"Weirder Than Weird" 18 Bizarre Tales From a Disturbed Mind by Francis Burger
Reverend Carmichael has been heard to say on more than one occasion that he never wanted to stray too far from Mary’s side because when the rapture finally comes he fully intends to latch onto her, thereby ensuring his own deliverance as well. Despite her sixty-seven years, Mary would probably blush if she ever heard such nonsense. All the praise and attention showered upon her by friends from church was much too overwhelming for such a lowly and humble servant of God. Her duty, as she saw it, was to minister to the poor and less fortunate and to do the Lord’s bidding in whatever capacity was required of her. For most of her life, she worked tirelessly at that very thing.
On this beautiful Sunday morning, Mary is sitting alone in her garden with a cup of tea in her hand, a bit nervous and a bit apprehensive because in a few minutes her friend Celia would be stopping by to take her to church services. Immediately afterwards, there is to be a party held in her honor. It would surely be a day filled with flowing praises and endless speeches giving full account of her lifetime of good deeds, but Mary is determined to resist the temptation of feeling proud or deserving. Of course, there were many nights spent away from home comforting and nursing sickly members of her congregation back to health, but it was certainly a small price to pay for staying in the good graces of the Lord and besides…she needed the church as much as it needed her; it served to fill an emotional void that was missing in her life, that of feeling wanted and yes… even loved. Richard had never been up to that task; in fact, Mary painfully endured more than forty years of various forms of abuse by her so called husband. She had her church, he had his bottle, and it wasn’t long before the rest of the world stopped inquiring about him because it was painful to watch her try to explain her husband’s continued absence or even the occasional bruised cheek.
Mary sipped her tea and delightfully drank in the solitude of the early morning. She loved how the dew sparkled on the leafy vine that delicately intertwined her trellis and how the golden shafts of morning light played upon the fragrant flowers that she lovingly labored to bring to life. At times she could almost imagine her own garden as that of the fabled Eden; this always sent her heart soaring and kept her spirits aloft for a good part of the day. Aside from church, her garden was the only true pleasure she had ever really known.
Just beyond the tinkling water fountain and on the other side of a patch of bright Petunias is Mary’s pride and joy; a thicket of beautiful red roses grow there from a recently packed mound of earth. Each petal bearing an exquisitely deep and rich luster, quite unlike anything she had been able to achieve to this point; and just in time because the annual flower show is approaching fast. Mary glanced lovingly at her roses. For many years now, she competed in the flower show with her less than stellar offerings but this year she is certain that she has a true contender for first place. A few months earlier, she pondered what her strategy would be for this year’s event and after much deliberation, an idea finally came to her from out of the past. As a matter of fact, it came from something quite bizarre she had heard as a child.
On that day, she spent the morning digging an enormous hole in the corner of her garden. After finishing, she sat on a bench nearby sipping tea and in an odd manner laughing under her breath like a giddy young girl who was abiding the juiciest of gossip. At some point, a bear like roar emanated from the house and moments later, the screen door from the house to the garden burst forth in a loud explosion.
A drunken old man staggered his way out into the garden. “Mary!” he screamed with violent and flammable breath. “Damn you! Where the hell is my whiskey old woman!”
Mary calmly turned to him and pointed toward her morning project.
“There… over there is your horrid tonic old man… in the hole!”
The old man’s red lidded eyes immediately flamed with displeasure as he stumbled his way over to the hole and looked down. Upon realizing that his entire stock of expensive drinking whiskey lay at the bottom, a stream of vile obscenities gushed forth and he turned to give her a sound thrashing for her insolence but a shovel seemed to come out of nowhere and hit him square on the forehead, sending him crashing to the bottom of the hole like a sack of wet corn.
The old man lay there for a moment, bloodied and dazed, then, slowly and with much difficulty, pulled himself up to the rim. When he looked up through blood and sweat, his eyes fell upon a slight figure standing on the edge of the hole silhouetted against an intense midday sun. The shimmer of warm light surrounding the figure gave the impression of an angelic presence bathed in a halo of holy illumination. For a short moment, a calmness washed over the old man as he studied the divine vision that was undoubtedly interceding on his behalf, but his reverie soon came to a horrible end as the figure raised a staff like object high in the air and brought it down upon his neck with surprising force. The sharp edge of the shovel cut deep and severed the old man’s jugular which sent him sprawling to the bottom of the pit once more in a fountain of red spray.
Mary giggled once again softly under her breath as she remembered that fine day. She then turned her thoughts once again to her beautiful roses. “Won’t Celia and the rest of the ladies be jealous of my entry this year!”
The ladies would certainly be curious to learn the secret to her wonderful roses and when they inquired she would only respond with one word: “RICHARD!” The absurdity of the thought made her laugh out loud.
