
you'll see them bundled up,
even those rare warm Autumn days
when the mercury rests higher
than their coats indicate
as they wander.

You know them
by their dirty blankets,
folded around them like skirts,
or turned into full body sheaths,
looking like grey mummy wrappings,
or a zombie's tatters,
our drugged undead.

These are the ruined souls,
spoilers for the we few
who avoided Addiction's siren song.

They wander about
twitching for many reasons;
some still riding their highs,
others crashing into detoxification's danse macabre
as their night of using
catches up to them
with a vengeance.

Mistaking their intentions,
you'll cross the street
or shift off onto grass
avoiding their haunted gazes while passing
their antics and angry displays
trying to avoid them
but still failing.

These are those cast aside
by even the most pious
for heeding Narcotics' damning call.

Some wander steady,
others stagger about slowly,
never given a moment's notice
until they collapse from severe reaction
to their dark, personal demons
in some public place
during daylight hours.

A rare few
manage with stuttering steps
to move about the park
despite levels of intoxication rarely seen
outside their own little cliques
surviving it, means unknown,
despite tempting Death.

They are just lost souls,
seeking some dark, strange release
from the pains of Life.

Many younger ones
live only short lives,
seeing this lonely, homeless life
as their long, fun, final party.
Which leaves me to ask:
Why is this so,
who crushed hope?

Even older ones
see naught but fun
in this dark ballet performed
upon the cold, bleak cement ways.
It's just a long celebration
as they slowly descend
into another Hell.

They are fogged in wanderers
drifting about amid Drugs' murk
No purpose, besides scoring highs.

There's no answer
to ending this shit.
Forgive that word, but realize,
it's the only one that fits.
For what else says it
about lives torn apart
by various Narcotics?

They are lost,
perhaps still with chances
to break their dark cycles
of abusing various substances each day,
but lacking a reason to,
or failing to see
their approaching deaths.

These are your lost children,
siblings, friends, maybe even parents.
Lost by lack of care...
...from a callous broken Society.

30September2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Minotaur Pickup Herders - A twisty poem from a prompt.

from a while back, enjoy this programmed poem as NaNoWriMo eats my soul.... gah!


The pickup bounced on its springs
riding lower than any the hikers had seen
as the rancher drove by to gather his herd
and run them to roundup's branding.
They barely noticed those behind the wheel
until the truck was gone over the hill
and the tail end hiker called out loud
about the vikings helmet complete with horns
those in the cab seemed to be wearing.
Then came the screams of human fear,
as over the ridge was driven the heard
before the rage of three large minotaurs
and their cow queen with her large brown eyes
racing the Ford behind her gather,
into which the earthlings were hustled
off to the slaughter for meat to feed
the young her sisters still nursed
in the ranch house far off and away
in a hellish dimension of mythical beasts.

Ghosts Stop Lingering - A poem of Ghosts and such

and one more to make it officially the end of October... that scariest of months.


Still around.
They just won't leave.
Still walking halls, sitting in chairs
After bodies pass, the spirit lingers on too long
and when I dream each noisy night
the are still there
waiting for
something.
I know not.
But in those dreams
words of an old movie come to me
stop their lingering about this place they must leave
by simply doing what he said not to
and crossing the streams
watch them
implode.