The Secrets of Vietnam weren't completely true...

Join the lives of two USAF pilots shot down in Southern Vietnam during the war, trying to find their way back home. My NEW series, "The Speed of Sound", is now out. Watch every week for new additions!

The Speed of Sound Issue No.2

SOMEWHERE OVER SOUTHEASTERN ASIA
SR-71
CODENAME: T.A.C. 

"Mosely! Mosely! We're going down!"

"Yeah, thanks, I know!"

The plane nosedived closer and closer to the ground. As I look out the side window only to see a lush, vast, and not to mention green, area of jungle. Just as I covered my eyes, I heard the sound of fire and twisting metal.

UNKNOWN LOCATION
0300 HOURS
WATERS AND TEAM PRESUMED KIA 

I awoke hours later, or so it seemed. The world was blurry, faint, vague. The smell of rotten, burning flesh consumed my nostrils.

"Mosely? Mosely. Psst! Hey, wake up."

"Ungh. Where are we?"

"I have no idea. C'mon, pull out your K-bar."

We walked among the foggy swamps and foliage for hours. We must have been dozens of miles from any type of civilization. But just as I thought we had been lost in the jungle forever, the low hum of a diesel truck became a crescendo of sound. God, that reminded me of being back in Los Alamitos. I could see the headlights. But something seemed wrong. Voices; not English. Ohmygosh, I thought; NVA. Mosely was at least 20 yards behind me, so I could not contact him from here. I lay down and let the NVA soldiers pass by me. After a couple minutes, two stopped on the side of the road for a smoke. Smelled like opium. Cigarettes? They talked for a long time; too long. I held my breath for the entire span. Just as it seemed they wouldn't leave, they started walking away. I let out a large sigh. Too early. One of the patrol guards turned around.

"Điều gì đã được rằng?"

"Đi kiểm tra. Tôi sẽ ở lại đây."

The first guard started pacing towards us, Walther in hand.

 "Đi ra! Hoặc tôi sẽ bắn!"

"Mosely. Stay down."

 "The guard is ready to shoot. We need to surrender."

 I got up to surrender, heart pacing fast.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Yelled the other guard. Okay, I thought, he speaks English.

"Why no? The American's lives deserve no mercy!"

"Let's take them to base; get big reward."

"Good idea."

They walked up to Mosely and I and clubbed us with a, well, club.

SOUTHWESTERN VIETNAM
2200 HOURS
WATERS AND TEAM P.O.W.

I awoke to find myself tied in a chair. A faint light, swinging overhead; blinding me. I feel vulnerable; probably because my USAF patch was ripped from me hours ago. Faint Vietnamese voices behind the steel door in front of me. Screams. Sounded like-Mosely.

"Mosely! Mosley! Where are you?"

Two Vietnamese bookies stormed through the door, holding snub nosed revolvers.

"Where's Mosely?"

"Bring him in!"

Mosely was stormed through the door, tarnished and bleeding.

"Mosely? Aw, no."

"Alan. This time do it. Do it!"

The Viet-Cong bookie put one round in the snub nose, spun the casing, and slammed it down on the table in front of us. Russian Roulette. I couldn't do it. Mosely; he didn't care. A life was just a life to him; no point to it.
I knew Mosely didn't want to play Roulette, but he had to.


"Clear!"

A large burst of smoke and debris shot through the west corner of the room. The Bookie and his accomplice stared in shock and awe. Silence. Footsteps outside grew louder.

"Go! Go! Go!"

I saw the fear in their eyes. But before I could say anything, yellow tracers flew through the smoke, right into the bookie. Blood, flesh, and fear went right out his back, along with hot lead. His revolver dropped to the ground, as Large, alien-like figures burst through the hole in the wall. Then, they removed their gas-masks.
Marines.

"Get a move on, boys. We need men out on the front." Groaned a field commander, who looked like B.A. Baracus by the way. Immediately, we picked up the revolvers and walked outside. It looked dark, gray, depressing. Then, I knew, we were in the Hanoi Hilton: the most ruthless POW camp after World War II. American and Vietnamese chants flew from every corner of the courtyard.

HANOI PENITENTIARY FACILITY
2300 HOURS
WATERS AND USAF TEAM REBEL ON NVA

"Let's go Mosely. Mosely?"

Mosely wasn't there. He was probably off fighting. I couldn't leave my buddy. I searched every unoccupied room in the facility, while soldiers distracted the Viet-Cong. No sign. I sat down in the Western Courtyard; on a bench next to some bushes. Just then, a pair of hand reached up and covered my mouth from the bushes.

