The Little People(pg. 3)

     I thought also, Lord a little intervention here would be helpful but nothing came from my terse prayer, my dear God, what did he take I thought? I notice he was out of liquor, but he would not let me leave the room, so I improvised and attacked these invisible little creatures that were terrorizing my poor dad.
     " Hey, get out of here, hey, get out of here, move it!" I then opened the basement door and pretended to corral them all outside and I went all over the basement with this very war cry.
     "Make sure you check in the bathroom, closets, and under my bed!" Dad screamed out still mortified from this ordeal.
     I carefully and methodically went slowly looking everywhere, I even grabbed a broom and swept in sweeping motions under the bed and in the bathroom, and I was hollering too like a madman myself. I was more terror-stricken than he was. I did this close to an hour and was getting exhausted, finally, I looked down at dad and he seemed to settle down.
     "Dad, I got them all, they're all gone and I locked the door, so they'll never be back," I said in an assuring calm voice. 
     I then remembered I had a pint of cheap whiskey in my dash in my car, yes I had this old 1973 Vega, but it was one of the best cars I've ever owned. I walked outside and grabbed it and handed to my dad who immediately guzzled down nearly all of it with one swig. Back in those days, any teenager could get any liquor you wanted as long as you bought the person who purchased it for you a bottle too. Now, the law forbids it. 
     Dad fell back to sleep, he was calm for now, but for how long I thought? I waited for mom to come home and I went over with her in detail what happened, and explained each nightmarish and horrific episode. I was still quite shaken up by this agony. 
     "Tim, your poor dad was going through DTs," mom said in a reassuring voice.
     "What's that?" 
     "It's called Delirium Tremens, it's caused by a withdrawal from alcohol. They go into hallucinations that seem very real to them." Mom said in her ever calming composure.
     "But, he kept saying they were going to kill him, these little men with bow and arrows," I said in awe and disbelief. 

                                                                       3   

The Little People(pg. 2)

     Time cruised by on pilot and I became a man. Dad's epileptic seizures became more profound and his drinking became a much bigger problem, more than we could handle, once he drank so much he went into a coma, we went and gave him his last rites and all, but like a miracle, he came out of it and was okay for about a year, then the drinking started again followed up by sessions upon sessions of prescribed medications: Dilantin, Valium, and Thorazine. He tried to kill himself on Easter Sunday once with a .22 rifle and missed his heart by half a centimeter. Thank God the rest of the family was at my grandmother's for dinner. My poor mother endured so much, and how she kept it together is a mystery. Several other occasions dad tried to take his own life but somehow managed to stay alive, now the shrinks intervened but they only prescribed more medications, he was growing tired of this life. I was fearful he would die soon and the family knew as well. But, what took place one time disturbed me so much it still bothers me today.
     I got home from school, and we just moved into our new home, our other house was burnt to the ground by thieves, yes, we endured more than most. We now had a full basement, and that was for us the boys to stay in and dad when he was on his drinking binges. My sisters were dating and were rarely home because they all worked various jobs, but work was impossible for me to find, oh I found several farm jobs, but it never paid well, but I saved every penny. But, I came home from school and dad was in this particular eerie mood, something wasn't quite right with him. 
     "Hey dad, you doing okay?" I said with a withdrawn voice.
     Dad then became frightened and to the point scared, he was almost crying. I never saw him act like this, this brought instant anxiety over me. He was terrified over something, but what?
     "Please, Tim, take those arrows from them, they're trying to kill me!" He said in a vexed way.
     "Dad, I don't see anyone." 
     "Oh, they're everywhere, they're trying to kill me." 
     "Dad, look I'm searching over here," I walked all over the place to offer some reassurance that no one is going to hurt him. 
     "Please, get those bow and arrows from them," he hollered with an abomination.
     "Dad, if I could see them I swear I would," by now this terrified me more than him it seemed. 
     By now I picked up that he was hallucinating, and this was pure Hell for both of us because no one was home but me and dad. I stumbled in consternation trying to find a quick remedy but was too shaken by this to think straight.  
  
