The Mirage
By T.C. Bennett
()
About this ebook
T.C. Bennett
Writer, T.C. Bennett, lives and works in Los Angeles, California. He’s a freelance writer and devotes the remainder of his time to his daughter, family and friends. His work has been featured in two literary magazines, ZYZZVA and the First Northwoods Anthology, as well as in the American Eagle News.
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The Mirage - T.C. Bennett
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: 1-800-839-8640
© 2009 T.C. Bennett. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
First published by AuthorHouse 3/11/2009
ISBN: 978-1-4389-2191-4 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4670-4689-3 (ebk)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2008909116
Contents
Acknowledgments
The Mirage
AWOL From Elysium
The Windows
The Porcelain Fairy
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
About the Author
In memory:
To my aunt Sharon Hubbard
and
my cousin Amanda Geiser
and
my father-in-law Ashot Lalaian
Acknowledgments
I would like to extend my thanks to my family and friends, for all their support and encouragement to continue doing what I enjoy - writing. Also, many thanks to my editor, Carol Gaskin.
The Mirage
THE MIRAGE
The skies above the Angeles Crest mountains grew dark, an unending dark, while a lone campfire raged, illuminating half of Horse Flats camp area. The flames’ tips rose upon their demonic haunches, hissing, whipping, and breathing, thawing the young blasé faces, who with their multi-hued complexions lolled around the campfire. Finally these boys, who were from every region of Southern California, could take a break and smile – some for the first time.
Counselor Nate Boone Lovecraft patiently gathered everybody’s attention to tell his recycled scary tale, a story he had told to youngsters for the past seven summers, a tradition at the non-profit boys’ facility. Two dozen tough young eyes gazed curiously at Nate Boone Lovecraft as he launched into a story so riveting with gore, the youths would have trouble falling asleep, pausing only for interruptions of fractious behavior for which he had to reprimand two particular individuals.
This was by no means an ordinary group of youths, and Nate Boone Lovecraft was definitely no typical counselor, despite his receiving plaques, certificates, and accolades. For the most part, his job was simply policing and babysitting wayward youths whose lives had been changed – and never for the better. He called them his lost little pups, but in the court system’s eyes, they were simply wards of the court. Their issues were usually anything but minor, and each one had his own story to tell.
It was always a great undertaking when all four satellite houses (group homes) converged at the optimist Boys’ Home annual campout at Horse Flats. The volatile and wounded motley crew always consisted of Bloods, Crips, cholos, punk rockers, stoners, rockers, nerds, oddball deviates, and jocks. The young men fidgeted nervously on the makeshift wooden benches before the beckoning fire.
The Tale of Caleb Lovecraft. Let’s see, where did we leave off?
Didn’t we leave off when he joined the Revolutionary War to be free of slavery?
asked a towheaded Eminem wannabe.
"Right! Either he could pick his forcefully adopted homeland of America or work for the British Crown, where he would be free too, but only in England.
So he thought he would pick the lesser of the two evils. Despite his strong Jamaican accent, he enlisted in the Rhode Island Light Infantry Company’s First Regiment and later went on to fight at the battle of Rhode Island.
Hey, homes, I thought this story was supposed to be spooky, que-no?" interrupted a bald-headed Mexican youth who, along with a couple of others, had been taken from his brood like a cheap impounded car for judicial correctness by the state a mere five months earlier.
Come on, esse, this is not African-American History month. It’s my pinche precious time! Come-on-dawg! Man, just come with the spooky!
Nate Boone Lovecraft shook his head impatiently. At last the young man could again sit with normalcy in a bleached muscle T-shirt, far, far away from the confines and the red tape of Maclaren Hall and Juvie while proudly exposing his right arm’s Virgin Mary and on his left, the freshly done peacock. Now listen up, you guys, do you want to hear a scary story or not?
hollered Nate Boone Lovecraft.
Who cares? Whatever! Besides, you’re the man!
a voice among the youths shot back.
Counselor Nate Boone Lovecraft rolled his eyes. He brushed off the heckler whose sole purpose was to show off for his homeys and to test the counselor. Okay, folks. We’re starting the story again and you should consider listening or I’ll bid you beddy-bye. You choose!
Hearing no more protests, he continued. In this prodigious city of ours, today we fall back to the 1800s and to the very beginning of the legend of Mr. Caleb Lovecraft. Many say that soon after his murder, he became obsessed with avenging his death and placed a curse on downtown L.A. and has been feared from then on.
"He was definitely the man back then – a talented, practical intellectual who became strangely useful to the likes of Queen Victoria, who once invited him to come to an extravagant party at Buckingham Palace in London. The year was 1847 and that’s where he befriended Edgar Allan Poe. Thereafter, he and Poe remained good friends. When in town, the two would critique one another’s poetry.
In addition to this, Mr. Lovecraft treasured a letter he received from then General George Washington. A mere two months after meeting on the battlefield, they became good friends. What’s more, the very same letter hung framed on the wall of his barbershop in New York City for more than sixty-four years. With that also came some regular appearances by Benjamin Franklin and John Adams. After having moved to California, the letter hung on the wall of his barber shop on Spring Street in downtown Los Angeles for twenty years.
So esse, he was a poet?
asked another Mexican youth, who
couldn’t help winking sarcastically at his buddies.
"Absolutely, gato! And a famous poet at that. He also held seminars in the Plaza and occasionally gave them abroad. I guess you could say that he was