"Shhh." said Mosely.

"Mosely? Where did you go?"

"Thought I'd look around awhile. Nice digs. Hey, I found a back alley to the fishing area. There's a neat little sampan there. Let's go."

We crouched along the West wall until we reached an oak gate. Mosely pushed open the door, leading to a stone walkway. Down a hill, there was a river, with a bamboo sampan on the water. We hopped in, and started rowing, as the faint sound of explosions and screeches faded away.

The Speed of Sound Issue No.1

INSPIRED BY THE INTERACTIVE INFINITY CHAMBER
MILWAUKEE ART MUSEUM
2010


Los Alamitos AFB, CA


"You ready?"


"As I'll ever be."


"Alright. C'mon, follow me."


The low hum of the diesel truck became a distant memory. Men in gray jumpsuits; saluting, yelling, preparing.


Now my heart was beating faster than ever. Captain Mosely and I walked up the staircase.
I stumbled into the cockpit.


"Rotors up to speed?"


"Check!"


 "I'll get us up to 75,000, then hand over the stick."


Just then, I felt like the whole world was watching us; watching me. Slowly, I advanced the throttle, feeling the speed clenching me to my seat. After a couple minutes, the altimeter read 50,000 ft., which was my cue. The cO2 ignited the engines, creating G-effects. Black and red were all I could see. Blood, stress, gravity; all rushing through my body faster than the SR-71. Through the white wall of clouds, came a black and blue world, not known to the naked eye. By now, I had handed the stick over to Mosely, closely watching my monitor for movement.



Condron AFB & White Sands Missile Range, NM


"Sir! Message from Los Alamitos! T.A.C. is on their way."


"It's up to Mosely and Waters now. No matter what happens, they have to drop that bomb."


SOMEWHERE OVER NIGERIA, SR-71 BLACKBIRD, 102,000 FT.

"Hey! How's our fuel?" I ask.

No reply.

"Mosely? Mosely, are you there?"

Still no reply. I sit there; waiting. I look to my left out the window. As I gaze out, I notice a majestic sight. Thousands of millions lights, weightless feelings. All those stars, running on thousands of tons of gases. Gases. Fuel. 

"Mosely!"

"What? What?"

"What happened?"

"I fell asleep."


Just then the flickering lights of hazard flash continuously, creating a long, repeating, high-pitched noise.


 "Fuel level! Fuel Level! How much time?"

"Oh my God."

"Well?"

"We have about 20 minutes left."

"What? We're still two hours from our destination!"

"Looks like we're not going home."

Tears blur my vision. Anger and fury overwhelm my body, causing violent and rapid twitches. How is this happening I thought. 

SOMEWHERE IN BEALE, CALIFORNIA

"Dylan! Come get ready for school!"

"Okay, Mom!"

"Honestly, Dylan, sometimes I don't know why you take forty minutes to get ready for pre-school."

"Mom! Phone! They say it's about Dad!"

"What? Hello?"

"Hi, Jane, it's Don."

"What's wrong?"

"We've just been contacted; Alan isn't coming home. His plane is on the verge of fuel."

"That's impossible! There must be some other way-"

"I wish there were, Jane. But Alan was ready to die for his country. You of all people should know that. Do you understand?"

"I think so."

"Goodbye."

"Hey Mom, I'm ready to go."

"You're staying home today."

"Sweet! Hey, when is Dad coming home?"

"I don't know, but maybe soon."

SR-71 ISSUE NO.1572, CHINESE AIRSPACE

"Mosely. Mosely! Wake up!"


"What's the point; I'm already a dead man; doomed to die a slow and crucial death!"


"That's not true! We can still make it out of here if we just try!"


"Where are we gonna' go, huh? Float on down to Earth? How 'bout we fly this bird up to kingdom come? There's no point, Alan! No point!"


Just then, I heard the sound of fists, smashing precious intel. Smoke filled my side of the cockpit...



AUTHOR'S NOTE: THE SR-71 BLACKBIRD IS CURRENTLY THE FASTEST AIRCRAFT KNOWN TO MAN. MANUFACTURED IN AMERICA, THE BLACKBIRD CAN TRAVEL AT SPEEDS OF UP TO THREE TIMES THE SPEED OF SOUND. WHILE IT IS ISSUED TO THE U.S. MILITARY FOR RECONNAISSANCE OPERATIONS, IT HAS BEEN GIVEN A FICTIONAL PERSONALITY IN THIS PIECE AS LETHAL AIRCRAFT.