The door- bell chimed and Mary got up from the bench. She straightened her dress and patted her head just to make sure every hair was in place. Her special day had finally arrived and a charge of excitement now surged through her tired old limbs. Her many years of good deeds were finally about to be recognized and rejoiced over by those who loved her the most and at that very moment she was feeling… well… quite deserving of the day… and to be honest… a little annoyed that it had not come any sooner.
On this beautiful Sunday morning, Mary is sitting alone in her garden with a cup of tea in her hand, a bit nervous and a bit apprehensive because in a few minutes her friend Celia would be stopping by to take her to church services. Immediately afterwards, there is to be a party held in her honor. It would surely be a day filled with flowing praises and endless speeches giving full account of her lifetime of good deeds, but Mary is determined to resist the temptation of feeling proud or deserving. Of course, there were many nights spent away from home comforting and nursing sickly members of her congregation back to health, but it was certainly a small price to pay for staying in the good graces of the Lord and besides…she needed the church as much as it needed her; it served to fill an emotional void that was missing in her life, that of feeling wanted and yes… even loved. Richard had never been up to that task; in fact, Mary painfully endured more than forty years of various forms of abuse by her so called husband. She had her church, he had his bottle, and it wasn’t long before the rest of the world stopped inquiring about him because it was painful to watch her try to explain her husband’s continued absence or even the occasional bruised cheek.
Mary sipped her tea and delightfully drank in the solitude of the early morning. She loved how the dew sparkled on the leafy vine that delicately intertwined her trellis and how the golden shafts of morning light played upon the fragrant flowers that she lovingly labored to bring to life. At times she could almost imagine her own garden as that of the fabled Eden; this always sent her heart soaring and kept her spirits aloft for a good part of the day. Aside from church, her garden was the only true pleasure she had ever really known.
Just beyond the tinkling water fountain and on the other side of a patch of bright Petunias is Mary’s pride and joy; a thicket of beautiful red roses grow there from a recently packed mound of earth. Each petal bearing an exquisitely deep and rich luster, quite unlike anything she had been able to achieve to this point; and just in time because the annual flower show is approaching fast. Mary glanced lovingly at her roses. For many years now, she competed in the flower show with her less than stellar offerings but this year she is certain that she has a true contender for first place. A few months earlier, she pondered what her strategy would be for this year’s event and after much deliberation, an idea finally came to her from out of the past. As a matter of fact, it came from something quite bizarre she had heard as a child.
On that day, she spent the morning digging an enormous hole in the corner of her garden. After finishing, she sat on a bench nearby sipping tea and in an odd manner laughing under her breath like a giddy young girl who was abiding the juiciest of gossip. At some point, a bear like roar emanated from the house and moments later, the screen door from the house to the garden burst forth in a loud explosion.
A drunken old man staggered his way out into the garden. “Mary!” he screamed with violent and flammable breath. “Damn you! Where the hell is my whiskey old woman!”
Mary calmly turned to him and pointed toward her morning project.
“There… over there is your horrid tonic old man… in the hole!”
The old man’s red lidded eyes immediately flamed with displeasure as he stumbled his way over to the hole and looked down. Upon realizing that his entire stock of expensive drinking whiskey lay at the bottom, a stream of vile obscenities gushed forth and he turned to give her a sound thrashing for her insolence but a shovel seemed to come out of nowhere and hit him square on the forehead, sending him crashing to the bottom of the hole like a sack of wet corn.
The old man lay there for a moment, bloodied and dazed, then, slowly and with much difficulty, pulled himself up to the rim. When he looked up through blood and sweat, his eyes fell upon a slight figure standing on the edge of the hole silhouetted against an intense midday sun. The shimmer of warm light surrounding the figure gave the impression of an angelic presence bathed in a halo of holy illumination. For a short moment, a calmness washed over the old man as he studied the divine vision that was undoubtedly interceding on his behalf, but his reverie soon came to a horrible end as the figure raised a staff like object high in the air and brought it down upon his neck with surprising force. The sharp edge of the shovel cut deep and severed the old man’s jugular which sent him sprawling to the bottom of the pit once more in a fountain of red spray.
Mary giggled once again softly under her breath as she remembered that fine day. She then turned her thoughts once again to her beautiful roses. “Won’t Celia and the rest of the ladies be jealous of my entry this year!”
The ladies would certainly be curious to learn the secret to her wonderful roses and when they inquired she would only respond with one word: “RICHARD!” The absurdity of the thought made her laugh out loud.
The door- bell chimed and Mary got up from the bench. She straightened her dress and patted her head just to make sure every hair was in place. Her special day had finally arrived and a charge of excitement now surged through her tired old limbs. Her many years of good deeds were finally about to be recognized and rejoiced over by those who loved her the most and at that very moment she was feeling… well… quite deserving of the day… and to be honest… a little annoyed that it had not come any sooner.