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The Little People(pg. 1)

     I came home from St. Thomas School and was dead tired, and we got off the bus around 4:00 P.M. and into our happy and troubled home I went.
    "Hi, mom. What's for supper?" 
    "Chili, your favorite," my dearest mother said it the loveliest voice you ever heard.
    "Go change your clothes and check on your father please," she said with worry in her gentle voice.
     "Ok, can I have a cookie first?" I grabbed one from the dessert plate anticipating an already yes reply.
     " I guess so, now."
     I headed to my bedroom where I shared a room with two other brothers. I quickly came out of my clothes like an escape artist but the next stop or room I completely dreaded, it was checking on my drunk dad who I thank God was still passed out from his downed fifth bottle of whiskey that was on the nightstand table. So, back to the pleasant smelling kitchen, I went.
     "Is your father okay?" mom said in her kind and loving voice.
     "Yes, I think he's sleeping." 
     I then went into the living room and turned on the television but my sisters already commandeered the channel selection. My sisters like any sisters at that age were mean to a fault that they thought their brothers were subservient to their every whim and demand. They were watching The Brady Bunch and I wanted to watch The Rifle Man. Mom's rules were an hour for each sibling's choice, and mine was up the next hour. 
     I went into the kitchen and ask mom, "why does dad drink and pass out?"
     "He's sick and is in really bad health," she said in a comforting way.
     "Why don't he go to a hospital?" 
     "We can't afford one" 
     I left the kitchen and headed to my room where it was nice and quiet because it was raining outside, so I grabbed the cassette player that I got for Christmas and started to record myself for fun. My voice sounded so country and unrefined and no matter how I tried to disguise it just sounded like an ole yokel from Kentucky. 

                                                                         1  

     
     

The Little People(Prologue)

                                                               Little People 

                                                              PROLOGUE


  (This story is about my poor father's ordeal with Delerium Tremens, alcoholism, and suicide.)

      I grew up in a medium family of 6 siblings(7 countings myself), a fantastic mother, and a very troubled loving father. My hometown where I grew up was Bardstown and is located in Kentucky about 40 miles south of Lousiville. We were devoted Catholics and attended a quaint little parish and a church called St. Thomas that was only 4 miles from our filled home, we never missed a Sunday or Saturday service, religion wasn't a choice in our family of 9, it was an obligation.
     My dad was an epileptic who abused alcohol to control his convulsions, he was also disabled from several back surgeries that he never complained about and who never received a dime from the government, my poor mom earned most of our income and dad managed to eke out a few dollars from time to time when he was well because he could fix anything mechanical or electrical, he could tear down any engine and restore it like it was off the factory line, once he restored an old 1944 International Harvester Farmall tractor, and he took it completely to the ground by himself, the tire alone weighed over 200 pounds and that's not counting the tonnage on the frame, he painted it and redone the engine, he was so proud of it and hated to sell it, but we were in a financial bind, he stayed drunk for 3 months after he sold it. Yes, my dad was a talented man, a brilliant man, but also a troubled man inside. 
     Dad from time to time when he drank and ran out of whiskey(his preferred choice) would be very abusive to us, he'd demand we get him a fifth of whiskey, now we were children, but mom would give in only to keep him comfortable but a fifth would only subdue him for one day, and mom didn't have the cash to support him. The aftermath following those days when he was coming off that wagon was cruel hell for my family we escaped when school was in session but summers were pure misery. This endless loop would exist his entire life and woe to my family the torture that consumed and followed us all the days of his life.
     
     

The Last Autumn

The summers come and scurry
Always moving in a hurry
One part of the world in the light
The other part darken in fright
Did God number the fish and stars?
Or can He remember each of our scars? 
Our days numbered by the detailed banality
As each hour expires in brutality 
Will we take any compensation from this world?
Or recall anything substantial that’s unfurled?
Will we anthropomorphize into little gods? 
Or fade into the blacken facade? 
Will we find out that no God ever existed?
That it was some fairytale that became twisted
Where the oppressors invented to quell the savages
That still to this very day ravishes
Oh Mother Earth laughs at her living minions
Because she makes the final provisions 
That hurls the extinction of mankind
As another creature is redesigned
Because man thought he was greater
Than the ever giving and taking creator.

- John Hardesty 

The Long Walk To A Short Death

The war-torn mothers grieve and gravid in despair
as diaspora rip their families apart, rice and beans
the squalid supply of the weak and helpless, yet, they're
thankful for that; the push of greed becomes ever 
more complacent among the suppressed many, the
battle is hardly an equal match of resistance, they're
death walking into another closed gate, no one wants
to feed and shelter these impoverished people, yet the 
good say, "God bless them all," while slapping their
spoons to their sated faces, let the government handle 
this atrocity, let the rich feed these hungry displaced
people and politicians will say "no, go away, we can't feed
another human, we need our tax breaks," and the 
world turns and the wealthy live like kings while
our earth is dying in a heap of trash driven by the 
elites and their covetousness and graspingness to 
put things out of reach for the less fortunate, the 
ultra-elites have poisoned every stream, river, 
and lake, our once fertile land now is contaminated
with radioactive waste illegally dumped across the 
great divide, our land has become a barren desert,
water will be high as gold, food will be diamonds,
and peace on earth will be ravens cloaked as doves,
our rulers will dig their holes and will bury their 
sad heads in them, but we will fight for our lives,
and earth will heal thyself and swallow another 
mass extinction. 