Penny Lane

On Penny Lane, my barber was showing me some photographs: one for each head he's had the pleasure to have known. Every time he shows me, all the people that come and go, stop and sey "Hello!" to me. As I continue around the corner, I see a banker with a motorcar. The funny part of it was the little children laughing at him behind his back. However, the banker never wore a mac in that pouring rain. Very Strange. Ever since that day, Penny Lane has been in my ear and my eye; all while under the blue suburban skies. So I sat, and meanwhile back in Penny Lane there was a fireman. And in his pocket, a portrait of the queen. He likes to keep his fire engine clean. It's a clean machine.

And again, Penny Lane was in my  ear, my eyes, along with four of fish and finger pies. In Summer meanwhile back behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout, the pretty nurse was selling poppies from a tray. Although she acted as if she were in a play, she was anyway.

And in Penny Lane my barber shaved another customer, who saw the banker sitting waiting for a trim. But then, I recalled the fireman rushing in from the pouring rain. Very strange. So I sit down again, with Penny Lane singing in my ears and my eyes. All while sitting underneath the blue suburban skies. Yes, Penny Lane was indeed in my ears and eyes, beneath the blue suburban skies. Penny Lane.

The Sea of Clouds

The car pulled away from the beige-white house as our mini-van lulled down the street towards the intersection. In Minneapolis, the cirrus clouds had a water-like curvature. Every time the cirrus' passed overhead, I would always picture being underwater, thousands and thousands of feet down. As a toddler, I tried picturing the scene: fish swimming about, coral creating mountains of meticulous colors and formations, seaweed, brushing against my leg. As usual, I held my breath for as long as possible. When we drove past the sea of clouds, I looked back, releasing the breath, blinking. And within one split-second of a blink, the sea was gone. We had risen to the surface.

"Speak" by Laurie Halse Anderson

Socializing is a tough thing to do, especially around strangers. Traumatic events tend to create stress and pressure inside the human mind, making talking a hard thing to do, as well as some motor skills. When someone tries to reach out to you, it is hard to accept them as a friend, and open up your troubles to them. Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson proves that fears can be overcome by self-confidence.

Melinda Sordino was planning to start off freshman year in high-school with a bang. But for some reason, her friends and people she's never met hate her. As her reputation slowly sinks down the high-school ladder, she meets a bright, cheerful student, Heather, who is almost always optimistic, as well as mellow-dramatic. But when two opposites collide, chaos breaks out. Heather always insists that Melinda and her do every activity, meeting, and group act together. Naturally, Melinda's negative personality turns it down. Melinda describes her tormentor as IT a.k.a. Andy Evans, or "The Beast", the student who caused her life to rapidly spin downhill. The only savior in this excruciating building for Melinda, is her art teacher, Mr. Freeman; an open-minded  man who doesn't care what the school board's teachers think of him. A very notable quote from the story takes place in art class, spoken by Freeman: "Ah-ah-ah, you just picked your destiny. You can't change that." This could mean that once you pick a certain path that affects the result of your life, you can't take it back, it's destiny. For Melinda, Freshman year was off to a bad start.

Self-confidence can overpower fear as proven in Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson. When terror strikes your life, talking and movement can become a real challenge. So is trying to release your problem to a stranger reaching out to you. When the human mind experiences fear or mental/physical torture, it is tough to cope with the fact that they will have to continue on as if nothing had happened.

The lifespan of a gale

Within a home, the average storm rages on outside. With a wet bat and glove in hand, you walk amongst the family members, holding nary a light, but a candle. As you continue to the glass door, you see the other side; a brighter, much lighter side, with a fusion of mango and orange colored skies. As you wait in the silence, the warmth of dawn arrives, as the combination of colors sweep over your humble adobe. As you open the door, the crescendo of birds singing and a soft breeze blowing come into picture. You stumble upon the dew-infested green pillow that is your yard, feeling God's soft touch, mothering your mind. Finally, as the skies become riddled with night, you return from a nap in the woods, only to return to you adobe.

A Flowing Conversation

From first glance, a water bottle isn't the most interesting thing; neither are it's contents inside. What is so good about water? Besides hydration and electrolytes, it's just another drink in this world. For some avid athletes, paraphernalia. For others, an excuse to wash down salt, or other condiments of that sort. It is amazing that young authors of tomorrow can write about almost anything, such as a water bottle. As the last drips are drunk, the smile appears on the face of a lucky participant, knowing they helped themselves to a serving of hydration.

The Cremation of Sam McGee by R.W. Service

Normally, I would write original pieces of literature, but for now, enjoy this poem about the Yukon Gold Rush by R.W. Service

  There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Vauge Memories

I remember that old place; that's where I learned to laugh, to love, to cry. I had my first birthday there. Now, it's gone. Nothing but a dirt lot with a "FOR SALE" sign in the front. That old house was wonderful. I remember the day I left him; my friend, my life, my home. For now, I've got to move on; can't let anything hold me back. If I stop going forward with my life, I'm going to lose track of what happens. I drive back there every now and then, to look at that old lot. I sit and socialize with some of the construction workers, tell them I used to live there. They just smile and continue working. The only thing that drives me away from there, was the day my parents left each-other. The world got all up into a hurry; I don't know what happened. It wasn't that way in that old place, then again, nothing was.

A percussionist's view on the drum

The use of the drum, is to coordinate the fluency of one's tempo. All four limbs must be used: the left and right arms, for sound, and use of equipment. The right foot, for the beat-keeping, and the left foot, for constant tempo. The drum player, however, must be like a flowing river, one without an end. When you sit down, behind those cylindrical masterpieces, you are part of the music, the joy, the euphoria. As you go on and on with the wonderful sound that is glory, you realize you cannot stop, like the river within you. You try, but the feeling, too overpowering; too addicting. finally, as the last notes are drummed, you are free, free at last. You get up to walk away, for you shall be back tomorrow.

Red, White, and Blue; the Symbols of the Free

Yes, Patriotism does still matter in the United States. Almost halfway across the world, American men and women are fighting 24/7 around the clock against the Taliban. Not because they were ordered to or because they think they should make something of themselves, but because somewhere in their conscience, there's a part of them saying the have to finish what they started, for us, back home. While they fight over whether terrorism should be allowed in the Middle East, we Americans at home fight over why some aren't patriotic. Patriotism means we respect and honor the ones whom gave their lives, to protect ours.
So please, next time you see a veteran, an active servicemen, or even the flag; salute them, give them a shake of the hand, or just wave. Anything should do it, just show them how much they mean to us, because after all, America was founded on freedom. The tragedies of 9-11 did not destroy us. Crippled us? Sure, temporarily. But that's the American standard: When something tragic or upsetting occurs, we shan't groan and weep, we shall only rebuild, and grow stronger. The minute that first plane was hijacked, Democracy won.