Supernatural Protector

Man has allayed his death by notable 
spells and aforementioned charms to 
deflect the inevitable and endgame of
life, he has taken great upheaval to
safeguard his life, his unbounded chants
seem to govern his courage, the valiant 
cantraips of lore and legacy have displaced
thousands upon thousands of soldiers to the
long oaken table of Valhalla, the ever bountiful Elysian
Fields and the jagged and emptied Potter's Filed; only 
sated kings and frivolous queens are warded 
by such incantations; soldiers die alone, no
shield of divinity cometh to any killer, God
doesn't take sides with slaughterers and butchers,
you'll never find honor in killing another human,
there's no superior ranking in the annihilation of
any race, you will die alone in utmost pain and 
your kingdom but another war upon another, and
your defiance in holding on to any talisman or spell
will only echo in silence from your eternal grave.

-  John Hardesty 

Eulogy For A Lost Friend

A eulogy for my friend.

Where did the span and specter of
time go within the hollow springs
of yesteryear? I wait for your return,
God will remember you as He remembers
to cover the Dogwood trees in full immaculate 
bloom, He will draw in the skyline of Kentucky blue, and 
meadows will resound with gilded matins from lonely 
warblers, orioles, and scarce bluebirds, many reckless basses will
vault in their skillful play and defy the lure, even the laughing Mockingjay
will scold you in return; God will furnish you everything imaginable,
and laughter His greatest gift, your journey the sublime of envy,
your life on earth was short but your legacy eternal, your humbleness
shall echo from every mountain top, and from your ancestry shall come 
generation after generation of unending love, you were the golden boy, the
one for whom would never sway from the eternal path of righteousness, yes, 
Oh yes, I will miss you and your memory will never leave me, until God
unites us again, adieu my dearest friend. 


- John Hardesty  

The Silence

They huddle and shuffle
past their banal worlds
and hurtle all aspiring dreams; 
accepting all disappointment and
irksome failure, their curse isn't
overshadowed by a distant messianic dark star, 
it's their utter neglect in believing in themselves,
they forgo all enlightenment as poison, they
discard all selective programming, and shelve
all further education as an unthrift novelty,
they form their own indoctrinated opinions and
beliefs, they become the label of inferiority and
become the outcast of resistance, they resort
to animalistic and savage ways, they keep hidden
in the alleyways, blind corners, and the dark of night
waiting for the occultation of hope, because they're 
limited and powerless to the elites who've stripped
every comfort and hopefulness from their clutching
hands but they wait to strike like an ambushing viper
upon the instruments that hold them to their own misery
yet, they rise only to find they're all emptied intermediate 
slaves for the ultra-rich, who rule every kingdom on this
dying earth, for their memorials of power, are marked
by Holocaust and Biocaust, and you were their superior 
accomplices.  

-  John Hardesty 

Lasting Legacy

Man's quest is to proliferate and leave
his seed, without it he's extinct and 
useless as rocks under the sea, but he
forgets his status among his peers, he 
becomes the alpha male, the avarice,
thoughtless, and hoarding animal, 
possessively gnawing and obsessively 
controlling everything, he becomes the
ruler, expounds Lordship among the 
weak and helpless, he wants ownership of
every parcel of land and every shoreline and
fulgent sea, he then taxes every bridge, 
road and culvert, his kingdom becomes
his legacy, his summative greed becomes the 
curator of his guilt, his manifestation becomes
the burden of the people, they soon become
warriors and learn the art of war, they fight
for their anointed king, who in return starves 
them and feeds them pungent and decaying
carcasses, they're eternally marginalized as
manservants, an insigne of disposal disparage, 
and their lineage is no more greater than the 
sewer rat; but one day, they awake, tired, hungry
and diseased from poverty soon rise, and become  
the enemy of the king, the table turns, and inside 
looking out becomes out looking in, the tide 
becomes the destroyer of all tyrants, kings, and
queens, no longer will men become an unequal 
share of humility; let every man become as one
to each other and not all for one.  

- John Hardesty 

Corruption

When corruption is owned and manipulated
by the oppressors for material gain and wealth
it's no longer a free willing Democracy, but ran
by double-dealing Oligarchs who have rigged the
system to keep the wheels turning for themselves, 
this corruption has ended many monarchies, rulers, 
and autocrats; out of the depths of the beast will 
the oppressed rise and take back America from 
these self-appointed slugs who have rigged everything
under the sun and moon, the rich may think they own
us, but they'll soon become our slaves.