Countdown

There was so much. It’s been like this as long as I can remember. It looked like snow, sure, but we all knew it wasn’t. I bet if I think real hard, I can relive the day. There was a sun, back then. The boy and I went to chop wood.
“Alright, now what you wanna’ know about choppin’ wood, is that it takes muscle, and patience. What you really wanna’ do is get the axe-“, *thud*, “deep into the wood. After that, all you really need to do is shake the axe out, and you got chopped wood.”
“Can I try Dad?”
“It’s all yours”
We chopped wood for about eight hours, no lie. The missus’ called us in for supper. It was Friday, so we had our annual T.V. frozen dinner. Some political show was talkin’ about some ICBMs reaching America. The states had been getting’ in to some trouble with the U.S.S.R. for some time now. They were tryin’ to see who could build more ICBMs. But does it really matter how many of the things a country has, once they have any? The men on T.V. sounded kinda’ worried, like somethin’ was gunna’ happen. They told us Kansas folk to get into our tornado shelters. We grabbed our blankets, our dog, Sparky, and all the food we could carry. We stumbled into the shelter, where we had turned on the crank-powered T.V. There was nary a signal. We heard some kinda’ whisperin’ on the T.V.
*We’re as good as dead. They launched ‘em.They launched ‘em. Pray. Pray for sweet, sweet life.*
The politician broke into tears. They must’ve done it.
“The poor, poor man. Those crazy foreigners, killin’ us like pigs. They must want us, eradicated.”
We sat in the darkness, for longer than a clock can keep track. It makes you worry, what’ll happen next. The smallest noise’ll make you jump. Sittin’ in the dark, with nothin’ but your thoughts. I’ve had some pretty long nights in Kansas, but this must’ve been the longest night of my life, and no one said a word. We awoke the next sunrise. It was cold as the poles. We opened the door.
“Snow!” the boy said.
“Wait. It’s not snow.” I replied.
I picked up a handful. God, it was hot as overcooked food! The land was rich with this substance. Not a building lay in sight. We looked for the SUV, which was nowhere to be found. How can the temperature be cold, but the ash was piercing warm? We traveled down the road to my friend who’s a meteorologist.
His home was demolished. Only the rafters from his basement were dangling in the wine cellar. I remember that old cellar. We used to watch football on Sundays there. We relaxed and dined, with some beer and wine. Those were glory days. Surprisingly, he had a curry bike in the basement. Biking, that was his thing. He was an athletic man, with a behind the desk job. If you don’t get out and about after work, you’re just a sittin’ duck. My wife and I carried the curry up the stairs and set it on the ash-infested soil. The tires wouldn’t budge.
“This is a road curry. Not meant for this kind of land.” I said
My wife broke down into tears. As she bawled non-stop, I helped her up as we slowly stumbled across the vast, barren terrain, with my son following behind. We kept going ‘till we reached the city. There were only a few buildings left, partially damaged. We stumbled up to what I guess was the twelfth floor. Ash and wood fell from the ceiling every now and then.
Now, years later, the sun is gone. All that’s left is a sky full of gray soot. The curry is still at my friend’s house, seeing we go there every now and then. I can’t remember the last time I was happy, it’s simply been too long. All that’s left is the boy and I, my wife committed suicide by gunpoint, with my .44 Revolver. My grandfather gave that to me on his death bed. We only got two bullets left in the thing: one for me, and one for the boy. It’s almost like that one McCarthy story, the uh…”The Road”. Yeah, that’s it. No more for me. I think I’ve had enough. It might be good to just, lie down and rest…for a little…while. How nice it would be, to never have to wake up to this world. If only, if only this wasn’t reality, and I was really some figment of an author’s mind.
“Ha! That would be good.”
I sat there for a while. I sat there for a long time. I was tired. When the boy finds me, he won’t know what to do. “Mankind has to end war, before war ends mankind” J.F.K. once said. It’s been a good couple of years. I’ve earned this haven’t I? I deserve to rest. Yeah, that must be it. I’ll just rest, if only for a little while.
As the wind whispered into the old man’s ears, he drifted off into a never-ending slumber. The story will pan out, with the decrescendo of the wind and soot, blowing amongst the withered Virginian trees.

The Fiance

        It was late, and she was getting worried. He hadn’t come home yet. He was out with his friends. She told him not to drink. But he’s slipped a promise here and there time and again. The door rang. She was relieved. As she opened the door, there was a man, who’d arrived in a small grey sedan, like that out of a 1970's factory, newly furnished, still presenting forth the euphoric aroma of that infamous new car scent. Odd enough, the windows were tinted more than the usual suburban transport, but that didn't bother her.


“Hello?” She said.

“Mrs. Hanson?” The stranger replies.

“Yes?”

“It is my- deepest regret to inform you that-you’re fiancé has passed away.”

“What?”

“He was last seen leaving a bar downtown with some of his friends. Their car spun out of control off I-95.”

“He had this in his pocket.”

The strange man handed her a note. What could it possibly be? As she unfolded the paper, she could see his name in cursive:



My sweet fiance,

          I am sorry for this promise yet again broken. I sit here writing at the bar. I am driving home in about an hour. Dave has had too many. I sure can pick ‘em. I will see you soon.

                                                              -John



               She thanks and leaves the stranger as she hops in her car to the I-95. She has found the exit, but as she approaches, she sees no sign of a crash; no tire marks, no chassis, not even a flare from a possible fire. She parks and looks over the nearby ravine, to which the man had described. There was nothing. Puzzled and curious, she returns home about 20 minutes later. As she searches for that one key on that large aluminum ring, she could’ve sworn she heard a door shut. She backed away and called the police.

“I’ll send a car out there. They should be there in about ten minutes. Just stay outside.” The operator said.

                    She couldn’t bear the wait. She walked inside, the dark, serene room. When she flipped the power button on, she found that all her furniture and home items were all gone. She searched her room. But, upon entrance, she found John, her fiancé, sprawled out across the floor, with no life at all.

                    Frightened half to death, she sprints out of the house as the police pulled up. With tears streaking down her cheeks, she describes her problem. The two officers search the house but find nary a person.

"That can't be," she said. "my fiance's body was right in he-"

         But as she looks into the master bedroom, she doesn't see John's body; only a trail of blood leading to the window.